Short Stack - Lily Morton Page 0,66

lickable in black shorts and a red T-shirt, his hair up in a bun. He looks up, and I immediately attempt an innocent expression.

“Henry, get stretching,” he orders. He smiles. “Just try it, babe. Copy me, and I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it.”

Inwardly, I grin widely. Outwardly, I look unsure.

“Come on,” he encourages kindly.

“Well, okay, then.” I lie down on the floor next to him, and slowly I stretch myself into the Eight-Angle yoga pose. There’s silence apart from an audible click, which I think is his jaw coming unhinged. “Would this be what you mean?” I ask innocently.

He kneels next to me. “I feel that you’ve been holding back on me,” he says darkly.

I chuckle. “The look on your face at the moment.”

“How are you doing that?” he exclaims, and it might be my imagination, but his voice sounds deeper.

“Well, do you remember when you encouraged me to do yoga?”

“Yes. You whinged about it non-stop when you emailed me in Uganda.”

“I’m sure you weren’t doing much, anyway. You had plenty of time to listen to my problems.”

He breaks into laughter which I’m hearing more and more lately. I smile and move into the Flying Crow position.

He’s staring at me intently. “Wow, Henry. You’re so bendy.”

I snort. “Anyway, I kept at yoga, and obviously I got better.”

“Better? You’re moving like melting butter.”

I smile. “I actually really like it. It’s great for fitness and flexibility, and it really de-stresses me.”

“Well, that answers one question.”

“What?”

“Why you’re so fucking fit-looking when you have zero talent in any sport.”

“Hey,” I say indignantly.

“You are the Eddie the Eagle of sport.”

I laugh. “Fair point. Yoga does keep you fit.” I look up at him. “Shall I teach you?” I curl into a headstand with lotus legs. “It’s perfect for stress, and the breathing is brilliant.”

“Maybe,” he says. His voice is hoarse, and I wonder if I’m pushing too hard. “It’s obviously working for you.” He stands up abruptly. “I think you’re bendy enough, Hen. Let’s get going.”

I roll up obediently and straighten my black T-shirt and running leggings before following him out.

My stretching triumph lasts me for about as long as it takes to enjoy the view of his arse bouncing tightly in front of me. Then his backside gets farther and farther away because he actually can run, and eventually all I can hear are my panting breaths in my ear. Finally, convinced that I’m about to die, I stagger to one side and then half-lower, half-throw myself onto the grass verge. I lie there panting for what seems like a long time until I hear the measured thuds of Ivo approaching.

He comes to a stop beside me, and I hold up my hand. “No, don’t say anything. I can’t go on. Leave me behind. I’ll make my way home eventually.” I pause before saying in a wavering voice, “When the strength returns to my legs.”

“Henry, you’ve done a mile and a half.” A thread of laughter runs through his voice.

I open my eyes and look up. He’s standing over me without a trace of sweat and looking as fresh as a whole field of daisies. He raises one eyebrow.

I sigh pathetically. “No. I can’t do it anymore. My lungs are going to burst into a million pieces.”

“Spectacular as that sounds, I don’t think it’s an actual thing.”

“Well, I’ll be the first, then. I’m sort of a pioneer if you think about it.”

He lowers himself to the grass beside me, and I rest my head on his stomach. His hand comes up, and he strokes my hair.

“If my hair is wet I think you’ll find it’s just manly sweat,” I say.

He laughs. “I’ve never stroked such macho hair, Hen.”

“Thank you.”

We lie in silence for a few seconds listening to the breeze blowing through the trees, and then I stir. “It’s pretty here, isn’t it? We’re very lucky to have the run of the Royal Parks.”

“In your case you’ve got the stagger of them.”

“You’re so funny, you should have a stand-up routine.” He snorts, and I smile. “I can’t believe that we’re only a stone’s throw from lots of taxis.”

“Is there a hint in that statement?”

I can hear the smile in his voice, and I purse my lips. “Not really a hint, so much as a declaration that there is no way we’ll be getting home unless it’s in a vehicle. I’m not choosy about what type.”

“You’re so low-maintenance.”

“It has been said,” I say modestly, listening to him laugh. “You’re good at jogging,” I