Chapter One
Cami Pressman set her paddleboard on the muddy river bank and gave a harsh tug at the elastic band of her sports bra. Was it loose? She dropped her hand to the waist of the shorts and adjusted the tie. Either she’d dropped a couple pounds during her mom’s visit, or it was time to throw the overstretched garments in the laundry.
She stifled a gag at the thought of her mom’s gluten-free, dairy-free, fat-free, flavor-free pizza that she’d been forced to wash down with a smoothie of chopped prunes, jalapeños, and cold-pressed organic flax seed oil. The taste of it hadn’t left Cami’s tongue, though her mom was well on her way home to Portland.
After enduring a week of her mom’s health-nut nagging, Cami had earned a reward. A hot, mouthwatering, steamy, sinful reward.
She yanked at the bra again, cursing the sweat pooled between her breasts. It was an unnaturally hot afternoon, even for mid-August in the high desert. She glanced at her watch and said a silent prayer her next yoga client had the sense to grease up with good sunscreen. The central Oregon sun could be brutal, particularly out on the water. Add in a sweaty paddleboard yoga lesson and maybe an unexpected dunk in the river, and any client without waterproof sun protection would hobble home looking like a poached strawberry.
Cami pulled a tube of sunscreen from the waterproof pack around her waist and flipped the cap. She’d used most of it in her last lesson greasing up the three kids she’d taught as part of a volunteer outreach for underprivileged children, but there was still some left. She breathed in the familiar scent of coconut and vanilla, pleased her stomach didn’t growl the way it had all week when she’d smelled something sweet or salty or vaguely more edible than her mother’s cardboard date bars.
“Need help getting your back?”
Cami whirled at the sound of his voice. Her mouth fell open before she caught herself and forced her expression from a dumbstruck gape to a practiced, professional smile. Something spurted onto her bare foot and she looked down and released her grip on the sunscreen. She recapped the tube, shoved it in her pack, and blinked at him.
“Paul Hammond?” She blinked a few more times to see if the broad-shouldered, desperately hot lumberjack would morph into the tubby, balding, middle-aged man she’d pictured on the phone. “You’re the guy from my Thursday group yoga class.”
She flushed as soon as the words left her mouth. It was the biggest class she taught—at least 30 students—and the fact that she’d noticed him probably revealed too much.
But she had noticed him. A lot. She was just surprised to see him here now for one of her private yoga lessons on a standup paddleboard. Cami cleared her throat and tried again. “So you’re the gourmet chef whose doctor prescribed a fitness program?”
He laughed, a warm, jubilant sound that made her toes curl. His well-trimmed beard and massive biceps completed the lumberjack image, assuming lumberjacks sported orange floral swim trunks and bare feet.
“Technically, my doctor didn’t prescribe a fitness program. It was my brother—who happens to be a doctor—harassing me to change up my exercise routine.” He grinned, and Cami felt her spleen do a somersault. “You thought I’d be wheeled here on a stretcher with a heart monitor on my chest and a leg of lamb dangling from my lips?”
Cami swallowed, pretty sure it was the lamb and not the mention of his chest and lips making her mouth water.
You’ve never eaten lamb, she reminded herself.
Cami tucked a flyaway chestnut curl behind her ear and surreptitiously swiped the back of her hand over her mouth. Good, she wasn’t drooling in front of a client. Always a plus.
“Of course I didn’t expect that,” she lied, trying hard not to fixate on the intense grass-green color of his eyes. “You filled out my online intake form with your height and weight so I’d know which
Cami Pressman set her paddleboard on the muddy river bank and gave a harsh tug at the elastic band of her sports bra. Was it loose? She dropped her hand to the waist of the shorts and adjusted the tie. Either she’d dropped a couple pounds during her mom’s visit, or it was time to throw the overstretched garments in the laundry.
She stifled a gag at the thought of her mom’s gluten-free, dairy-free, fat-free, flavor-free pizza that she’d been forced to wash down with a smoothie of chopped prunes, jalapeños, and cold-pressed organic flax seed oil. The taste of it hadn’t left Cami’s tongue, though her mom was well on her way home to Portland.
After enduring a week of her mom’s health-nut nagging, Cami had earned a reward. A hot, mouthwatering, steamy, sinful reward.
She yanked at the bra again, cursing the sweat pooled between her breasts. It was an unnaturally hot afternoon, even for mid-August in the high desert. She glanced at her watch and said a silent prayer her next yoga client had the sense to grease up with good sunscreen. The central Oregon sun could be brutal, particularly out on the water. Add in a sweaty paddleboard yoga lesson and maybe an unexpected dunk in the river, and any client without waterproof sun protection would hobble home looking like a poached strawberry.
Cami pulled a tube of sunscreen from the waterproof pack around her waist and flipped the cap. She’d used most of it in her last lesson greasing up the three kids she’d taught as part of a volunteer outreach for underprivileged children, but there was still some left. She breathed in the familiar scent of coconut and vanilla, pleased her stomach didn’t growl the way it had all week when she’d smelled something sweet or salty or vaguely more edible than her mother’s cardboard date bars.
“Need help getting your back?”
Cami whirled at the sound of his voice. Her mouth fell open before she caught herself and forced her expression from a dumbstruck gape to a practiced, professional smile. Something spurted onto her bare foot and she looked down and released her grip on the sunscreen. She recapped the tube, shoved it in her pack, and blinked at him.
“Paul Hammond?” She blinked a few more times to see if the broad-shouldered, desperately hot lumberjack would morph into the tubby, balding, middle-aged man she’d pictured on the phone. “You’re the guy from my Thursday group yoga class.”
She flushed as soon as the words left her mouth. It was the biggest class she taught—at least 30 students—and the fact that she’d noticed him probably revealed too much.
But she had noticed him. A lot. She was just surprised to see him here now for one of her private yoga lessons on a standup paddleboard. Cami cleared her throat and tried again. “So you’re the gourmet chef whose doctor prescribed a fitness program?”
He laughed, a warm, jubilant sound that made her toes curl. His well-trimmed beard and massive biceps completed the lumberjack image, assuming lumberjacks sported orange floral swim trunks and bare feet.
“Technically, my doctor didn’t prescribe a fitness program. It was my brother—who happens to be a doctor—harassing me to change up my exercise routine.” He grinned, and Cami felt her spleen do a somersault. “You thought I’d be wheeled here on a stretcher with a heart monitor on my chest and a leg of lamb dangling from my lips?”
Cami swallowed, pretty sure it was the lamb and not the mention of his chest and lips making her mouth water.
You’ve never eaten lamb, she reminded herself.
Cami tucked a flyaway chestnut curl behind her ear and surreptitiously swiped the back of her hand over her mouth. Good, she wasn’t drooling in front of a client. Always a plus.
“Of course I didn’t expect that,” she lied, trying hard not to fixate on the intense grass-green color of his eyes. “You filled out my online intake form with your height and weight so I’d know which
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