Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
“Oh, I’m present,” Nixon muttered as he released me. “A little too present.”
I scurried back to my mat as we entered wheel pose, which was basically the same as the backbends I’d done as a kid. My shirt came untucked, sliding over my belly, but I hit the pose.
“Better watch that shirt, Shannon,” Nixon teased. “Pretty soon, I’ll be seeing a lot more than just your strap.”
I scoffed, but the silk slipped even higher, resting above my belly button as a goat walked perilously close to my messenger bag. “Don’t even think about it!”
He pranced, jumping slightly.
“Guess it’s about to be digital only,” Nixon joked.
“If you two can’t be mindful of your classmates, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” the instructor said, coming up behind us.
“We’ll be good,” I promised her, the blouse falling to pool at the undersides of my bra. Nixon was right, the entire class was about to get an eyeful, but I wasn’t giving him the pleasure of breaking the pose.
“Speak for yourself,” Nixon chided as she walked away, his focus shifting to my very exposed midsection.
The goat bleated, jumping and prancing as he came our way.
“See, aren’t you glad I—” The goat backed up a step and then charged, headbutting Nixon in the face with an audible thunk.
“Oh!” I winced as Nixon collapsed, falling out of his arch and smacking flat on his back.
“You have got to be kidding me.” He laid there for a second, rubbing his forehead as the goat pranced to the next row.
I laughed hard and loud, almost dropping myself.
“Are you okay there in the back row?” There was zero peace in the instructor’s voice this time.
“Yep,” Nixon answered, climbing to his feet and walking onto my mat. “You win this round. I’m sneaking out the front door. Want to come with? Or follow via tracker?”
“Come with,” I answered.
Before I could drop to the mat, Nixon gripped my waist with one hand and spread the other over my back, lifting me to my feet. The blood rushed from my head as my blouse slid in a rustle of silk, stopping at his hands as it fell back into place.
There were a few gasps in the class as more than one person recognized him.
“Let’s go before the goats turn on us,” he said quickly.
I nodded with a laugh as my equilibrium returned, but the slide of his hands on my skin as he pulled away made me lightheaded again.
“You two—”
“Don’t worry, we’re leaving,” Nixon announced as we rolled our mats.
I slipped on my heels, grabbed my coat, and threw my bag over my shoulder while Nixon put his shoes on. As we left, the instructor crossed her arms and shook her head at us.
“Baa-Maste,” I said to her with a grin, joining my hands and bowing my head slightly.
I laughed as Nixon gripped my elbow and pulled me out of the studio.
* * *
The next day, he’d made it into the crowd of adoring fans just outside his building by the time I caught him. He spent a half hour signing autographs and taking pictures with a primarily female audience, and his smile never faltered, even as the swarm thickened. They were mad about him, which bode well for record sales, but there was a part of me that wished they’d give him a little more space. The ropes that marked the path clear from the street to the door were hardly enough to keep them from reaching for him.
It was worse than living in a fish tank. Thanks to social media, fans felt like they knew him—like they deserved access. It was a double-edged sword.
“How was Palau?” one co-ed asked as he signed her T-shirt just below her shoulder. I had to give Nixon a little credit—she’d offered him a few inches lower.
“Gorgeous. Peaceful. Perfect.” He grinned at her with a wink, and the brunette damn near melted as I snapped the picture for her.
I was the only one in the crowd besides Nixon who knew he hadn’t been to Palau. That was just another picture on an Instagram account he was barely involved in.
“Hungry?” he asked me as he finished making the rounds.
“Sure. You want to go out or order in?” I was already flipping through the apps on my phone, looking for his favorite restaurants. When he didn’t answer, I looked up and caught him staring at the pub across the street with a painful gleam of longing in his eyes. Oh no. “Want me to grab some carryout?”
His mouth tensed, and when yet another fan called out his name, his smile faltered.
“Come on.” I put my hand in the middle of his back to urge him inside. “I’ll order for delivery. Fish and chips?” That was his favorite.
He nodded, uncharacteristically quiet as I led him back up the elevator.