Swept Away (Wildfire Lake #3) - Skye Jordan Page 0,7

zone, I’ll submit my transfer request back to San Francisco.

I pull out my phone and text my goddaughter. How’s your day going?

She’ll be out of school for the summer in a week. “God help me.”

I take a bite of my sandwich—a real sandwich, unlike the sandwich in the bag for Chloe—with roast beef, cheddar, mayo, mustard, oil and vinegar, and whatever else is in the garden they drop on top, and wash it down with Red Bull. Across the street, Chloe wanders the rows of students, stopping every so often to finesse someone’s posture or take up the posture with them to act as a role model.

When she faces the street again, she looks over at me. I raise my Red Bull, and she grins, then crosses her eyes and sticks out her tongue, making me laugh. An instant later, she’s the picture of professionalism, focused on her students.

As I finish the first half of my sandwich, Chloe leads her students into one of the more advanced poses. I don’t know what it’s called, only that it takes an intense amount of fitness and skill. There are various levels to the pose, from beginner to ultra-advanced, and her students follow Chloe until they hit their limit. One other woman in the class is able to follow Chloe all the way to the height of the pose, standing on one leg, the arm on the same side of her body out straight, her opposite leg stretched up behind her so she’s doing the splits in the air, her opposite hand holding the ankle of the extended leg.

In this pose, all her muscles stand out in relief—quads, hammies, abdomen, arms. It’s ridiculously impressive. But I only marvel at the skill until her body steals my attention and drives my mind in a completely different direction. Her breasts push against the bra-like top; her skin glistens with sweat and glows from the one-hundred-and-five-degree heat in the room.

Oh, yeah. My mind goes somewhere very different—straight to Chloe stunningly naked, hot and all over me. I don’t care where—bedroom or the back of my truck—it makes no difference. I’ll take Chloe Hart here, there, anywhere, as Dr. Suess would say.

I put the rest of my sandwich away, hungry now for something very different.

My phone pings with a return text from Piper. Fine. Doing advanced functions in calculus. Then to study hall. If I don’t die of boredom, can we go shooting this weekend?

Love to. I text back. Clear it with your mom first.

Soon, the lights go out in the yoga studio, which signals it’s time for my appointment with Trish. I collect my things and stroll into the lobby of Wanderlust. Through the glass wall, I watch Chloe wander through the room of now-resting clients, laying a cold towel on each person’s chest before tapping some kind of scented oil on their inner wrists.

She smiles at me through the glass, and I point to the sandwich bag, then to her. She blows me a thank-you kiss.

I don’t see Trish, so I head into the massage room on my own. I know she’ll come in when she’s free. The lighting is already dimmed, and soothing nature sounds surround me. I’m more than happy to strip out of my gear and sigh in relief when I’m naked.

Naked and within yards of Chloe.

It’s really a theme between us: so close, yet so far.

I slide under the sheet facedown and rest my head on my crossed arms. I’ve been bouncing between morning, swing, and graveyard shifts to cover for vacations, and my sleep schedule sucks, which is why I drift off while I’m waiting for Trish.

“Men. I envy how fast you can fall asleep.”

I’m immediately awake, or I think I am. But that sounded like Chloe, not Trish. And the boner now uncomfortably pressed against the table confirms I was indeed dreaming of Chloe.

“Hey,” I mumble, “sorry.”

Trish gathers the sheet low on my hips, then pumps oil into her hand from the bottle strapped at her waist and spreads it on my back. It’s warm, as are her hands, and I sigh. She usually starts me out with stretching, but this totally works too.

She puts pressure into her palms and slides the heel of her hands from my scapula down to my hip. I groan in pleasure.

“I’m so jacked up,” I turn my head and rest my cheek on the table. “Bixby’s cow tried to push me into oncoming traffic yesterday.”

She laughs. Giggles, actually. The sound raises gooseflesh along