Breath of Fire Read online

  BREATH OF FIRE

  KATHRYN NOLAN

  Text copyright © 2019 Kathryn Nolan

  All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Editing by Faith N. Erline

  Editing by Ashley E. Evans

  Table of Contents

  SAGE

  OLIVIA

  SAGE

  OLIVIA

  OLIVIA

  SAGE

  SAGE

  BONUS EPILOGUE #1

  BONUS EPILOGUE #2

  BONUS EPILOGUE #3

  Finn

  BOOKS BY KATHRYN

  1

  SAGE

  “I’m going to be really honest with you Sage,” Rita said. “I want to make you a metric fuckton of money.”

  “And you think this TV show will be a hit?” I asked, pressing the phone to my ear.

  Her voice was almost drowned out by the crashing waves in front of me. The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the ocean shades of orange.

  “A massive hit,” she continued. “A television show on the Vibe Channel will skyrocket your fame into the stratosphere. You’re too hot not to be on TV. You’re the most famous yoga teacher in Los Angeles. Your celebrity client list is a mile long. And Sun Fire has a two-month wait list for classes. Your entire career has been leading to this opportunity, Sage.”

  “But who would watch a TV show about yoga?” I asked, scanning the horizon. My gaze fell on two small cliffs to the left. They jutted out over the water, tempting tourists and adrenaline-seeking locals alike to jump into the cold waves.

  “Everyone,” Rita squealed. “Because it won’t just be about yoga. In a thirty-minute show, viewers will get a short yoga class taught by you: the Sage McAllister. Interviews with guests, lifestyle gurus, and the like. Then, you’ll hock your merchandise: coffee mugs, tee-shirts…”

  “Coffee mugs?” I asked.

  These days, my life felt like a runaway train, seconds from exploding off the tracks. I was baffled by my own success: in awe of my celebrity, shocked at the millions of followers I had on Instagram and the students who lined up for autographs after my classes.

  And I tried not to listen to the voice I heard in every truly quiet moment — usually on my yoga mat at sunrise — the voice that whispered stop.

  Rita was still talking. “You’ll have every piece of merchandise you could ever want and more. Besides, that’s where all the money’s at and we’ll make sure you get a big piece of it. Merch, speaking appearances, guest teaching spots all across the country. This could be your life.”

  I rubbed my hand across my jaw, eyes narrowed at the cliffs. I was finally back home in Playa Vieja — for the first time in six years — and I was probably late for the class I was guest-teaching at the yoga studio in the Bella View hotel.

  Being here, being home, made me think of Olivia. The memory of her hand in mine as we stood on those cliffs was so real it could have happened yesterday, not six years ago. I remembered her bright laughter as she teased me, begging me to jump with her. The way she’d sprung from the waves afterward like a mermaid.

  “Sage? Did you hear what I just said?” Rita’s voice was a persistent whine in my ear.

  “Of course,” I lied, turning to see Finn waving to me from the studio. “And listen, Rita, I’ve got to go teach this class. When do I need an answer to you by?”

  “Three days, babe. This business moves fast, you know. Three days or we walk,” she said.

  “You’ll have my answer before then, I promise.”

  I hung up, having not one goddamn clue what I was going to do. If I called my agent right now, this news would have him cartwheeling through his office with dollar signs in his eyes.

  And part of me wanted to do the same exact thing.

  Instead, I walked toward the yoga studio and a friend I hadn’t seen in years.

  “Finn Travis,” I said, pulling the shaggy surfer in for a massive bear hug.

  He laughed, clapping me on the back. Finn hadn’t changed since high school — still the laid-back, mellow guy with a huge heart and no fear.

  “How’s the hotel going?” I asked.

  After a long, protracted protest against the project — and its head developer — Finn had succeeded in convincing the company to develop a hotel that better fit with the spirit of Playa Vieja — while protecting the environment at the same time.

  And reliable local gossip told me that, in spite of it all, Finn had also fallen in love with his former adversary.

  “It’s going great,” he said, leading me past a beautiful lobby with large windows open to the pristine beach. “Avery and I just opened another eco-hotel in La Jolla, which is really taking off. We’ve made some improvements here, too, like our brand-new lobby.”

  For a second, my eyes snagged on the pencil drawings framed on the lobby walls, the delicate lines triggering something in my memory. But then Finn opened the door to their yoga studio, and I forgot all about the drawings.

  “And our brand-new studio,” he continued.

  “Whoa, Finn,” I said. “This looks…I mean, this reminds me of the place where I first trained. It’s amazing.”

  Finn crossed his arms and grinned, leaning against the bare, white wall. The studio had light oak floors that stretched toward a stage. Behind that was an open wall, letting the sand and waves and sea air flow through the room. It was softly lit by the setting sun and glowing candles.

  No frills. Nothing outrageous. The exact opposite of the glossy, expensive yoga studio I owned in Los Angeles.

  “Thought you would like it. Students are already lining up for you, dude,” Finn said, giving me another slap on the back. “Find me later and we’ll catch up. But for now, get up on that stage and work your magic.”

  The next twenty minutes were a blur, as the waiting students filed in and crowded around for selfies and autographs. As a rule, I waited to sign autographs until after class, trying to maintain some semblance of peace — and normalcy — before our practice began.

  Although I was breaking that rule more and more.

  After the last picture was taken, I gently extricated myself from the crowd. As I flipped through my notes, I was aware of the electric hum of attention all around me. But this was an evening class, so I wanted them detoxing from their busy day — peaceful, not intense.

  Right at six, I lit the candles and settled into a cross-legged pose on my mat, facing a sea of overwhelmed faces. The room buzzed with restless, kinetic energy. After my call with Rita, this was what I needed.

  “Good evening, everyone,” I said, straightening my spine. “My name is Sage McAllister, and I’ll be your guest teacher here at the Bella View for the next three nights.”

  I inhaled, banishing all thoughts of the TV show.

  Exhaled.

  “I want you to raise your hand if you feel like you’re always too busy.”

  Everyone’s hands shot up. I chuckled, nodding.

  “That’s what I thought. I feel the same way too, to be honest. On social media, it’s easy for me to project an image of utter calm and transcendence. But trust me.” I stood up, and started strolling through a rainbow of yoga mats. “I get road rage in LA traffic. I watch TV when I should be meditating. I hyper-focus on the negative comments people leave on my Instagram posts.”

  There was a ripple of laughter.

  “And why? Because we’re only human. We’re only human, living in a society built to make us ‘too busy.’ Which is why I need yoga so much.” I moved down the seco
nd row, smiling at my students. “In this room, for the next ninety minutes, you have no job. No obligations. No one is judging your performance. There is no place you need to be except here. Everyone take a deep breath for me — inhale the meetings, the rushing, the anxiety, the stress. Inhale the uncertainty and the self-doubt. Inhale.”

  There was a powerful, unified sound of breath.

  “Hold it,” I said, counting to four in my head. “Notice the mat beneath you. The air on your skin. The sound of the ocean waves. That’s all there is. Exhale.”

  They did, a giant whooshing sound lifting my heart and my spirit. My own gentle reminder that beneath the TV contracts and the celebrity clients there was a reason why I’d chosen this ancient practice.

  “There is no place you need to be except here,” I repeated. “Aware of this present moment, giving your body what it needs.”

  I kept walking, down the very back row of students. “I’ll remind you that taking child’s pose, resting pose, is the most powerful expression of—”

  I stopped, suddenly tongue-tied.

  There, sitting on a turquoise mat in the back corner of the room, was Olivia Nguyen.

  Olivia, the mermaid cliff-jumper.

  My dearest friend. My high school sweetheart.

  The woman who broke my heart.

  Her brown eyes locked on mine, widening in recognition.

  I heard a rustling, a few coughs, and realized I was frozen at the back, staring at Olivia. Years of desire and questions and regret and memories flooded between us in a room packed with other people.

  “It’s…child’s pose…to rest is the most powerful expression of yoga there is,” I stumbled, stepping back toward the safety of my mat and the stage. I couldn’t be back there, so close to someone who had caused me equal amounts of joy and pain.

  “Let’s begin, shall we?” I peeked down at my notes on the floor. One look at Olivia and my thoughts had scattered like marbles. “We’ll start on our backs.”

  I led them through another brief, guided meditation, focusing on their breathing before beginning our physical practice. Sun salutations and warrior poses interspersed with deep, powerful stretching. This was usually the most serene moment of my day — there was no better feeling than standing in a room surrounded by bodies moving with dynamic energy. I was the eye in the hurricane, the point of serenity as limbs swayed and arched, dipped and danced.

  But today I only had eyes for Olivia, who had a yoga practice as strong and graceful as I’d always remembered her being in high school. It’d been six years since she’d broken up with me, and I’d tried hard not to dwell on the loss of her from my life.

  As our eyes met, again and again, I saw defiance in her gaze. Surprise.

  Anger.

  She was still astonishingly beautiful. Her long, straight black hair was braided over one shoulder. One arm was covered in colorful tattoos while bright bracelets danced up both wrists. She had the same splash of freckles across her nose, the same full, sweet lips.

  Why did you end it, Liv?

  “Raise your palms to the sky,” I said, aware that we were staring at each other again. I could see her breathing coming short and shallow. She arched an eyebrow at me, questioning. Challenging. “Feel like your fingertips can scrape the night sky, disrupting the stars. Inhale.”

  We were almost out of time, and I’d skipped or forgotten half of what I’d intended to do.

  “Exhale,” I said, then led the students through a handful of cool-down poses. They looked sated and happy, and I hoped no one was actually aware of my reactions to the woman in the back.

  I led them into shavasana, corpse pose, the final rest before class ended. They were all splayed on their backs, breathing softly, letting go of any remaining tension.

  Olivia and I had both been born and raised here in the paradise of Playa Vieja, a funky beach town just south of San Diego. We’d always been friends as kids. And then, our freshman year of high school, I’d asked Olivia to the Homecoming Dance.

  Even at fifteen, she’d had a strong sense of self, knowing she was absolutely destined to go to art school in New York City.

  When I was fifteen, all I wanted to do was hold Olivia’s hand and escort her to a silly high school dance. At first, I had been so nervous I’d barely said a word. But I did get the courage to give her a long, lingering kiss at the end of the night.

  And when I pulled back she touched her fingers to her lips and said, “Whoa.”

  Now, six years after we’d broken up, the woman I never stopped thinking about was here. Both of us, back in the place where we’d grown up. The place where we’d fallen in love.

  “Slowly open your eyes, stretching your hands over your head. Come back into your body, into this room,” I said.

  I fought a flood of memories: Olivia sketching me on the beach our junior year, her eyes roving over my body with intense concentration. Olivia straddling me in the front seat of my car, kissing me breathlessly before racing inside to make her curfew.

  “There’s one more thing I’d like to say about this culture of ‘busy’ we currently exist in. Because I think one of the many negative impacts of a rushed life is that it can take us away from those things that are the most important,” I went on as I walked through the aisles, watching students blinking and rolling onto their sides. “It can take us away from that which we love the most, whether that’s a quiet hike in the woods, a peaceful Sunday morning with your dog, hot coffee on a rainy day.”

  I swallowed, nearing Olivia. “And it can take us away from the people that we love.”

  She was sitting up, cross-legged, and I was right there. Could have dropped to my knees and kissed her favorite spot between her neck and her shoulder. “And really, what a tragedy: rushing so much through life that you miss out on love.”

  I kept walking, even though I could feel her eyes on me.

  “Raise your arms over your head and drop them in front of your heart. Take one last, deep inhale.” I settled on the stage, crossing my legs and bowing to my students. “Exhale. The light in me honors the light in all of you. Namaste.”

  After a moment I sat up, immediately looking for Olivia. But she was already scrambling up, packing up her yoga mat. I stood, compelled to speak with her before she left, but then the horde came. More students wanting autographs and pictures; to touch me, hug me, tell me their favorite parts of my class. I listened politely, nodding along, but for the first time in a long time, I really didn’t want to be Sage McAllister: Yoga Celebrity.

  An hour later, I finally said goodbye to the last fan, my cheeks aching from over-smiling. I raced outside, clinging to a shred of hope that Olivia would be leaning against the wall, flashing me her sly smile.

  But she wasn’t. I was alone on a beach beneath a moonlit sky, the ocean scattered with the reflections of stars. I currently lived two miles from the beach in Los Angeles and never went.

  My phone chirped, screen lighting up with a message from Rita: I look forward to your response in three days.

  I sighed, seeking comfort in the endless ebb-and-flow of the ocean, a sound I used to fall asleep to. I hadn’t realized how much my heart yearned for the waves of Playa Vieja.

  And I hadn’t realized how much my heart still yearned for Olivia.

  2

  OLIVIA

  There was no better feeling on this planet then finally coming home.

  It was a feeling I tried to fold into every line I drew, shading it into the shadows I smudged across the page. While I was living in New York City, I kept drawing Playa Vieja without realizing it — kept sketching ocean waves and rough sand, the shapes of seagulls in the sky.

  I kept thinking that drawing Playa Vieja would cure my homesickness. But it only pointed my heart more firmly in the direction of the west coast.

  I needed to go home. So when my old friend Finn Travis asked if I’d contribute to an installation of pieces at his eco-hotel in Playa Vieja, my suitcase was packed before we’d even finished
the call. The hotel was gorgeous, the studio space divine, and even better, Finn told me I could take yoga classes at their on-site studio.

  He neglected to mention they were being taught by my now-famous ex-boyfriend, Sage McAllister.

  “You know, I think that woman over there is going to buy half of your drawings,” Avery whispered, tugging down the jacket of her pantsuit. She was the manager of the Bella View — and Finn’s wife.

  “If she does, I’ll take you out for celebratory cocktails,” I said, watching the potential buyer standing in front of one of my favorite pieces. “Although if she buys that one, it will be hard to see it go.”

  Avery narrowed her eyes at me. “Oh, you mean that portrait of Sage?” she asked.

  I shrugged, attempting nonchalance. “It is, but from a long time ago. We were probably seventeen when I drew that. He was the worst portrait model. Couldn’t sit still to save his life.”

  I shook my head, thinking about the charismatic man who’d led that yoga class yesterday. I tried not to get stuck in the past too often, but of course I knew Sage was semi-famous — and I was happy he’d finally found a way to fully embrace his magnetic personality and charm.

  “Finn told me the two of you were the couple in high school,” Avery said, nudging my shoulder. “That true?”

  “We were pretty cute together,” I admitted. “He’s definitely, you know, sexier now, but even as a teenager, he was captivating. It’s that smile of his. One look and I was always a goner.” I could see Sage walking through the parking lot toward the yoga studio, chin-length curly hair blown by the ocean breeze. If possible, his sea-green eyes had grown even greener, the planes of his face more masculine. My gaze lingered on his hard jaw. Hard, lean muscles.

  “Sage was always an incredibly good kisser,” I said, words tumbling out before I could stop them. The day I’d sketched that portrait of Sage on the beach, he’d had me gasping on the sand an hour later. We’d kissed so long that day, my lips had swollen. And then his strong fingers had dipped beneath my bikini top for the very first time, stroking over my nipples with tentative appreciation.