Chapter 9: Teased by Sunrise
The crunch of Lesha’s truck tires on the gravel lot of Wildflower Yoga was the only sound in the crisp Colorado morning. Inside the cab, the heat was still on, blasting lemongrass and vanilla and the quieter, deeper scent of him—pine sap and clean sweat. Sierra didn’t want to move.
“You are sure you are okay to teach?” Lesha asked, his hand still cupping the back of her neck, his thumb stroking the downy hairs there. His concern was etched in the faint lines around his eyes.
She grinned, stretching languidly in the passenger seat. Every muscle sang a familiar, pleasant ache. “I’m more than okay. I’m inspired. My hips have never been more open.”
A faint pink tinged his ears. He looked so serious, so utterly dismantled by the night and early morning they’d shared, that she had to kiss him again. It wasn’t the fiery kiss from when he’d first pulled up; this was softer, a sealing kiss. He responded instantly, his mouth yielding to hers, a low hum in his throat.
When she pulled back, his blue eyes were dark. “I will fix the kitchen tap today,” he said, as if making a solemn vow.
“My hero,” she teased, nipping his lower lip before sliding out of the truck. The cold morning air hit her skin, a shock that was immediately countered by the warmth pooling low in her belly. She bent down, winked at him through the open door, and then strode toward the studio’s cedar-clad entrance, her yoga bag slung over her shoulder. She didn’t look back, but she felt his gaze on her until she pulled the door shut.
The studio was a sanctuary of quiet anticipation. Golden morning light streamed through the east-facing windows, illuminating swirling dust motes in the air thick with the scent of lavender from last night’s cleaning. She dropped her bag by the stereo and began her own pre-class ritual, rolling out her mat in the center of the room. As she moved through a few silent sun salutations, her body reported every detail of the previous hours—the pleasant stretch in her inner thighs, the ghost of his hands on her hips, the deep, satisfied ache in core muscles she’d forgotten she had.
The front door chimed. Then again. The quiet dissolved into the gentle chaos of her 8 a.m. regulars: the rustle of bags, the soft thump of mats unfurling, the low murmur of greetings.
“Well, well. Look who’s glowing.”
Sierra finished her forward fold, peeking through her legs at Carla, a retired midwife with a wit as sharp as her eye.
“It’s called a morning practice, Carla. You should try it,” Sierra said, her voice muffled.
“Honey, that’s not a sun salutation. That’s the walk of shame,” teased Ben, a gentle giant of a carpenter who always took the spot by the radiator.
Sierra rolled up to standing, a laugh already bubbling in her chest. “It’s only shame if you regret it.” She shook out her hair, gathering it into a loose knot at the nape of her neck. As she reached for the ceiling, the hem of her tight black tank top rode up a fraction.
Carla’s sharp intake of breath was audible. “My God, girl. Is that a bite mark?”
Sierra froze, arms still extended. She’d forgotten. She’d specifically worn the high-necked top but had changed after her shower into this older, lower-cut tank. Just above the line of her sports bra, on the elegant curve where her neck met her shoulder, was a distinct, bluish-purple bloom.
A slow, wicked smile spread across her face. She lowered her arms and met Carla’s knowing gaze, then Ben’s raised eyebrows, and the curious glances of the other six early-birds now thoroughly distracted from their own stretches.
“Someone got laid last night!” Ben crowed, pointing a thick finger.
The studio erupted in good-natured catcalls and giggles. Sierra placed her hands on her hips, feigning exasperation but unable to suppress her grin. She felt the memory of Lesha’s mouth on that exact spot, the desperate pressure of his lips when she’d been riding him in the grey predawn light.
“You have no idea,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr. Then, with a flourish, she kicked her legs back into a perfect handstand, holding it for a breathless moment before flowing seamlessly into downward dog. The inversion sent a rush of blood to her head, and she giggled, the sound echoing in the quiet hum that had returned. Her laughter was infectious; she heard Carla snort, and the whole class wobbled, people losing their balance in their poses as they chuckled along with her.
“Okay, okay,” Sierra said, her voice breathless as she came up to kneeling. “Enough about my scandalous personal life. Let’s all find a little focus, shall we? Close your eyes. Tune in. What does your body need today?”
As she guided them through the opening centering, her own mind flickered. It didn’t need a thing. It was satiated, humming, every nerve ending still whispering his name. The soreness was a medal. The hickey was a flag.
The class moved through its flow. Sierra’s cues were playful, her adjustments gentle but firm. As she walked the room, she saw her own joy reflected in the relaxed shoulders and soft faces of her students. The shared secret energy buzzed pleasantly. During a held pigeon pose, Carla, groaning from her hip opener, muttered just loud enough for Sierra to hear, “He must be a carpenter.”
Sierra knelt beside her, pressing a careful hand into Carla’s lower back. “Oh? Why’s that?”
“Because he sure knew how to hammer that posture into you.”
Sierra burst out laughing, ruining the serene atmosphere entirely. She dropped her forehead to Carla’s mat, her shoulders shaking. “Stop! I can’t breathe.”
The class dissolved again. It was the least zen, most joyous session Wildflower had seen in months. As they finally settled into savasana, the room quiet except for the soft soundtrack of singing bowls, Sierra lay on her own mat. The wooden floor was solid against her spine. She placed a hand lightly over the mark on her collarbone, feeling the faint, thrilling pulse of her own heart beneath it.
After the final Om resonated and faded, after the students had rolled up their mats with contented sighs and filtered out into the morning, Carla lingered.
“Seriously, though,” she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “He’s got you all… unspooled. In a good way. I haven’t seen you blush since you opened this place.”
Sierra was wiping down the mirrors with a lavender-scented cloth. She met Carla’s eyes in the reflection. The woman’s gaze was kind, perceptive. Sierra’s usual deflection died on her lips. She simply nodded, a small, private movement.
“It’s different,” she admitted, the words feeling new and vulnerable.
Carla just smiled. “Good.” She gave a little wave and slipped out the door.
Alone in the sun-washed studio, Sierra finished cleaning. Her phone, facedown on the stereo console, buzzed once. A single, simple text lit up the screen.
> Lesha: The tap is fixed. It did not put up a fight. Unlike some people.
She laughed, a clear, bright sound in the empty room. Her thumbs flew over the screen.
> Sierra: Some people require a more… nuanced approach. A lot of patience. And lubrication.
She sent it, then added another.
> Sierra: My class asked about my personal carpenter. I told them he’s excellent with his tools.
She watched the three dots appear, pulse, then disappear. They reappeared. His reply came through.
> Lesha: I am now blushing in my own kitchen. This is your fault.
The warmth that spread through her had nothing to do with the sun now climbing higher in the sky. It was the warmth of the shower steam, of his head in her lap, of a trust that was no longer a cliff edge but a new, solid piece of ground. She locked up the studio, the key turning with a satisfying click. The morning mountains stood, immense and eternal, against a sky of relentless blue. For the first time since he’d arrived in Silver Pine, she didn’t wonder if he felt small against them. She pictured him in his kitchen, under the sink, competent and focused, a faint blush on his cheeks, entirely and wonderfully hers.
The thought was a physical pull, a magnet in her chest tugging her toward the silent, empty studio office. She kicked off her sandals, the cool polished concrete a shock against her soles, and collapsed into her creaky desk chair.
The afternoon sun sliced across her desk, warming the wood. On a whim, she propped her bare feet atop the cluttered surface, arching them. The morning’s practice had left a familiar, dull throb in her insteps. She snapped a picture, capturing the graceful line from her painted toes to her calf, the sunlight gilding the fine blond hairs. She sent it.
> Sierra: Miss your big hands rubbing my arches. My personal carpenter has other skills, I’m told.
The reply was almost instantaneous. A photo appeared: his grey work shirt stretched tight across his chest, darkened with a dramatic sweat stain in a perfect V. The fabric clung to the defined planes she’d soaped in the shower. No face, just the compelling, damp landscape of him. The caption was a single word.
> Lesha: Working.
A squeal escaped her, high and unrestrained, just as the studio’s front door chimed. Maya, her nineteen-year-old assistant, froze in the doorway, a box of retail shipment in her arms. She took in Sierra’s flushed face, the phone clutched to her chest, the bare feet on the desk.
Maya’s eyes rolled so hard Sierra heard it. “For God’s sake, just marry him already.”
“We’ve known each other for three weeks,” Sierra laughed, but her pulse was a wild thing, fluttering against the phone.
“And? My parents knew each other for three days.” Maya dropped the box with a thud. “That’s the sound of your new ‘Sacred Serenity’ tank tops. They look extremely serene. You, however, look extremely screwed.” She began slicing the tape with a box cutter. “In a good way. It’s disgustingly cute. Now put your feet down, a client could walk in.”
Sierra lowered her feet, but the smile wouldn’t leave her face. She typed back, her thumbs moving with deliberate slowness.
> Sierra: Sweaty is a good look for you. Very authentic. My assistant is judging me.
> Lesha: This is because you are being judged. You distract a man from honest work.
She could hear his voice, the pretend-stern tone layered over his amusement. The dynamic was new, this easy, telegraphic banter that spanned the miles between the studio and the Finch Cabin. It felt like a thread, pulling taut.
> Sierra: It’s my mission. What are you working on, anyway?
The three dots pulsed. Paused. Pulsed again.
> Lesha: A surprise. For you. No more questions.
Her breath caught. A surprise. The words shimmered with possibility, immediately overshadowing the mundane reality of her afternoon schedule—inventory, emails, a gentle flow class at four. She stared at the two photos on her screen: her offered vulnerability, his raw physical response. They were talking in a new language, one built of steam and trust and lavender soap.
“Earth to Sierra.” Maya waved a folded tank top in her periphery. “You’re zoning out with that goofy grin again. Do you want to count these or should I just mark it ‘One Dozen, Probably’?”
“You count,” Sierra said, standing abruptly. Her body needed to move. She paced to the window, looking out at the vacant lot where his truck had been. The memory of his head in her lap, his sleepy confession, was more vivid than the aspen trees outside. Could’ve laid on your thighs for the rest of my life.
Maya’s offhand comment echoed. Just marry him already. It was a joke, a hyperbolic tease from a romantic teenager. Yet it didn’t feel absurd. It felt like a door swinging open in a wind she hadn’t seen coming, revealing a corridor of light she was already walking down.
Her phone buzged once more, a final text.
> Lesha: The surprise needs the afternoon. Can I see you tonight?
She pressed the phone to her lips, inhaling deeply. The clean scent of the screen mixed with the lingering lemongrass on her own skin. The emotional math was simple, terrifying in its clarity. She wanted every night.
> Sierra: Yes. Come to my place. I’ll cook. I promise no plumbing will be harmed.
She hit send, the decision clicking into place with the solid, final sound of the lock on the studio door hours earlier. The future was no longer a vague, solitary expanse of mountain silence. It was this. A text thread, a sweaty shirt, a surprise waiting in the pines, and the relentless, thrilling pull toward a man who was learning, finally, how to be undone.
The pull was a physical current. She didn’t fight it. Her fingers found the address field, and she typed the numbers and street name of her little A-frame on Pinecrest Drive—a place he’d never seen, a space that was purely hers. Sending it felt more significant than any kiss. It was a coordinate, an invitation into her private world.
> Sierra: 421 Pinecrest. Blue A-frame. Don’t be late, carpenter. I’m hungry.
She placed the phone face down, its screen darkening like a settled secret. The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of client waivers, studio accounting, and guiding the gentle flow class with a voice that felt borrowed from someone calmer, someone whose nerves weren’t singing a constant, high-frequency note of want.
When the final student left at 5:30, Sierra moved with efficient speed. She showered in the studio’s tiny back room, washing away the sweat of the day but not the underlying hum. She changed into soft, faded jeans and a simple black sweater that felt like a caress against her skin. Dressing for him was different now; it wasn’t about allure, but about comfort, about being someone he could relax against.
The Silver Pine Market was a warm hive of golden light and muted chatter. She grabbed a wire basket, its handle cool in her palm. The ordinary act of shopping was transformed. Everything felt like a clue, a ingredient for a spell she was composing.
She chose a deep, purple eggplant, its skin glossy under the fluorescents. She selected firm, ripe tomatoes, their scent summery and bright. A bulb of garlic, a bunch of basil so fragrant it perfumed her hands. Her movements were deliberate, almost reverent. This was for them. For the surprise he was building, for the quiet they would share.
At the dairy case, she paused. Feta or goat cheese? She pictured his serious face tasting, considering. She chose the feta, for its salt and crumble. The basket grew heavier. A bag of wild rice. A bottle of Pinot Noir, its label promising dark cherries and earth.
She was unaware of the small smile playing on her lips. A low, wordless tune escaped her as she turned into the spice aisle for paprika. It was an old song, something her mother used to hum. The sound, so unforced and light, surprised her. She hadn’t hummed to herself in years, not like this, not from a place of sheer, uncomplicated anticipation.
The cashier, an older woman named Betty who’d seen Sierra grow up, raised an eyebrow as she rang up the eggplant and wine. “Cooking for someone special, hon?”
Sierra met her eyes, the truth too large to hide. “Yeah,” she said, the word simple and full. “I really am.”
Betty’s knowing smile was a benediction. “Good. That’s real good.” She handed over the reusable bag, now heavy with promise. “You have a nice night now.”
The dusk outside was a deep, crystalline blue, the first stars piercing the veil over the mountains. The bag swung from her crook her elbow, a satisfying weight. Her breath fogged in the air, but inside, she was radiating a summer heat. She replayed the text, the address now sitting in his phone, a destination. She wondered what his surprise was, her mind spinning possibilities that were all eclipsed by the singular, grounding image of him walking through her door.
She loaded the groceries into her SUV, the tailgate closing with a solid thud. The engine purred to life. As she pulled onto the main road toward Pinecrest, toward the blue A-frame now waiting for both of them, the humming started again, soft and steady, a private soundtrack for the beginning of everything that came next.