Page 124 of The Yoga Teacher

She was proud of what she’d built here. The programs. The community. The small but mighty network of elders and teens and single moms and volunteers who made everything run. Could she really walk away from that? Fromthem?

Could she leave it all behind just because it looked better on paper?

She didn’t know. And tonight, she didn’t want to know.

Shehadnailed the interview.

She had answered every question with precision. She had been articulate, composed, polished. Marcus Calloway had practically glowed.

And yet—

Something in her stomach twisted. A coil of unease she couldn’t quite name.

Danielhad called him, had recommended her.

He hadn’t told her he made that call. Hadn’t used it as leverage, hadn’t expected praise. He’d done it quietly. Invisibly.

And she hated how much that mattered to her.

Because right underneath that flicker of gratitude lived something darker.

A memory she couldn’t scrub from her skin.

Daniel’s hands—herDaniel—gripping Sienna’s hips. Her body stretched out beneath him, flexible and eager. Her lithe legs curled around him like rope. Her breathless laugh. Thatbackbend smile.

The yoga teacher. Younger. Sleeker. Limber in ways Hannah had never been.

The music shifted—something with a heavier beat, a deeper pull. Hannah let herself drift to the edge of the dance floor, rolling her shoulders, shaking out her arms. She felt loose. Warm. Strong.

The weight training had changed her in ways she hadn’t expected. Not just physically—though yes, her legs were solid, her arms sculpted—but in the way she moved.

She didn’t feel small. She didn’t feel breakable. She could dance through three songs without gasping for breath or adjusting her clothes. She could hold her own.

And she was doing exactly that when he appeared.

He didn’t say anything. Just stepped into her orbit, his rhythm syncing naturally with hers. He was younger—that muchwas clear. Mid-twenties, maybe. Tall, confident, but not cocky. No sleazy pickup line, no hand on her waist. Just a smile. An invitation.

She danced with him.

For one song. Then another. The space between them grew smaller with each track. By the third, she felt the heat of his breath near her ear, the ghost of his fingertips brushing against hers.

Still, they didn’t speak.

It was freeing, in a way. No expectations. No past. Just music and movement and the thrum of something that had nothing to do with grief or guilt or second chances.

Morgan passed by, grinning as she gave Hannah a thumbs-up before heading for the exit. “Text me tomorrow!” she called.

Hannah didn’t answer.

Because the guy—this stranger with a sharp jaw and sweat at his temple—had finally leaned close.

“You’re kind of unreal,” he said, his voice low enough to land directly in her stomach.

Hannah’s mouth tilted into a smirk. “You always say that to women ten years older than you?”

He laughed. “Five, maybe.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t even know how old I am.”

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