A throat clearing grabs my attention. Joey stares at me for a long second, his thick shoulder wedged against the door frame. “You don’t read.”

I throw my head back. “Ugh. Whatever, I’m going. I’ll be back in forty-five.”

“Thirty.”

I look over at Dylan. She smiles around the spoon in her mouth.

I roll my eyes. “Fine. Thirty.”

Damn it. It’s going to take me at least ten minutes to get to the mall. A girl who has never once shopped for a sports bra needs ample time to peruse. Do they even come in cup sizes? Is it a one size fits all deal?

Joey moves toward the worktop, freeing up my exit. “I’m going with you tonight.”

My feet skid to a halt in the doorway. I crane my neck to look at him. “Excuse me? What’s that now?”

“Going with you,” he repeats dryly, grabbing a spoon and dipping it into the vat of frosting Dylan just whipped up. He tastes it, makes an appreciative noise in the back of his throat, then looks over at me. “Billy will be at the office until God knows when. I’ll be bored sitting at home. Plus, I’m intrigued. Hot yoga. Even hotter instructor. You, trying to get his attention while working out for the first time in your life. Sounds like a good time for Joey.”

My teeth clench.

Oh, great. Like I need more people to shove out the door tonight for some much needed privacy.

I stare at the side of his big, nosy head. “You know, when you talk in third person, you sound like an idiot. Especially during sex. Joey’s so close. Joey’s going to come.”

Dylan gasps, her mouth stretching into a ball-busting grin. She shoves against Joey’s chest. “Oh my God. Please tell me you don’t do that. That’s fucking awful, Joey. Jesus!”

“I do not do that!”

“You make Joey feel so good. God, suck Joey’s . . .”

I purse my lips when his eyes flash with the threat of revenge.

Shit. Tonight. Yoga. He could seriously derail my plans to get some if he refuses to leave.

“Kidding. Totally made that up.” I curl my fingers around my shoulder strap. “I’m out. See you in forty.”

“Thirty!”

I smile at the two voices behind me.

“My time starts when I get to the mall. Later, bitches!”

The shop door chimes, drowning out their protests.

I grab my things out of the dressing room and move past the racks of clothes in the direction of the registers.

My left hand holds the items I’ll be purchasing.

Light gray fitted pants, white tank, and pink sports bra.

My right, the items this store needs to just go ahead and burn. There’s no way in hell any woman looks good in these obnoxious patterns. And the one pair of pants made me itch so bad, my thighs are flushed in streaks of pink from my nails.

Who works out in a wool blend? Why is that material even an option?

I keep the clothes separated as I drop them on the counter.

“I’m keeping these. Can you put the rest back for me? I’m on a time crunch.”

“Sure thing.”

The woman behind the counter begins scanning the tags. I glance at my phone, noting the time.

1:16 P.M. I might just make it in thirty.

A paper taped to the back of the computer monitor grabs my attention as I’m slipping my phone away.

Hot Yoga with Mason King.

I quickly read the information, my eyes focusing, locking in on certain key words.

Deep healing.

Deep stretching.

Deep breathing.

Deep. Deep. Deep.

A throat clears. The woman behind the counter points at the flier. “You should’ve seen the guy who dropped that off. He had this accent,” she pauses, mouthing the word “wow.” I quietly laugh as she grabs a bag and drops my purchases to the bottom.

Wow is right.

The memory of Mason’s accent sends a pulsing current through my body, warming my blood with a delicious heat that pools between my hips. His voice was deep and rich, a bit husky.

Especially when he lowered it and moved his lips against my cheek.

“Don’t make me come looking for you.”

My pulse thrums below my ear. Again, I focus on certain words, maybe the only words I want him to say.

Make me come.

“I’d shove my husband in front of a bus for a man with an accent.”

I startle at the woman, my mouth falling open. Blush creeps up her face.

“Easy, Barb.” I squint at her name-tag. She laughs with a hand to her mouth. “When I hear on the news about some poor man who met his untimely death getting run over by a Greyhound, I’m going to know exactly where to point the cops.”

I hold out my credit card and she takes it.

She shakes her head through a grin. “I’m just saying. You should’ve seen him. Heard him. If I didn’t think I’d break a hip, I’d take his class.”

She swipes my card and hands it back to me with a receipt to sign. I slide my card back into my wallet. After scribbling my name, I glance once more at the flier.

The handwriting is surprisingly neat. All capital letters, evenly spaced. Most men I’ve noticed have atrocious handwriting. Joey’s penmanship looks like a person in the midst of a seizure taking a pen to paper. But not Mason’s. Even his attempt to replicate his sign on the top of the page is more than an attempt. It’s spot on in design. The letters perfectly bolded, the lines sharp.

“Here you go.”

I look up and take the bag Barb is holding out for me. “Thank you. I’ll tell your future husband you said hello at his class tonight.”