The Bully (Calamity Montana #4)(33)

With a fast shake, she unrolled her mat and tossed it on the floor.

I did the same, crowding close. Our hands would probably touch during Shavasana.

“Cal.” She seethed through gritted teeth, dropping to her knees.

“You seem stressed, Rivera. Work been rough on you this week?”

She blew out an audible breath, then leaned forward into Child’s Pose.

Her tank top molded to her frame. Her leggings left little to the imagination. And God, what I wouldn’t give to strip it all away. To forget yoga and work out the tension in my body, and hers, with sex.

My cock jerked as I stared at her ass, so I forced myself to my mat, wishing like hell I’d thought this through.

Yoga was the reason I’d come downtown this morning. My back had been killing me all week. Tormenting Nellie was a bonus. I’d chosen this class specifically because Kerrigan had mentioned this was Nellie’s favorite.

Last night, I’d gone to Pierce and Kerrigan’s place bearing pizza. I’d played with Elias for a couple of hours. I’d held the baby for a minute until she’d started to cry. Then I’d caught up with my friends after insisting on doing the dishes.

When I’d asked Kerrigan about the yoga lineup, she’d told me this was Nellie’s class, probably thinking that I’d avoid it. On the contrary . . . Nellie’s class was now my class too.

I relaxed into a similar pose, feeling the stretch in my hips, thighs and ankles. I turned my head to face Nellie. “Tell me another one.”

“Please go away,” she murmured.

“No.”

She lengthened her arms even farther, her eyes closed as her forehead pressed into the mat. “Then shut up.”

“Hurry. Before class starts. Tell me another one.”

“Another what?”

“Another thing you hate about me.”

She shook her head, her ribs expanding with a deep breath. “This is a very strange, very annoying game.”

“It’s not a game.” I lowered my voice. I wasn’t sure what it was. Maybe redemption? I just . . . I needed to hear it. I wanted current examples, not the ones from her old diary. “Tell me what you hate about me.”

“I hate that you’re still in Calamity. Happy now?”

I frowned. “That’s stating the obvious. Try again.”

She inhaled another breath, blowing it out in a purposeful, steady stream. Then she repeated the calming technique, four more times while I studied her profile and the way her sooty eyelashes formed crescent moons against her cheeks.

Nellie didn’t have much makeup on today, just a slight coat of mascara. There were four freckles on the bridge of her nose, so faint that normally they were covered with whatever crap women used to hide what they considered imperfections.

The first time I’d seen Nellie’s freckles had been in Charlotte. The second, the shower at her apartment in Denver when I’d flown to town during the off-season to visit Mom and Pierce.

Nellie had been living in Pierce’s building, and I’d bumped into her waiting for the elevator. When she’d gotten off on her floor, so had I. To this day, Pierce thought the reason I hadn’t shown at his penthouse on time was because I’d been outside on an urgent call with my agent. No, Nellie and I had just been fucking on her couch.

“You’re living in a camper.” Her voice was no more than a whisper. “You’re worth millions of dollars and you’re living in someone else’s RV.”

Either she’d asked about me or gossip was spreading. Probably both.

It was only a temporary living situation. My architect was nearly done with the design. The build was already on my contractor’s calendar. “Your point?”

“You’re acting weird,” she said. “I thought you’d act too pretentious for the motel, let alone a Winnebago.”

“Apparently not.” No surprise she thought I was a snob. I tended to have expensive tastes. “You never answered my question the other day. Why did you watch my games?”

“To see you lose.” Her nose twitched.

That was bullshit. “Liar.”

She shot me a glare. “Then I watched for the inevitable explosion when something didn’t go your way or someone pissed you off.”

And she’d probably heckled me along with the rest of the world when that explosion had been caught on camera.

My temper had bested me on more than one occasion. The year after we’d won my first Super Bowl, our team had gone through a rebuilding. Our record had been shit, having lost a bunch of veteran players to retirement.

After a particularly brutal ass-kicking by the Colts, a game when nothing had gone right, I’d had a meltdown coming off the field. A drunk fan had taunted me. You’re a has-been, Stark. You fucking suck. Should have quit while you were ahead.

He’d thrown each of my insecurities in my face. So I’d tossed him my middle finger and a string of colorful obscenities. There’d been a reporter right on my heels. No doubt Nellie had rolled her eyes when they’d aired the segment later that night and the entire sound bite had been a string of bleeps.

One game I’d been so livid about a horseshit penalty that I’d kicked over a table of water coolers. Another time I’d torn off my helmet and sent it sailing toward the sideline after an interception.