Resisting Roots (Lotus House Book 1) (5 page)

I checked out the other businesses across the street. The New to You Thrift Store was on the opposite corner from the café. Next to it was a full-on paraphernalia and tobacco store cleverly named Up in Smoke Shop. Man, that movie was a classic.

Continuing on was Reel Antiques. The display window featured rocking chairs and dressers that held clothes for tiny people. I snickered. That dresser wouldn’t hold a single pair of my folded jeans. Maybe it was children’s furniture. The size of the little old lady sweeping the front walk told me otherwise. Gnarled fingers gripped a broom while she worked. A young-looking fellow interrupted her work. His apron had the same logo as the bakery. To my surprise, the young man took the broom from the old lady’s hands and proceeded to sweep the entire porch as I stood in awe. When he finished, she patted his cheeks and hugged him. I had entered the land that time forgot. Were people really that nice? Not in my experience. Had to be a fluke.

I scoffed and limped along the street until I stopped in front of Rainy Day Café. Place looked as good as any. When I walked in, I maneuvered around tables where patrons were chatting and chomping away at some seriously large salads and sandwiches. Like the bakery, the place had an L-shape bar-style counter. Next to the register was a glass case with pastries that looked suspiciously like those sold at Sunflower. Instead of a long display case on the other side, it had a single wooden countertop that ran the length of the side of the building to the back. The wood looked as though a log had been flat cut in half and someone slapped some serious glaze on it. I could even see the lines from the tree’s growth rings.

I felt like I had walked into the heart of a forest. The walls were covered floor to ceiling with wood panels. Potted trees were set in each corner, the branches reaching out into the open space. Vines ran along the ceiling, making me feel like I was in a cocoon. I could easily see why this place was filled with customers. Above the register area was a huge chalkboard where the day’s special was written next to a listing of salads, sandwiches, and soups.

Reviewing the menu, I went up to the counter and met the eyes of a thin strawberry blonde with pale pink lips and a smattering of freckles along her nose. She wore a gold necklace that said “Corinne.”

“Hi, I’m Coree. What can I get for you?” She smiled, and her soft blue eyes lit up.

I glanced at the chalkboard again. “I’m going to go with the turkey and hummus sandwich, a spinach salad, a cup of your potato soup, and a bottle of water.”

She tapped some numbers into an iPad. That surprised me because everything else was so far removed from technology. I raised my eyebrows, and she pushed a strand of hair behind her ear rather shyly.

“These things are so fast, and they catalog our orders, the pricing, and do our accounting for us,” she said.

I snorted. “I feel ya. Don’t go anywhere without my handy dandy all-in-one.” I shook my iPhone.

She laughed. “My sister Bethany was against the transition to technology at first, wanting to stick with our roots, but the fact that it does the accounting for us swayed her to the dark side.” She chuckled. “Your total is twelve twenty-five.”

“That’s it? For a sandwich, a salad, soup, and a drink?”

Her cheeks colored. “We don’t overcharge. That way people come back. We might not make as much as the guy down the street charging sixteen for the same, but our customers become regulars, and that’s worth it to us.” She beamed.

I shook my head. “I can see that. If your food is as good as the price, I’ll be making regular visits as well.”

“Even better!” The smile she gave this time was more than confident.

Sitting down at an open stool at the counter, I people-watched the way I had yesterday. Folks from all walks of life came in and out, some in yoga attire, others in suits picking up to-go orders or eating in. A short brunette with dark eyes and a constant smile worked efficiently, packing up orders.

Coree set a gargantuan turkey and hummus sandwich on thick slices of soft focaccia bread in front of me. The spinach salad filled the entire remaining half of the plate, and a steaming cup of soup sat next to it. Only the cup was more like a big bowl with a handle. How in the world did these people make any money? I ate my lunch and watched the women work.

“So did you just get out of a yoga class?” Coree glanced down past my hoodie, T-shirt, and loose pants.

“Yep, private lesson.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh, yeah? Any particular reason, or are you one of those yogis who want to be able to stand on their heads and walk around on their hands?” She leaned forward, placing her elbows on the other side of the counter, and braced her chin in her hands.

“Nah, I have an injury I’m working on.”

“Oh? Did you get in an accident?” Her brows furrowed, and a little line appeared above her nose.

I shook my head. “Work-related injury.”

She frowned. “What kind of work do you do?”

The fact that she didn’t recognize me immediately made me relax even further. I enjoyed the fame and fortune but not the loss of privacy. “Professional baseball.”

She bit her lip. “Like with the Stingers?” Of course she’d choose the rival team.

Wiping my mouth after taking a bite of the world’s best potato soup—including what my mother makes, and hers is damn good—I said, “No, the Oakland Ports.”

“Cool,” she said.

I wasn’t sure if it was a placating gesture. People in the Bay Area usually only liked one team or the other and were fiercely protective over the one they chose.

“How does someone get hurt playing baseball? Did you get whacked with a bat or a ball?”

That took the cake. I sat back and laughed, a full-bellied one that felt good down to my toes. It had been a long time since I’d had something truly entertaining to laugh at. “No, I tore a hamstring. Had surgery, and I’m now doing therapy. Yoga is part of my recovery.”

She nodded, went over to the pastry case, and pulled out a peanut butter cookie before plating it and setting it next to my demolished lunch. “Here, on the house. Nothing like a fresh-baked cookie to make you feel better.”

“Did you make them?”

Her head popped back, and she cringed. “No way. Bethany and I stick to all the organic stuff. We make everything fresh, get our veggies every couple days at the local farmers’ market, and buy our bread and treats direct from Sunflower down the way. We want our customers to have the best of everything, and they’re the best. Why try to recreate what they already do perfectly?”

This street so far had boggled my mind. Everything on it was unique, yet consistent in that they all had the “do unto others vibe” about them. Seeing that guy help out the old lady yesterday, Dara at the bakery talking my ear off like I was her best friend, and now Coree and her café where they charge less yet still give more—unbelievable. I’d have to tell the guys about this. Get them to come down and give the places some fresh business. Not that they needed it. The tables were all full, almost every single seat at the bar taken, and people coming in left and right for pickups.

I’d sure make a point to come here a couple times a week after my session. Leaving a ten-dollar tip for Coree, I smacked the table and stood up. “Thanks for the food and the chat. It was rather enlightening.”

“Course, see you soon.”

I smiled. “Yes, I do believe you will. You’ve got a lot of sandwiches to try out.”

“They change every week, so you’ll be trying them for a long time.” She grinned.

“That will not be a hardship. Catch you later.”

I walked out of the café and over to my car. The silver bullet sparkled in the sunlight, its sleek lines shimmering a private hello. Tracing the hood and over its side all the way to the driver’s door, I sighed. This was the life. My body felt like a million bucks compared to the last six weeks. Everything seemed brighter and more colorful. My belly was full, but not laden with the weight of a greasy burger. I’d met some really great people that were nowhere near the world of baseball, and tomorrow I’d wake up and start it all over again.

There was something to this yoga business. Day two, and I’d already started to understand why so many were committed to the practice.

“
A
re
you going to sit there and twiddle with my hair or tell me about the hotshot baseball player you’ve been giving
private
lessons to? Start with how
private
these lessons are.” My best friend and neighbor, Amber St. James, beamed.

When Mom and Dad passed, I couldn’t leave the kids for long periods of time, so a couple of my yoga buddies helped me set up a small hair salon in the garage. We only had one car, so the other two spaces were occupied by my mini-salon. The area was complete with a hair-washing bowl and vanity. I stored my hair products in Dad’s shelving system and moved all the tools and things I knew nothing about to the shed out back. Rowan set the shed up as a workout and tool room, which suited me just fine.

Shaking my head, I snipped the dead ends off her thick chocolate-brown hair. Amber lived next door with her grandparents and attended UC Berkeley. She was three years younger than I but had been my best friend for as long as I could remember. We met when I was eight and she was five. Besides the age difference, we’d been inseparable. Without her help with the kids and her grandparents pitching in as much as they could with meals and babysitting, we’d have been lost when Mom and Dad died. I owed her a lot. She was in the same boat as I was. Her mother had died giving birth to her. She didn’t know who her father was, and her mother either never told her grandparents or didn’t know. Both Amber and I had a sneaking suspicion they knew who her father was, but he was so bad, they spared her the knowledge.

She and her grandparents were über religious. They went to church every Sunday, prayed before meals, the whole nine. Which was also why Amber lived vicariously through me. She rarely dated because she was hyperfocused on school, and as far as I knew, was still a virgin at twenty-one. Still, it worked for her. Sure, she was annoyed that she couldn’t participate in the more sexy conversations during girls’ night out, but she hadn’t been living under a rock, and she definitely wasn’t a prude.

Amber poked me in the belly as I pulled up a thick hank of hair to snip the ends. “Oomph!”

“Spill!” Her cheeks turned rosy as she grinned.

I rolled my eyes. “All right, all right. He’s handsome.” I thought back to our private lesson yesterday and the moment he’d removed his shirt, which was also the moment I’d swallowed my own tongue. “Built…so frickin’ well.” I sighed.

“And…”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s nicer than I would have thought him to be. Cocky, but not in a jerk way, more like confident. The man has websites devoted to his body. It’s no surprise that most women everywhere think he’s hot.”

“True. What do you think?” she asked.

“Trent Fox is definitely good-looking. Every time I’m near him, my body heats up, and I feel like a stupid girl with a crush. Honestly, it’s lame. I’m supposed to be helping him find himself through yoga and heal through the practice, but half the time I can’t help checking out his body.” Groaning, I clipped the ends off more of her hair.

Amber, bless her heart, stayed perfectly still. This was not her first day in the chair. She got a trim every eight weeks like clockwork.

Amber pursed her lips. “So what are you going to do about it?”

I stiffened. “Nothing. He’s a client. A professional baseball player. Just because I want to jump his bones doesn’t mean he’s relationship material. And besides, I have way too much going on between Lotus House, cutting hair, trying to make ends meet, hustling the kids to and fro…” Defeat was a wicked ugly friend of mine who’d been hanging out far too long lately. “It wouldn’t work. Unless I wanted to have casual sex. Which, incidentally, is what Luna suggested.”

Amber laughed. “Honey, Luna is a free spirit. I’m not going to call her a slut because I like her a lot. She’s very cool, but she’s a bit too free with her body, in my opinion. I wouldn’t use her as an example, but she does have a point. You’ve not played the field at all since your ex broke up with you three years ago. Maybe it’s time to put yourself out there. Live a little.”

I stopped in front of her and held my hands at my hips, making sure I didn’t cut open my shirt with the scissors. “This coming from the woman who won’t take a minute away from her schoolwork and studies to go on a single date?” I pantomimed introductions. “Pot…meet kettle. Kettle…this is pot. You’re BFFs now.”

She grinned. “True, but you’re not me. All I have to worry about is school. You have the entire weight of this household on your shoulders and two other living, breathing beings to take care of all by yourself. That can’t be healthy. I’ll bet if you talked to your yoga mentor, Crystal, she’d tell you the same thing.”

Crystal Nightingale was the co-owner of Lotus House. I’d met her through my mother. My mom loved yoga and had religiously attended two of Crystal’s classes every week. They were close, and when Mom passed, she knew I needed additional funds to pay the bills. For years, I’d attended yoga classes with my mother, so the practice was not something I needed to learn. Crystal put me on the fast track through the teacher training program within the center, and in six months, I had my credential and a daily spot on the schedule.

I had a suspicion, though, that Crystal wanted to keep me close now that my mom was gone. She’d taken it upon herself in the last three years to impart her often kooky wisdom that was usually dead on target. Crystal was the type of woman everyone wanted to be around. Her long golden-blond hair curled enticingly at the ends. She had blue eyes so clear they rivaled the sapphire blue of Lake Tahoe in the spring. She welcomed everyone into her life and treated all as if they were the most important people in the world.

Mom used to say that if anything ever happened to her, we should follow Crystal’s teachings and she’d never lead us astray. To this day, I followed that advice, and so far, I’d done well. I was happy. Lonely when it came to men, but each new day brought me closer and closer to the larger goal. My brother and sister were happy and healthy, and my dream of owning my own salon was still fresh on the cusp of my mind.

“Do you think Crystal would have a problem with you dating a client?”

I brushed Amber’s hair down her back to make sure the edges were even and rounded on the sides the way she liked. My wholesome girl-next-door bestie took few risks and was the perfect granddaughter and best friend.

Quirking my lips, I grinned. “No. Crystal would probably say it was divine intervention. That Lotus House provided the universe the opportunity to bring us together. She’d also warn me about ignoring the signs.” I shook my head and snickered under my breath.

“That is true. But you know what? I think she’d be right. I mean, out of all the places a man like Trent Fox could go—someone super rich, who could have easily just hired a private yogi to come to his home—he walked into the Lotus House. He met you, took your class, and immediately hired you full time for a month. That can’t be a coincidence.”

I huffed. “Crystal would say there are no coincidences in life, and everything that happens was meant to.”

“Fate?”

Shrugging, I swept Amber’s hair back with both hands, leaving the part down the center the way she preferred. “My guess is she’d say that life just
is
. Everything that happens around you and to you does so because it’s supposed to. Then she’d tell me to go with the flow. Feel it out. If it felt right, go for it.”

“And does it feel right?”

I thought about how my heart pounded when Trent came into the room. How my breathing became ragged, how hearing him groan his relief made me wonder if he made that same sound at the base of his throat at the height of sexual release. The way my fingers tingled every time I adjusted his position or leaned into his frame to offer an assist.

Inhaling full and deep, I placed my hands on Amber’s shoulders and made contact with her gaze in the mirror. “It feels like something, for sure. I just don’t know what. Trent Fox—”

“You’ve met Trent Fox?” came the startled voice of my baby brother from behind me.

He stepped down from the kitchen door into the garage. “Vivvie, tell me you did
not
just say that you met my frickin’ idol?”

“Language!”

He groaned. “Vivvie…sister…Sis…my favorite woman in the whole world.” Rowan got on his knees and shuffled forward with his hands clasped like he was praying.

Amber started laughing, trying but failing to hide her chuckles behind her hand.

“You
have
to introduce me. I’m begging you. Invite him to dinner. Something. Whatever. I’ll mow the lawn.”

“You already mow the lawn.” It was one of his weekly chores alongside taking out the trash, which he actually did with no complaint.

Rowan scowled and made his way to my knees. He hugged me around the thighs and looked up at me with his puppy-dog eyes. “Vivvie, pleeeeeeaaaaaase…”

“Row, I have no idea what his schedule is like.” I ruffled his hair. He needed another haircut, but it would take an act of God to get him in the chair.

He raised his clasped hands, blinking sweetly up at me, and puffed out his bottom lip.

I blew out a harsh breath. “Fine. I’ll ask him. Maybe after one of his sessions we can offer him a treat on us at the bakery, or I can comp one of his sessions. But no promises!”

Rowan hugged my legs so hard I teetered and caught the arm of the chair to keep balance. Then he jumped up and pulled me into one of his full-on Row hugs. This was worth the embarrassment of having to ask Trent to meet my little brother. He probably got tired of his celebrity status and just wanted a little peace and quiet, especially at the center.

Sighing, I moved back and swept the hair away from his eyes. “You need a haircut.”

He backed up and spoke faster while shaking his head. “No, I don’t! But you’re the best sister ever.” He started walking backward. “I’m going to think of something really cool to cook for dinner just for you.”

“It’s your night to cook anyway,” I yelled just as the garage door slammed shut.

Amber snorted and bit down on her lip. “He so played you.”

“Yeah, he did. Beautiful boys being sweet. Gets me every damn time.”

“Maybe I should give that tip to Trent Fox tomorrow before you start your lesson. What are you going to teach him anyway? Downward facing dog? Then you could stare at his booty.”

I’m certain my mouth dropped open and my eyes were the size of a large pizza. “Did Ms. Priss herself actually suggest I lasciviously ogle my client?”

She flushed so red it turned her chest, her neck, and her cheeks a fine crimson. “Admit it. You already ogled him.”

I sighed, remembering how I helped him get into that particular pose already. “Oh, yeah.” And worse, I was
not
sorry.

S
omething was off
. Genevieve made a concerted effort not to look at me today. And I tried my damndest to be on full display. Today, I’d shucked my shirt and worn a pair of basketball shorts. I wanted her to see every available inch of my body in hopes it would get her juices going so that when I asked her out, the answer would be a resounding yes.

My fitness buddy, Clayton, laughed his ass off when I declined a night of picking up chicks because I had an early yoga session in the morning. Called me a host of offensive pansy-assed names and agreed to come over instead and knock back a couple beers and eat some Chinese while we watched the latest football game. That’s when he made a point to dig for information. Finally, under duress, I admitted I’d met a girl. He was very interested in the fact that she taught yoga. In his experience, chicks that did yoga were known to be flexible and he’d dated a yogi before who was able to bend her body in ways that the memories still made his dick hard. Only apparently that chick was a fire alarm level clinger.

With men, there was a code—at least with my friends and teammates. Some of the guys had the WAGs, which stood for wives and girlfriends. The chicks that came to every home game, some away games, and basically cheered louder than anyone in the crowd. I could dig that. Had mad respect for it. There was a definite advantage to having a woman ready and willing every night versus trolling the crowds looking for a fan who wants to bang and bolt. I’d never been the type of guy that went looking for it, so for us guys who bang and bolt, there was a system. And most of that system determined the level of clinginess a groupie had.

Fire alarm clinger meant the chick was bat-shit crazy, had graduated to stalker status, called at all hours of the day and night, even when she’d been told it was just a casual hookup. Those were the ones we had to warn our security about.