Resisting Roots (Lotus House Book 1) (4 page)

I had high hopes for the pastry. If the number of customers in the place was an indication of quality, I’d likely struck gold. Several of the people who had been in my hatha class with Genevieve sat around a table, picking at a gooey dessert. A couple of the women would glance up, flirt a little, and look away. I smiled but didn’t put the effort into the act that I normally would. Probably because some white-hot blonde had my nuts in a twist. No one but her would do.

The line crawled forward at a snail’s pace. I sighed, worried that I might not get a couple of the sugary treats until I saw the young man hoof it back from the kitchen carrying a full steaming-hot tray.

Once I got to the counter, I was starving. Two cinnamon rolls would no longer cut it.

“What can I get for you?” a stunning young woman asked. Her coloring matched the perfectly golden-brown loaves of rye bread in the case next to us. Her honey skin tone was not what caught my attention. It was her eyes. They were straight magical. Unlike anything I’d ever seen on a woman of her coloring. They were a tropical ocean blue. Reminded me of my time in Cancun last summer. Nothing but clear aqua-blue waters as far as the eye could see.

She assessed me calmly with no hint of irritation at my stunned silence. Yeah, I checked her out, and was hit with an instant sensation of guilt cutting through my chest as I remembered Genevieve. Definitely a new response, and not one I appreciated. I couldn’t be blamed for noticing this woman. I looked down at her name tag—“Dara” in block lettering.

I cleared my throat and took a breath.

“Just finish a class? Was it Mila or Genevieve?”

The second she said my girl’s name, I sucked in a sharp breath.

“Aw, Viv.” Her smile widened. “She’s pretty, isn’t she?” Dara said as if we were old friends having a regular everyday conversation about the weather. She gave off this vibe that I wasn’t the only one here that she did that with. If I were a betting man, I’d have a benji on every person who came in contact with her felt like a friend. Apparently, the ease loosened my tongue because the second she asked the question, I answered on autopilot.

“Fuckin’ beautiful is more like it,” I grumbled and placed my palms on the counter, taking the load off my sore leg that throbbed along with my heartbeat. After a ninety-minute class and standing in line for thirty minutes, the leg had seen better days. I needed to take a load off, badly.

She smiled huge, and if anything, got prettier in the process. “I’m Dara. I teach the meditation class every morning at seven if you ever want to connect with your higher self.”

I snorted and glanced at the line behind me. She didn’t rush me at all, which was probably why it had taken so damn long to get up here in the first place. When Dara served me, not only did I get baked goods, I got to chat with a hottie who baked and taught meditation.

“So what are you doing behind the counter?” I asked, making polite conversation.

“Everyone has to make a living, and my mom and dad own the bakery.”

“Is it ‘bring your daughter to work day’ all down this block?” I thought back to Luna, the redhead chick, telling me that she was the daughter of one of the Lotus House owners.

Dara laughed with a cute little snort. “There does seem to be a theme along the block. Most of these businesses are owned by families, and a lot of us work at a couple of the places.” She shrugged. “It’s our home. Why not work where we’re happiest?”

She made an excellent point. “Which is why I play baseball. Nothing like it. I feel at home every time I approach the plate.”

“Oooh, Viv’s little bro is going to love you.”

Dara said it as if there would be a reason for me to meet the boy. I found it interesting that this was not the first time Genevieve’s brother had been mentioned. She must be tight with the kid.

I nodded. “Okay, I’ll take two cinnamon rolls and three of those baby-sized chocolate milks. Those should come in adult size, by the way.”

Dara snickered, moving around to get the items. “Eating here or taking them to go?”

Looking around, I really had no reason to go to my empty apartment. The laughter was plenty, and a bunch of hot, young yoga chicks wearing tight clothing, sitting around and chatting it up, made for a nice view. “I’ll stay here.”

“Bet that was a hard choice.” She snort-laughed again while rolling her eyes. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, how about a couple of those chocolate-dipped cookies?”

“You got it.”

Dara was efficient when she wasn’t talking up the patrons. After I paid, the items were all laid out along with a stack of napkins and my three tiny milks. I swore they were the same size as the milk cartons I got back in grammar school, basically a sip for a guy my size.

“Keep it real,” she said.

I stepped away, and she tended to the hippie standing behind me.

“Hey, Jonas, how’s the paraphernalia business treating you this fine morning?” she asked.

I glanced to the side to find a thin dude with a mop of curly brown hair wearing a tie-dye shirt, loose jeans, complete with a hole in both knees, and Birkenstocks. The outfit screamed throwback to the seventies. Since Dara mentioned paraphernalia, I’d wager a guess that he worked at or ran the smoke shop across the street.

I found a spot dead center in the bakery eatery section. It took ridiculous effort not to drool when the cinnamon aroma wafted up as I got settled.

Plowing through my first cinnamon roll was like the first dunk in a steaming hot whirlpool bath after a hellish practice—beyond heaven. Licking the sticky mess off my fingers, I checked out all the people in line and the folks that had stayed. Every single person in the entire bakery was smiling. Hell, I was smiling. The happiness surrounding the place was contagious. I huffed and pulled out my phone.

While I finished my second chocolate milk, admiring the view of the new round of yoga chicks who bustled in to get the vegan wares, my cell phone signaled I had a message.

I thought about Genevieve and her eyes as dark as night, flawless skin, and a body that wouldn’t quit. Those full glossy lips… Damn, my dick started hardening. Yeah, there was no way in hell I wasn’t showing up for my private time with my own personal yoga hottie.

Finishing up, I waved at Dara while limping toward the door. She tipped her chin in a quick gesture toward my bum leg.

“Don’t worry about it. Nothing my new private yoga trainer, Genevieve, won’t help me fix.”

Her eyes widened, and she smiled so big her white teeth sparkled against the contrast of her skin tone. This street was filled with beautiful women. I needed to invite some of my brothers from other mothers on my team to this side of the Bay.

While exiting the bakery, I decided to hit the gym and burn off some of the massive calories I’d just taken in. Whistling, I thought about Genevieve, Luna, Mila, and Dara. Four fine-assed women in the span of two hours. Genevieve led the pack by a mile. In baseball terms, that chick was a grand slam. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.

I
knew
the instant Trent Fox entered the small private yoga room. All the air in the room thickened, pressing against my skin, making the already low lighting seem more intimate. The room was softly lit with several mood-altering candles, sari fabric tapestries hung from floor to ceiling, and toss pillows were strategically stacked for comfort and ease of assisting with deep relaxation. Peppermint oil misted from the spa diffuser set in one corner, adding to the serenity. I’d placed my best mats down side by side in the center of the space. The goal for this type of session was to make the client feel at home and connect with him on all levels so he’d relax, and become more at peace with the
asanas—
or poses—and yoga practice as a whole.

I’d been sitting in lotus pose, hands at heart center, running through a few meditative chants Dara had taught me to center and ground myself before teaching a class. Grounding into the earth, or in this case the yoga mat, was necessary to ensure I didn’t bring in any lingering mumbo jumbo from my day-to-day life as I prepared to offer a spiritual and physical connection of my energy to each of my clients. In this instance, I’d be transferring my healing energy to man candy Trent Fox.

“Hey, gumdrop,” he said, his enormous muscled body heaving through the space and breaking every ounce of concentration I’d achieved through mediation.

I opened one eye and watched as he toed off each tennis shoe. He wore a pair of loose black cotton pants, perfectly appropriate for yoga. He lifted up his T-shirt, pulled it off, tossed it on top of his shoes, and faced me with an obscenely sexy, bare chest. I opened both eyes and took in the magnificence that was Trent Fox. He stood before me, looking like the standing version of Auguste Rodin’s
The Thinker
. He must spend hours in the gym to have a body that toned.

“Wow,” I whispered, not realizing that I’d said it out loud.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about. Finally!” He rubbed his hands together. “Was worried you might be into chicks.” He chuckled.

I frowned. “Whatever would give you that impression?”

He moved over to the mat and did a hilarious series of twists and turns until he was able to sit down. I snickered but shouldn’t have. His limitations were
not
funny, but the way he went about dealing with them was.

He didn’t say anything about my response to his movement but did respond to the question. “Yesterday, I worked the mat like a madman in spring training, and you didn’t even bat an eyelash.”

A flush of heat spread across my face. “Ah, I see. Your pride got hurt a little?” I grasped his wrists and moved his hands to his heart center. “Hold them here. Allow the energy within your hands to circulate through your chest.”

His eyebrow quirked, but he did what he was told. “My pride? Nah, just made me wonder if I was wasting my time. Seeing you looking at me like I was the best thing since the invention of the microwave a minute ago put that curiosity to rest.” He smirked.

I wanted to kiss that smug expression right off his handsome face. My cheeks heated again. “Perhaps you just caught me off guard. It’s not every day a man undresses in front of me.” Total lie.

Every single day, male clients came to class wearing only pants. T-shirts were restrictive, and it was best for males to be bare-chested. Less restriction made for stronger focus on the practice and less on dangling bits of fabric.

Chancing a glance at Trent, I noticed he smiled, but didn’t respond with anything other than a hum.

“Today we’re going to focus on range of motion. I want to see where you are now, catalog it, and determine a routine that will loosen your limbs, give you an overall mental and physical workout, and not put too much strain on the injured hamstring.”

“Sounds like a plan to me, gumdrop. And I like the red.” He pursed his lips and focused on my mouth.

It took me a minute to figure out what he was talking about. My attire didn’t have a speck of red. I’d worn a yellow ribbed tank and a pair of yellow-and-black checkered yoga pants. Then it dawned on me. “Oh! The lipstick.” I shrugged. “It’s kind of my thing.”

“Yeah, mine too.” His voice was a low rumble.

Tremors skittered through my body. I flung my hands out, releasing the excess energy. Getting to work right this minute would be the best approach to relieve some of this built up sexual tension.

For the first thirty minutes, I took Trent through a series of poses while seated on the floor. It was obvious by the lack of flexibility that he needed yoga in his life. The man was strung tighter than a drum.

“Okay, lie on your back and place your right ankle on your left knee.”

He followed my instructions precisely.

“Now lift the leg up, bringing the leg and ankle closer to your chest.”

The leg didn’t budge too far before a pained expression stole across his face. I leaned toward him and placed the extended foot against my abdomen. I moved my hands to his knees and supported him while I leaned forward, putting pressure on the legs, forcing him to move them closer to his chest.

“Now lean up toward me.”

Trent leaned closer, and for a few moments, we were face-to-face. His breath wisped across my lips. I licked them reflexively, and he zeroed in on the movement.

“Genevieve, has anyone ever told you how ridiculously beautiful you are? It’s almost hard to look at you without reacting inappropriately.”

I leaned back, trying to hide my response while still feeling a tad shaky. Lust swirled low in my belly, and moisture pooled between my thighs at the mere hint of what he could possibly want to do to me that would be categorized as inappropriate. Just thinking about it again had my sacral chakra reacting with a fiery need to be filled.

Trent’s slick back slammed to the mat when I bounced backward. Sweat pooled in the creases of his rigid abdomen, bringing additional attention to the perfect mountain range that was his cut abs.

“Other side,” I said, not giving any credence to his comment and doing my best to get my libido under control. Perhaps Luna was right. Maybe I did need to have sex to take the edge off. My battery-operated boyfriend was obviously not doing the trick.

Trent inhaled a few breaths, lifted the injured leg to his ankle, and instantly winced. I placed my hand on the back of his thigh. His hand immediately covered mine, and he held it to the injury as if the double amount of pressure provided relief. He gritted his teeth and breathed through his nose.

“Here?” I pressed more firmly into the hamstring, applying a gentle pressure.

He nodded brusquely.

“Breathe with me, Trent. Inhale…two, three, four, five. Pause, holding all the air within your chest. Now exhale…two, three, four, five. Repeat.”

Together we breathed through the pose called
threading the needle
. Putting my abdomen once again to his bare foot, I leaned over him but not pushing the leg as I had with the other side. With his injury, I needed to be far more cautious.

“You’re doing great. Keep breathing.”

His hand left mine, but instead of moving my own away, I ran the heel of my palm lightly up the length of his hamstring. Closing my eyes, I imagined the muscle and the repaired tear, focusing on sending healing energy through my hand chakras. I rubbed up the tight muscle from bum to knee and then back and forth in a consistent rhythm. He groaned, but I kept the massage going until the sound of him grunting broke my concentration. I opened my eyes and met Trent’s gaze. His hazel eyes were blazing hot.

“Gumdrop, whatever you did, you’re going to keep doing it. For a couple of blissful minutes, I didn’t feel an ounce of pain. You’re like a voodoo healer.” His stare was intense, never wavering from my face. Awe and relief seeped into his features, lightening every pained line around his eyes and mouth so he looked younger, less stressed. Dropping my head, I moved back to my mat. “I don’t practice magic, voodoo, or any of that nonsense. Yoga is about self-discovery, finding balance between the mental and physical world, which in turn brings you peace.”

He shook his head, his dark hair fluttering into his eyes. I wanted so badly to move that hair to the side so I could see into his eyes unobstructed.

“What you did just now, with your hands and massage, was incredible. I’ve been to a lot of sports doctors and specialists, and not one of them could give me anything but physical therapy and a bottle of drugs for when it gets so bad I can’t walk.” He grasped my hand.

His hand felt solid, familiar, like it was meant to be there. But how could that be? We barely knew one another and had only met yesterday. Trent’s gaze as he held my hand was clear as day. Gratitude seemed to permeate his entire being as he sat in front of me with kind eyes, ones I knew I could look into for days on end and never tire of.

“Thank you, Genevieve. Without even knowing it, you’ve given me hope that I’ll come back from this injury. Heck, I might even come back better than ever.”

I smiled huge. There was no stopping it. His words were lovely, not a pickup line, and something every yoga teacher on earth wanted to hear from their students. Knowing I’d helped just one person was enough to continue this journey of helping others find their own slice of harmony in the world. And in doing so, perhaps I’d find mine, too.

“You’re welcome, Trent, but we’re nowhere near done. We’ve got a long way to go before you start swinging a bat again. Now come up onto your knees. Let me reintroduce you to a little thing called cat and cow.”

T
urned
out cat and cow looked nothing like a cat or a cow. I thought about the routine the blonde with the healing hands and deep, soulful eyes had put me through.

Why was it that none of the names of the poses looked much like the animal or object they were named after? With the cat pose, I was on my hands and knees, which could loosely relate to most animals, and then when I arched my spine toward the ceiling and tucked my head under, I was contorted into the shape of a cat that was scared, or like the black one on Halloween decorations. Still, it released the knot at the base of my spine and made me feel looser than I had in years. This yoga shit was no joke. If the rest of my sessions were like today, and I could feel the tension ease from overtaxed muscles, I’d stick with it.

That’s when the thought of my gumdrop entered my mind like a halo of golden light. Christ, the woman was a vision. Small yet so strong. The way her little hands pressed into the rocklike knots in my hammy belied her small stature. It felt like a grown ass man was working my leg, not some pixie of a woman with tiny hands and a sexy body. Her clothing covered more today than yesterday, but something about that red mouth had me dreaming of it wrapped around my cock, leaving an imprint of that red gloss like a mark of ownership. Thinking about it now gave me a semi.

Criminy, what the hell was wrong with me? I hadn’t even kissed the woman or touched her in any way, and I was aching for it. Maybe I should just find one of my groupies, call the bimbo over to my pad, and work her over the way I wanted to work over Genevieve. Instantly, the thought put a sour taste in my mouth. This did not make sense. I’d never worried about women before, other than what I could get out of them and how quickly I could get them
under me
. Sure, I wanted that with Genevieve, but I knew from the first that once would not be enough. No, I’d need months of banging her to get her out of my system. And that thought right there was all kinds of screwed up.

This was not me.

Women were great, and I made sure they got theirs once or twice before I took mine. However, once it was over, they needed to get to steppin’. I could tell from two meetings with Genevieve that she was not that type of girl. No, seeing her soulful eyes, tight body, and calm nature, I knew that once I had her, it would take more than a quick fuck to get her out of my system.

Genevieve Harper was a game changer, and I couldn’t put my finger on why. Maybe it was all the spiritual wackadoo stuff she spoke of that actually played into the connection. Maybe it was the simple fact that she was ridiculously hot and had the hands of a goddess—one that could remove pain with a single touch. That had to be it. Regardless, I was looking forward to my session tomorrow.

As I left the yoga studio, the California sun shone bright, warming my face while I inhaled the Bay Area air. My stomach growled since I’d skipped breakfast this morning. I could hit the bakery and chat up Dara if she was working the counter like yesterday, but I didn’t want to have to do the extra reps at the gym that a plateful of pastries would demand.