Page 16 of My Turkish Fling
I lowered myself onto the floor, wincing at the pressure in my lower back as I folded my legs to mirror hers. “We shall never speak of this.”
Janie’s smile sparkled. “You don’t want to take photos for your family? They’d be so proud!”
She looked so comfortable sitting like a monk on the floor, her back straight, shoulders pulled back. I tried to imitate her posture, but a pain seared through my lower back. “I can’t.”
Her eyes flashed with concern, and she moved closer. “Okay. Sitting this way is hard on your lower back. Let’s start on the floor.”
I looked around me, confused. “But we are on the floor.”
“I mean…” She moved closer and guided me onto my back, legs folded. “Can you lift your hips?”
My face flushed. I’d never been this uncomfortable in my life. Janie scooted backwards and lay on the rug next to me, peeling her hips off the floor. The movement made her T-shirt shift down her body, revealing a slice of tanned midriff. She was in incredible shape. I forced my eyes at the ceiling and tried to copy the move. I couldn’t get my hips aligned with hers, no matter what I tried. Groaning, I lowered myself back against the floor. The soft rug hugged my sore back. She was right. I needed this.
Janie guided me through the gentle moves, curving my back to imitate cats and cows, then something she called ‘rolling on the floor’. Again, she looked like an actual ball as she rocked and rolled, back rounded, arms around her folded legs. I was more like a plank falling against the floor, but after a few tries, I felt my spine curving and managed to rock back and forth a little.
“Good job!” Janie clapped her hands and grabbed my shoulder, helping me back up to sitting. “Great progress.”
Her praise flooded me with warmth, and I told myself to chill. This woman was a performer. Essentially an actress. She played a part. She told you what you wanted to hear. Still, I wanted to sit next to her, basking in that light that shone from her eyes. Even if for one fake moment.
“My back feels better. Can we continue tomorrow?”
“Are you giving up already?” Her smile had a teasing edge.
“Is there more?” I stifled a yawn. The room was spinning.
“We’re only getting started.”
She rolled back onto the floor, this time on her side, and lifted her leg up, pointing her toe at the ceiling. I tried to copy her move but managed to only lift my leg third of the way. Was her leg even connected to her pelvis? “How are you doing that?”
She cocked her head, examining my feeble attempts, and guided me up and into a yoga move I remembered from years ago. Downward something. It hurt even more, but I persevered, and followed her example through a simple series of movements. My back stretched and ached, but I could tell it was good pain. Necessary pain. I should have tried this a long time ago. I jogged and trained at the gym, but I’d never enjoyed stretching. Pilates was strange—a workout designed to cause maximum amount of pain with minimum movement, but it obviously worked.
After twenty minutes of surprisingly challenging workout, she guided us into a ‘child pose’, and announced we were finished.
“Thank you,” I mumbled, my cheek against the rug. “I think this helped. Even if I can no longer stand up or walk.”
“You need to get some rest. Jetlag is the worst.”
She straightened, placing her hand on my lower back. “But you should do this every day. It’s great for your back.”
“Okay,” I rasped, feeling like a heavy-duty cardboard box someone was trying to fold into a recycling bin. Yet, I wanted to keep her hand where it was. The magic hand that took the pain away.
Holding onto the couch, I made it upright and wobbled out of the living room, wishing her good night on my way out.
When I made it to my room, I closed the door and spent a long time leaning against it, my heart pounding. Something was happening to me. Something within me felt softer, and it wasn’t just muscles. Staying in her house was not a safe choice. I’d been so careful, stepping only on the solid stones, navigating life like a board game that only required good strategy and stupid co-players. Nothing mushy or confusing. No chance of getting knifed in my exposed underbelly. I’d begun to feel pleased with myself, observing the mess and heartbreak of fellow humans like an alien sent to investigate human life on earth. Superior and unaffected. A smug asshole.
But now my foot had made contact with something soft, and I was sinking.
Chapter 8
Janie
I woke up to a heavenly smell. I rolled over in bed, disoriented, thinking I was away from home. Nobody else cooked in my house. And then I remembered Emir. He’d been with me for four days now—fixing fences, feeding animals, and administering eyedrops. He’d insisted he wanted to cook, but I’d thrown his flatbread in the freezer and told him he needed to rest and get over his jetlag. So far, I’d been up before him, making breakfast and leaving some for him before I left for work.
I’d been happy to cook for him. It was only fair since he was doing so much work around the farm. I hadn’t even realized how many things needed fixing until Emir had brought them to my attention.
Every night, as per our agreement, I’d massaged his head andshoulders. Feeling his body relax, those deep sighs and groans that erupted from his throat… I couldn’t stop my imagination running wild. I could tell he had incredible self-control, but as I kicked off the sheet tangled around my legs, I realized he’d been there in my dream, again. I’d dreamed of his hard body pressed against mine. I’d dreamed of him losing control.
I wrapped myself in a bathrobe and patted to the kitchen. I was expecting him, yet the sight of the dark, tall and Turkish man made my breath hitch. He stood by the stove, frowning at the frying pan, my kowhaiwhai-patterned apron protecting his white dress shirt as he pushed something red and eggy with a spatula. How it had materialized in the pan, I had no idea. The kitchen showed no signs of cooking.
