That’s where I used to do yoga, back when I had the money for classes.
“We host yoga retreats here sometimes,” Carson says, pushing his empty lunch plate aside so he can put his elbows on the table and lean toward me. “I’ve met yoga teachers who travel all over the world by taking groups of students on retreats. Do you ever do that?”
I could take the easy way out and simply say no. But having someone like Carson, a hot guy who teaches surfing in a paradise, paying this much attention to me makes me want to embellish a little. “Oh, sure, I’ve led a couple of yoga retreats, in Fiji and Belize,” I toss off, recalling the exotic locations of the stories I proofread for the women’s magazine.
I stop short of saying how lovely the Galapagos Islands are at this time of year when I catch Brigitte giving me the worried eyes. But she was right about yoga instructor being a great choice for my cover story. I can tell from the way Carson is smiling at me, a glorious thing to behold. And his eyes are all the greener being offset by his tan and by the hints of gold in his shaggy light brown hair. His lips look really soft, his teeth are perfect, and I don’t know why I’m taking more note of these details about him than I am about this place for my article.
“It’s so great to have work that allows you to travel,” Carson continues. “But that must be hard on a relationship.” He brings his eyes back to mine, and sweet Georgia Brown, there are flecks of blue within the green. “Is your boyfriend’s work as portable as yours?”
“No. I mean . . . ” I pause, because this is the first time I’m officially saying this. “I don’t have a boyfriend.” Kate or Katy, that’s the truth. I take a sip of my water to mask a hard swallow.
Carson’s face remains passive, but I could swear the green of his eyes gets deeper. The smile eases across his face again. “So nothing’s keeping you from traveling the world. You can go anywhere you want, whenever you want, see and do amazing things.”
Oh good, away from reality and back to the Kate game. “Yep, I sure can,” I say, nonchalantly forking a bite of cake. In my pretend world, it’s fine to have cake at lunch, because Kate will just yoga the calories right off. “I should probably do more traveling. Teach classes here and there, live the beautiful life of a vagabond on the beach.”
“Just like me,” Carson says, his smile electric.
Swallow your cake very carefully, Katy, I tell myself , so you don’t choke, because the extremely hot man across the table just said something that sounded very flirtatious in a way that is beyond your current emotional ability to handle. I try to avoid asphyxiation via lemon pastry by smiling, nodding, and taking another sip of water. When I can speak again, I ask, “Is that what you do? Travel around, teaching people how to surf?”
“More or less,” Carson says. “Anything to avoid sitting in an office. Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” he says, nodding in deference to the office workers among us. “But I just can’t. This is my office.” He indicates the lush trees embracing this open-air veranda. “I want to travel, see things, and yeah,” he laughs, “live the beautiful life of a vagabond on the beach.”
I don’t know whether it’s listening to him describe this adventure-filled life or watching his beautifully shaped lips say it that makes normally unadventurous me sigh, “That sounds amazing. I mean, it is amazing.”
Carson’s gaze is the equivalent of a secret handshake, as though he and I have something wonderful in common.
WHEN BRIGITTE catches up with me after lunch, I find out I was right about at least one of her questioning looks. “Katy,” she says, taking my elbow, “Are you insane?”
“Possibly,” I say as we walk down the path toward my tentalow. “Yeah, I think I lost my mind a little. Or a lot.” Carson’s intent, sparkling green eyes could
“We host yoga retreats here sometimes,” Carson says, pushing his empty lunch plate aside so he can put his elbows on the table and lean toward me. “I’ve met yoga teachers who travel all over the world by taking groups of students on retreats. Do you ever do that?”
I could take the easy way out and simply say no. But having someone like Carson, a hot guy who teaches surfing in a paradise, paying this much attention to me makes me want to embellish a little. “Oh, sure, I’ve led a couple of yoga retreats, in Fiji and Belize,” I toss off, recalling the exotic locations of the stories I proofread for the women’s magazine.
I stop short of saying how lovely the Galapagos Islands are at this time of year when I catch Brigitte giving me the worried eyes. But she was right about yoga instructor being a great choice for my cover story. I can tell from the way Carson is smiling at me, a glorious thing to behold. And his eyes are all the greener being offset by his tan and by the hints of gold in his shaggy light brown hair. His lips look really soft, his teeth are perfect, and I don’t know why I’m taking more note of these details about him than I am about this place for my article.
“It’s so great to have work that allows you to travel,” Carson continues. “But that must be hard on a relationship.” He brings his eyes back to mine, and sweet Georgia Brown, there are flecks of blue within the green. “Is your boyfriend’s work as portable as yours?”
“No. I mean . . . ” I pause, because this is the first time I’m officially saying this. “I don’t have a boyfriend.” Kate or Katy, that’s the truth. I take a sip of my water to mask a hard swallow.
Carson’s face remains passive, but I could swear the green of his eyes gets deeper. The smile eases across his face again. “So nothing’s keeping you from traveling the world. You can go anywhere you want, whenever you want, see and do amazing things.”
Oh good, away from reality and back to the Kate game. “Yep, I sure can,” I say, nonchalantly forking a bite of cake. In my pretend world, it’s fine to have cake at lunch, because Kate will just yoga the calories right off. “I should probably do more traveling. Teach classes here and there, live the beautiful life of a vagabond on the beach.”
“Just like me,” Carson says, his smile electric.
Swallow your cake very carefully, Katy, I tell myself , so you don’t choke, because the extremely hot man across the table just said something that sounded very flirtatious in a way that is beyond your current emotional ability to handle. I try to avoid asphyxiation via lemon pastry by smiling, nodding, and taking another sip of water. When I can speak again, I ask, “Is that what you do? Travel around, teaching people how to surf?”
“More or less,” Carson says. “Anything to avoid sitting in an office. Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” he says, nodding in deference to the office workers among us. “But I just can’t. This is my office.” He indicates the lush trees embracing this open-air veranda. “I want to travel, see things, and yeah,” he laughs, “live the beautiful life of a vagabond on the beach.”
I don’t know whether it’s listening to him describe this adventure-filled life or watching his beautifully shaped lips say it that makes normally unadventurous me sigh, “That sounds amazing. I mean, it is amazing.”
Carson’s gaze is the equivalent of a secret handshake, as though he and I have something wonderful in common.
WHEN BRIGITTE catches up with me after lunch, I find out I was right about at least one of her questioning looks. “Katy,” she says, taking my elbow, “Are you insane?”
“Possibly,” I say as we walk down the path toward my tentalow. “Yeah, I think I lost my mind a little. Or a lot.” Carson’s intent, sparkling green eyes could
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