Charitable Contributions

14: Too Many Distractions

The Sam Pearson Yoga Studio effect compounded within twelve hours of the public declaration of his singlehood. Every class was waitlisted. Strangers became my new fake best friends. I couldn't pee in the bathroom without hearing a sink declaration of Sam's...hotness. What fresh hell was this? If I wasn't so annoyed, I would have been impressed. Swarming Sam, they acted quicker than sharks circling chum. He spooned it out, one compliment chunk at a time.

Shanti lapped up my newfound popularity like a thirsty Labrador. "This is wonderful, Mia. Our profit margins have exploded."

Profit margins exploded at the expense of my deteriorating patience. She beamed when adding four morning classes to my Monday through Friday schedule. I rejected her request to teach on weekends to salvage silent moments and plan for the extra workload.

I should have been thrilled. I should have appreciated the additional funds deposited in my laughable glass savings jar and the expansion opportunity. Instead, I was more bitter than prune juice and saltier than a bucket of parmesan-cheese-coated anchovies. Why? Because Sam Fucking Chum Bucket Pearson compounded the problem by attending every class.

Sasquatch's frame stole the back row center mat position seven times a week outside our Wednesday sessions. Ignoring him became more exhausting than teaching and planning. The only classes he didn't attend were the therapy ones.

"Hey Mia," he greeted me with a smirk every time, which widened as he greeted every fucking member of his 'pick me next' fan club.

After a workweek of daily Sam exposure, Mister Stubborn tried to attend Tuesday's therapy class. I tossed his ass out. Twice. I regretted the challenge as soon as the words slipped out. "Not until I say so, Pearson."

So, of course, he came back Thursday.

"Reserved mats only." With a straight-armed finger pointed out into the hallway, I gritted my teeth. The veins on the side of my neck threatened to burst.

"Mia?" His giant fishhook hand snared my upper arm and encircled my bicep. Hot breaths passed over my ear and intermixed with his frustrated whispers, "You're avoiding me again."

The homing beacon that pulsed between my legs and vibrated my clit needed an off switch. So did the goosebumps on the side of my neck. "No. Thanks to you, I am working." Forty eyes watched our daily Telenovela special, but his hand squeezed tighter. With a glare at his shackled hold, I wanted to burn those million-dollar fingers off. "Let me go."

The right corner of his mouth twitched. "No."

"What then!?" Anger surged through my veins. The Houston logo on his pec blurred as I squinted and jabbed his cement wall of a chest. "I'm done with all the unprofessional bullshit. Stop flirting, teasing, and treating yoga like a joke. You want to be in this class? Quit with the distractions and show me you're serious."

His eyes dropped to where my finger dented his shirt fabric. He had the nerve to lift those pretty brown eyes, prettier the way they twinkled with amusement. He knew he was under my skin. Probably made him hard. "Sounds like you're the one distracted, Mia."

Ooh! So arrogant. I flared my nostrils flared and sucked in a sharp breath. "The only one of us that is taking your rehab seriously is me. You seem to forget that I lost my job because of–"

Shit. I wanted those words back as soon as they slipped out. This was not the time or place to unpack his charities' asshole profit margins.

His eyes narrowed. "Because of what?"

The air thickened between us and weakened my gaze. I could only focus on the space between his eyebrows. He stepped closer, the shorter distance flattening my palm into a heart stamp over the warm, quick beats. "It's nothing." I blinked. He was too close. Concern swam too deep in his eyes again. Why did he have to look at me like that? "Never mind. The point is–"