Losing the love of my life taught me that inactions have consequences. My new bookkeeping job teaches me that numbers don't lie, but people do.
Sharing yoga with others is my refuge from the darkness pulling me to stay home. A ginormous pro footbal...
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"Thanks for coming." Hesitation rose behind Michael's confident gaze. "Hopefully, we can find a compromise–"
"Compromise?" I jerked my thumb at the wall of resistance on my left. "She doesn't know the meaning of the word."
"Compromise!? Can he even spell it?" Mia's glare burned the side of my face.
I clenched my teeth, fixing my gaze on Michael. Despite a week of heated aches, swelling, and pain living rent-free in my shoulder, I refused to look at Mia. Otherwise, I would've been distracted by the tops of her perfect tits sitting in her white, V-neck wrap shirt, the curve of her hips hugged by her gray skirt, and inches of exposed, smooth thighs from one long, bare leg crossed over the other.
Nope, didn't notice any of that.
The temptation to look burned the corners of my eyes, straining them to bulge. "C-o-m-p-r-o-m-i-s-e," I spat out each letter.
With a flick of her fingers, she swept a black strand behind her shoulder. "C-a-c-t-u-s d-i-c-k."
Cactus-what the fuck? I let out a humorless laugh. "Did you call me a–"
"Cactus dick." Her shrug bounced her chest with tiny jiggles of skin. Again, didn't notice. Peripheral vision blur. "When Michael asked me to come, I told him I preferred if you took a long walk in the desert, got lost, stumbled around until you fell over from dehydration, and landed in a ditch, stomach-down, on a cactus so it rammed into your–"
"I get it." Equally impressed and afraid of her level of detail, I pinched the space between my eyes and willed my balls back down from where they retreated into my pelvis.
The only response I had was a loud, drawn-out sigh. This walking contradiction was impossible to read. Her sinfully curved body moved with the grace of flowing water, entering with long steps that ended with her flopping down in a chair with a heavy grunt. Fuck, the way she bent that body with yoga poses was sinful. Trying not to remember that inspired another form of heated throbs and swelling.
In a straight-spine, seated posture, she tucked her elbows in her ribs, pushing up those flawless tits. Light makeup highlighted her round eyes, thick lashes, and pouty lips with a subtle, graceful beauty. But her voice cut glass, and her choice of insults? It took me ten minutes to figure out what she meant by ostrich ass.
I had a headache.
Her hair was insanely different, with loose curls falling to her lower back. How the fuck did she stuff it all into her buns? A black curtain slipped over her shoulders when she shifted in her seat. Framing her breasts, it was as shiny as glass, except for the jagged, split ends.
Even Mia's hair was a contradiction.
She clutched her knee above that twitching foot. Her nails were ragged triangles, stripped down to the cuticles, and the whites chewed or picked off. Hopefully, she was as aggravated as I was. Her polished boots, gray with white flower stitching and black soles, were coated in dust. Cute, except for her flicking the steel toe at my shin.
