Page 39 of Love Lessons
And now I’ve got a whole hour to think about how attractive she is to me. I have a perfect view of her proud little form in mountain pose. And when she sweeps low, bending into a forward fold, I get a split-second glance at her perfect ass before I’m staring at my own ankles.
The instructor takes us through a quick rotation of sun salutations, and my eyes keep returning to the front of the pack, where Vera is keeping up with everything in high style. Her lunges are deep, her warrior stance is strong. That lithe body seems capable of anything.
And I have some ideas for it. All I want to do is throw her over my shoulder and carry her back upstairs to my bedroom. The more I think about it, the harder it is to concentrate. My body feels loose and warm and ready for action.
Horizontal action.
The yoga instructor ups the ante, bringing us into a series of eagle poses. And thank God. I have to force myself to concentrate or I’m gonna topple over in the grass. These balance poses are better suited to an indoor studio than a grassy yard, and I see a lot of wobbling around me.
But it’s just what I need. I choose a focal point in the distance—a tree, by the way, not Vera’s ass—and give it my best shot.
By the time the hour is over, I’m sweaty and tired in a good way. We thank the instructor, and Charli announces that pastries, coffee, and fruit are now being served on the terrace.
“This place is heaven,” Castro says. “You might have to kick us out, because I might not leave willingly.”
I don’t disagree. I set myself up with a breakfast tray and eat on the shaded terrace. Traveling with the super-rich is a real good time.
As I sip my second cup of coffee, the women are making plans. I hear something about dinner tonight in Bellagio and a water taxi. “Doesn’t that sound fun?” Sylvie asks Anton.
“Sure, baby,” he says, closing his eyes and reclining in his chair. “Just poke me when it’s time to go.”
I turn my attention to my phone. There are several messages from yesterday. Two are from the publicist whose glower I’m trying to forget, and three of them are from my father.
Those are the troubling ones. They’re all variations of:Call me back, Ian. I need to speak to you. There’s a problem with your purchase agreement.
Just like that, my vacation vibes are shot. I get up, carry my dishes into the kitchen, and hurry upstairs to call him back. Because—shit! What the hell did I do wrong now? Every call from my father gives me a familiar case of agita. He’s never satisfied with anything I do.
My brownstone in Brooklyn is the biggest investment I’ll ever make. It’s part of my Plan B, which is a thing my dad is always hounding me about.What are you going to do after hockey? What is your plan?
I’ve never had a good answer to that question until I realized that I like working with my hands. And real estate is hands-on work. I could be good at it.
Unless I’ve already committed a major error.
Even though it’s only six a.m. in Massachusetts, I phone my dad. He doesn’t answer, so I leave the phone on the bed. I tap on the bathroom door I share with Vera and find the room is empty. I’m brushing my teeth when the phone rings, so of course I do a comically fast rinse and rush for it.
I answer the phone, and it’s my mother on the line. “Honey! I was just about to get on the Peloton when I heard your father’s phone ring. Is everything okay? You never call this early.”
“Yeah, I’m in another time zone. Sorry. And Dad has something he wants to chew me out about.”
“Oh dear,” she says. “Well, I’ll let him have you—except I need to remind you of something. Your RSVP to Jaqueline’s wedding is late. She stopped me in the wine shop the other day and asked me if you were coming.”
Uh-oh. “What did you tell her?”
“Of course, I said you’ll be there. And that I’m sure your RSVP is in the mail. It’srudenot to reply, Ian. I raised you better than that.”
What. The. Fuck. “Did you really just commit me to attending my ex’s wedding? Why would she even want me there?”
“Because you’re both adults, and you were close for years. And it’s a family wedding, Ian. You have to show your face.”
“Oh, comeon. He’s my second cousin. We don’t even send each other Christmas cards. You’re the one who wants to go to the wedding, Ma. So go without me. It’s not like I can go all the way to Massachusetts the first weekend of August. That’s right before training camp.”
“The wedding is just thirty miles from New York—on the waterfront in Connecticut. He picked the venue.”
I groan. “I don’t want to go.”
She lets out a frustrated sigh. “We all have to do things we don’t wish to do. Now your father wants to speak to you. Send in that RSVP. It’s rude to wait so long. She needs to do her seating chart.”
Before I can even respond, my dad’s voice is booming in my ear. “Son—I called three times yesterday.”
