Taking the Heat. Lauren Hawkeye

in my hurry. With the gym bag that I kept in my trunk in hand, the thought of heat—sweaty, seductive heat—propelled me forward, protecting me from the frigidity of the air by anticipation alone. I was clad in my short pants and snug T-shirt and entering the assigned room before winter could touch me again.

      Well, I might have developed frostbite on the tips of my fingers while so blindly ignoring the goose flesh humping my skin, but now that I was safely ensconced in this tropical nirvana, I decided that that was neither here nor there.

      And what a nirvana it was. I stood for a moment just inside the door, allowing the heat to wash over me, to finally, finally extinguish the day’s chill from my bones. My head lolled back in bliss as I basked in the sensation; this was better, far better, than the bath that I’d planned. The only noises in the room that was specially designed for Bikram-style yoga were the crackle of the great fire that roared in the stone hearth on the far wall, and the gentle hiss of the large, freestanding humidifier as it sprayed a delicate mist into the thick air. I watched, fascinated, as the fine droplets of water turned to steam seconds after their release; the rising tendrils of vapor were sinuous, seductive, and called to me.

      My head swam; had I cupped the air in the palm of my hand, I was sure that I would have felt it pulse.

      “Would you mind closing the door? The heat will escape.” The voice was low and patient and reminded me of hot honey as it flowed through the room; I turned in surprise toward the corner from which it had come.

      I had thought that I was alone. Had reveled in it.

      I quickly changed my mind. The presence of the man who had spoken was better—much, much better.