I scramble against the rock, searching for a foothold as I struggle to hang on with my left hand. I can feel it slipping, the blood slicking up the rock and making it nearly impossible to hold on to.
I finally find a foothold, and I slam my left foot down, digging in with my toes the best I can. Just in time, it turns out, because my hand finally slips. I dig in even harder and—shit. The rock crumbles beneath my feet and now I really am fucked. I’m dangling seven hundred feet off the ground, and the only thing keeping me from plummeting to my death is how long my injured shoulder will hold me.
Fuck me.
Desperate now, I fumble on my belt for an anchor. I manage to get a bolt unclipped and, ignoring the pain in my shoulder, I swing myself up to a crevice. Using every ounce of strength I’ve got, I punch down as hard as I can and drive the bolt deep into the crevice.
It catches, thank God, and for long seconds I do nothing but hang on and try to calm my galloping heartbeat. It takes longer than it used to, and a good minute or two goes by before I can even think about what to do next.
I finally find a solid foothold, and once I’m sure I’m not going to slide any farther down this rock, I move my hand over to grab on to the anchor. Then I pull a runner from my belt, along with a couple more anchors.
It takes a minute or two to get it set up, but once I’ve got two handholds that aren’t going to break off or crumble beneath my grip, I take a minute to stretch out my cramping shoulder. And to try to get my bearings as I look up the cliff to the top.
It’s actually harder at this point to go back down than it is to continue to the top, but I’d be lying if I said I was looking forward to the climb. Still, I can’t just hang here all day, and I’ve pretty much gotten the shit part of the climb over with, so hopefully I won’t have any more close calls before I reach the top.
It takes a couple more minutes before I’ve got my shit together enough mentally that I’m ready to try climbing again. Once I do, it goes smoothly, and I summit about twenty minutes later. It’s not until I’m on the top, looking out over what feels like the whole world, that I let myself think about what just happened.
And the fact that while I was dangling off the side of this cliff pretty much as close to death as I’ve ever come, I wasn’t thinking about my career. Or my mom and sister. Or even about dying.
I was thinking about Sage—about how much I like her and how I really don’t want to die before I see her again. For a guy who’s taken emotional detachment to an art form, that’s a hell of an admission. Who knows why it took nearly falling off a mountain for me to figure it out.
It’s mid-afternoon and I need to head back down, especially since the wind has started to pick back up. But I’m not yet ready to go, not yet ready to give up the feeling that comes from standing on the highest peak, above the trees and a variety of other mountains and even some of the clouds that just started to roll in.
So instead of hightailing it back down one of the easier climbs, I sit for a while and just think. About the fact that the first mountain I ever climbed was with my mom, when I was eight years old. About the fact that my mom was the one who took me on my first snowboarding trip. My first free dive. My first glider ride.
Being up here, looking out at a world that both awes and inspires me the way it awed and inspired her, makes me remember those times. It makes me remember her, and Sarah, and all the little things that were ours and no one else’s.
Hunter thinks I’m some crazy adrenaline junkie, and maybe I am. I’m honest enough to admit that I like testing myself—and the adrenaline rush that comes with it.
But it’s more than that, too. My mom’s been dead for twenty years, but when I’m up here on top of the fucking world, it makes me remember. Not that she’s dead, but who and what she was when she was alive. It makes me remember that she taught me to be a fighter, to never give up. To live every day of my life like it’s my last because we never know when the end is coming.
It was what she did. Being up here, breathing in this air, seeing the world as she liked to see it, reminds me of that.
It’s why I do what I do. Cliff diving, mountain climbing, skydiving—all the activities that get me in trouble with the team. When I’m doing them I forget to feel guilty for what happened. I forget what she and Sarah looked like all bloody and broken. I forget everything but who my mom was and what she tried so hard to teach me.
It’s not enough to alleviate the guilt completely, but it’s enough to keep me sane. And most days that’s all I can ask for.
I take a few more minutes to just sit and look and breathe, a few more minutes to think about Sarah and my mom…and Sage.
Sage, with her sassy haircut and sassier mouth. With her long, lean, bendable body and her utterly practical approach to life.
No-nonsense and sexy as hell all rolled into one fascinating, contradictory package—is it any wonder I’m on top of the world and I still can’t stop thinking about her?
It’s that thought that circles my brain when I finally push myself up. That thought that stays with me as I climb down the rock and make my way back along the hiking trail.
That thought that follows me home.
Chapter 13
Sage
I enter the last numbers into the payee section of my accounting software and hit send. Then watch in satisfaction as this month’s paychecks wing their way through the internet to all of Soul Studio’s employees—courtesy of Shawn Wilson’s insane generosity.
Or his desire to get me back into bed.
I’m not sure which is responsible for the hundred and fifty thousand dollars he paid me two days ago, and right now I don’t even care. Not when I’ve managed to stave off disaster for Soul Studio and, more importantly, pay our employees for their work. And still have enough money in the new account that I just opened without my mother’s name on it to cover our expenses for a few more months, even without our students’ monthly fees.
It’s a good feeling.
I know I should feel guilty about taking all that money from him, and maybe in another world I would. But desperate times call for desperate measures. And I’m pretty sure he considers it hush money anyway. He can pay me for therapeutic yoga or he can pay some insane fine to the team for breaking the agreement he had with them. For all I know, the money he paid me is actually the lesser of two evils.
I make a mental note to ask him just how much money he’s paid in fines over the last couple of years—if for no other reason than to ease my conscience.
A quick glance at the clock tells me I’ve got an hour before my last class of the day—and three hours before I have to report to Shawn’s house on Coronado. I have to admit I’m looking forward to seeing it. Not just because Emerson helped him find it a few months ago, but because I’m a big believer that a person’s house tells you everything you need to know about them. I can’t help wondering what Shawn’s house is going to tell me about him.
Probably that he’s a slick ladies’ man with a million moves, I tell myself as I close the studio’s books and open those for LuX Lashes, the eyelash studio that was the first client I landed when I graduated from college.
That alone is enough to make me love them, but the fact that their books are so easy to do is certainly another factor. The owner, Marta, is almost as anal as I am, and she keeps impeccable records…unlike a few of my other clients.
Tom Markinson of Markinson’s Local Pets, for example, always seems to guess at what comes in and what goes out. I know part of that is because he’s a soft touch for a pet (or an owner) in need and is always giving inventory away, but it’s still a nightmare to sort through. I do it, though, because I love what a good person he is and consider wading through his disastrous books my own contribution to local pets in need.
I’m knee-deep in reconciling monthly orders for eyelash glue when a text comes through.
I think about ignoring it so I can finish LuX’s accounts payable for the month, but a quick glance tells me it’s Emerson. And since experience has taught me she’s more than capable of blowing up my phone if she thinks I’m ignoring her, I take the path of least resistance and swipe open the text.
Emerson: So?
Me: So what?
Emerson: It’s been two days!!!!!
Me: Since what?
Emerson: Since SHAWN
Me: So?
Emerson: Don’t make me come down there and bend you in positions you don’t belong in
Me: I’m a yoga instructor
Me: There’s no position I can’t bend into
Emerson: You should mention that to Shawn
Me: I’m pretty sure he already knows
Emerson: !!!!!!!!!!!!
Emerson: Details, please.
Emerson: NOW
Me: We did yoga
Emerson: And?!?!?!
Me: And nothing
Me: He’s a client
Emerson: He’s hot!
Me: Aren’t you engaged?
Emerson: To the hottest man on the planet, who reminds me of that fact on a regular basis
Emerson: But that doesn’t mean I can’t recognize hotness in others
Emerson: Shawn is F-I-R-E
Me: You sound like you’re twelve
Emerson: You sound like you’re ninety
The accusation hits home. Though I know, like Shawn, she doesn’t mean it, it still stings. Especially coming from Emerson, who has known me for years—and knows just how crazy things in my life tend to get. And why I cling to security like…a ninety-year-old.
I’m trying to think of a response that won’t let her know she hurt me—she didn’t mean to, so what’s the point—when her own comes through.
Emerson: Sorry. Low blow
Emerson: Didn’t mean it, Sagey
Me: I know
Emerson: I just want you to be happy
Me: I am happy
Emerson…
Emerson…
Emerson…
Me: What
Emerson: Nothing. I’m glad
Me: It took that long to write three words?
Emerson: Sorry. Got distracted by the kids
I don’t know whether to believe her or not. Not that I exactly have a choice, considering she’s halfway across the city and I can’t see her face or hear her voice right now.
Emerson: So when do you see Shawn again?
Me: In a couple hours. For YOGA
Emerson: Excellent!!!!!
Emerson: Take a photo of his downward dog, will you?
Me: You are a dirty old woman
Emerson: It’s one of the things Hunter loves about me
Emerson: But I wasn’t being pervy
Emerson: I was thinking blackmail
Me: Wow
Me: You make it sound like that’s better
Emerson: Tell me how it goes tonight
Me: I already told you how it’s going to go
Me: We’re doing yoga
Emerson: Getting all hot and bendy together
Me: Yoga isn’t a synonym for sex
Emerson: Mmmmm. It should be
Emerson: Gotta go
Emerson: xoxoxoxo
And then she’s gone. Which is just like Emerson—she drops in, stirs everything up and then disappears right before the fireworks go off. Not that there will be any fireworks in this situation, because there won’t be. Absolutely no fireworks.
Just two people doing yoga.
Instructor and student.
Trainer and athlete.
Oh, who am I kidding? Hot guy and woman who wants to lick him all over.
Not that that’s going to happen. Because I’m a professional. And because the last thing I want in my life right now is a guy. Any guy, but especially not some crazy daredevil who jumps off cliffs and then acts like I’m the old, crotchety one because I want to keep my feet on the ground. I get enough of that shit from my mom. I don’t need to go looking for it with the guy I’m sleeping with, too.
Not that I’m exactly sleeping with Shawn…he’s a football player, for God’s sake. One hot encounter in a bar does not a relationship make. It doesn’t even make a two-night stand, if I’m being honest. Not that I’m proud of that bizarrely out of character one night stand that happened during the bachelorette party, but it’s not like I can do anything about it.
What is, is. Now I just have to live with it—and make sure I don’t make any more mistakes by doing something else stupidly impulsive. Sleeping with a guy I just met isn’t nearly as bad as giving all my money to some guru in India, but it’s not exactly normal, either.
At least not for me.
But I can fix this. I have to fix this. Because I took—and already spent a large portion of—his hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Which means I’m going to be the best yoga instructor Shawn could ever ask for. The rest though…the rest is off the table.
Two and a half hours later, I remind myself of that fact as I pull up to the most incredible house I’ve ever seen. I mean, Hunter and Emerson’s home is amazing, but this place…it’s like the universe crawled inside every secret spot I have and created a house just for me.
If I had about ten million dollars to put into that house, of course.
White and minimalist, at least from the outside, it doesn’t have a lot of frills and flounces like other houses I’ve passed on this street. Instead, it’s got really clean geometric shapes—exaggerated triangle roofs on either side of the house with a smooth circular area connecting what looks to be two separate wings. There are five garages down on street level—so maybe minimalist isn’t exactly the right word—but the landscaping of palm trees and a few exotic flowers is pretty low key compared to what I’ve driven by so far.
It’s beautiful—warm and yet somehow crisp and clean and perfect. From the second I pull my car to a stop in front of one of the garage bays and start walking up the stone path to the front door, hidden away in a circular little alcove, I’m smitten with the place.
It’s kind of bizarre how similar our tastes are, I muse as the gate slowly closes behind me. Definitely disconcerting, considering how different we are in real life. Makes me wonder what’s under that smoldering, daredevil exterior, even as I tell myself it’s none of my business.
I’m here to work on his shoulder not psychoanalyze him. And definitely not to fall in love with the modern charm of his portico, no matter how gorgeous it is. I mean, the man has potted, multicolored daisies on either side of his front door. Daisies! Who wouldn’t be charmed?
The front door opens before I even reach for the doorbell, and the charm of the daisies is suddenly overshadowed by the man who potted them. He’s dressed differently than I’ve ever seen him before—in tight jeans ripped at the knees and a black T-shirt that shows off every inch of his broad shoulders and spectacular biceps. His gorgeous hair is tied back at the nape of his neck in a tiny little ponytail that only magnifies the intensity of his eyes and the utter lickability of that knife-sharp jawline.
Not that I want to lick it, I remind myself as I finally manage to tear my eyes away from the ridiculous beauty of his face. Because I don’t. At all. And even if I did it’s so not going to happen.
“Sage!” He says my name with such warmth that I can’t help responding despite my best intentions. Which is ridiculous—I mean, shouldn’t I be immune to this guy’s heat by now? Or if not immune, at least a little bit inoculated against it? Instead, it feels like I just wandered into the Sahara instead of his gorgeously appointed foyer—my mouth is dry, my skin feels like it’s on fire and my insides are melting at an alarming rate.
It’s beyond disconcerting considering I spent all
day preparing myself to see him again. Worse, to touch him again. To find out that I’m not ready for any of it—not ready for him—just as he welcomes me into his house?
Definitely not the way this was supposed to go down.
“Hi, Shawn.” I force myself to speak considering things are going to get awkward fast if all I do is continue to stand here staring at the man. And trying to surreptitiously wipe the drool off my chin.
“It’s good to see you.” He wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me in for a warm, bergamot and honey scented hug that sets my whole body off. “Did you have any trouble finding the place?”
I’m too busy trying not to bury my face in his neck and sniff him to answer. Seriously, what the hell is wrong with me? I mean, yeah, there’s chemistry between us, but I’ve had chemistry with other people before and still managed to act like a rational, thinking human being.
Then again, there’s chemistry and then there’s chemistry. I’ve never felt anything like the heat between Shawn and me, and it makes me want to strip off my clothes in the middle of his foyer with its elegantly patterned ceramic floor tiles and the beautiful Spanish sconces on its walls.
“Sage?” He pulls back when I don’t immediately respond, the smile slowly fading from his face. “Everything okay?”
I take a deep breath to steady myself, then force myself to start acting like a normal human being. “It’s good. I’m good.” I trip over the words, then make a show of looking around. “Your house is beautiful.”
“It’s a work in progress. I’m slowly putting it together, one room at a time.”
“You?” I asked.
The grin is back. “You don’t have to sound so surprised. I can do something besides catch a football, you know.”
“I’m well aware of just what you can do,” I answer. “Isn’t that why I’m here?”
I’m conscious of how they sound even as the words leave my mouth, and I start blushing before I can help myself. Even before Shawn’s jet-black brows hit his hairline, and his grin becomes a sexy little smirk. “Oh, yeah?”
“I meant the cliff diving,” I tell him, voice as prim as I can make it as I walk past him into a living room that is completely empty except for the huge picture window that overlooks the Pacific and a large painting hanging on the back wall.