Harlan makes me feel wanted in a way I never did with my ex. Or, honestly, any other man. None of the men I dated in Los Angeles. None of those guys floated my boat this much, this soon.
Except him, especially since the way he looks at me is incendiary.
And hard to resist. “I bet you’d savor every bite,” I whisper, then want to smack myself.
I’m pushing the limits.
Harlan is a client. Sure, my business belongs to Olive and me, but that doesn’t mean I can do whatever I want. Sleeping with a client is risky no matter what. Word could get out. Our business could suffer. We employ yoga instructors up and down the coast, as well as office support staff. My choices impact many more people than just me. I’d do well to remember that. Monday night’s celebratory evening should have reminded me.
I refuse to be my mother.
I will not let my choices hurt others—not my sister, my employees, or the business I’ve built.
There’s a right way and a wrong way to do things.
I need to do things the right way because I personally know how deep the wrong way cuts.
I stop, take a breath, and treat this moment with the gravity it deserves. “Harlan, do you want me to switch you to another teacher? I can do that. I know Wilder Enterprises hired me, but I can say it’s not working out. I can find an instructor for you. I can say someone else is better suited to your needs.”
But I don’t know if I can make good on my offer. I flash back to Zachary’s words on the first day—the team asked for me. Then Monday night—this deal’s already leading to others. Would I even be able to step aside as per the contract? And if so, could I walk away from this opportunity?
I brace myself for Harlan’s answer and the question of whether I can deliver on it, whatever he chooses.
He scoffs then raises his arms so his hands are parallel to the floor, showing off how well he knows our routine by transitioning into warrior two. “Look what I mastered in one week with you. I am not a quitter. I can do this. And I can handle this cherry pie lust.” His eyes hook onto mine, and mischief flickers in them. “Though, you are irresistible.”
I feel the same way about him.
Thirty minutes later, we finish our session. As we gather our water bottles and towels, Harlan sighs like he’s throwing in the towel. “You know how I said you were irresistible? That’s why I have to take you to lunch right now.”
What harm could come from one meal between a yoga teacher and a client?
Nothing.
Yes.
Lunch is safe.
Lunch is totally safe.
18
Katie
Since Harlan is too easy to flirt with, my only option is salad.
No one orders salad on a date—the risk of dressing down your blouse or snagging spinach in your teeth is too great. But what’s even riskier than a regular salad? A salad tossed with micro greens and kale. Add in arugula for good measure. Sprinkle some chia seeds.
There.
This won’t feel like a date because that’s not date food. That’s girlfriend-do-I-have-anything-stuck-in-my-teeth food.
This salad will help me see Harlan like a friend.
I place my order at Nirvana, a new café off Polk Street that Emerson recommended. Harlan orders a protein fiesta wrap, something football-y with chicken, tofu, beans, and garbanzos. Basically, a recipe for muscle building.
Happy sigh. I love muscles.
Wait. Stop. No muscle thoughts, Katie.
I swipe away all thoughts of big, toned arms that can hold me down hard and any other images that make my lady parts do the samba.
Cha cha cha, indeed.
Instead, I’ll focus on . . . this place. Yeah, that’ll erase the smut from my head.
I swing my gaze around the hipster joint.
The walls are concrete.
The chairs are butcher block . . . well, blocks.
The tables are steel.
“It’s not terribly inviting decor,” I remark as we walk away from the counter.
“It’s possible this place is too hip for me,” he says, grabbing a table.
I try to get comfortable on the exceptionally uncomfortable chair. “I almost feel like this place is trying too hard.”
He frowns as he sits. “It’s official. This is the worst chair ever.”
“It’s not even a chair,” I second. “It’s a pain-delivery mechanism.”
He chuckles, then his eyes flicker. “There’s a park a few blocks away. Want to get our grub to go and eat there? It has picnic tables,” he says like he’s dangling gumdrops in front of Hansel and Gretel.
“Yes, please,” I answer before it hits me that a picnic in the park is the very definition of romantic.
That’s what I’m trying to avoid with Harlan.
Dammit.
But then, a picnic is only romantic if I let it be romantic.
And I won’t.
C’mon, chia seeds. Lodge between my teeth.
After we grab our order to go, we head up the street, and I focus on non-romantic, non-flirty topics. “I’ll have to give Emerson a hard time about Nirvana’s get-the-hell-out-of-here vibe. She was raving about it on her show the other week, and she told me I had to check it out. I try to support her as much as I can.”