If I couldn’t even finish cosmetology school, I’d be damned if my brother was going to miss out on getting into a good school. Our parents would have wanted that and made sure he got it. A pang of sadness filled my heart as it tightened painfully. It would pass…eventually. Always did. If Mom and Dad were around, our lives would be totally different. Easier. More peaceful. Regardless, I did the best I could to keep the family together and under the roof where we’d lived all our lives.
“Vivvie, I have to. You can’t keep working yourself to the bone like this.”
“I’m fine.” I put together Mary’s lunch and tossed in an extra cookie to brighten her day. “We’ve been going strong for three years now. Why change it?”
“Maybe because you haven’t gone out with a friend or been on a date in…” He lifted his gaze to the kitchen ceiling while he tapped his chin. “I don’t even remember the last time I saw you with a guy.”
I braced myself against the tile counter. “That is none of your business. Besides, I see guys all the time.”
He snorted and chuckled. “Yeah, in your yoga class. And cutting their hair doesn’t count, either.”
I scowled. Forcibly turning him around, I led him toward the front of the house. Our family home was located in the heart of Berkeley, California. The house had been my parents’ pride and joy. Mom had always been a homemaker, and Dad was a lawyer and worked in downtown Oakland. The house was paid off, thank God, or I’d never have been able to keep it. Even so, the property taxes and home repairs were piling up. Shaking off the worry that always came with wondering what would break next and take the little bit of extra money I’d saved, I nudged Rowan toward his backpack.
The wood floors throughout the house had seen better days, but I kept them clean and waxed as often as I could. The kids helped, of course. We all had our chores. The house hadn’t changed much over the three years since Mom and Dad passed. We’d kept as much of them alive within it as we could, like our own personal shrine to them. All the pictures they’d hung, their books, even the figurines they’d treasured all stayed where they’d been lovingly placed over the years. That was one thing I was determined to preserve. My brother and sister would always have this home to come back to when they left the house each day.
Rowan picked up his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. His shaggy dark-blond hair fell into his brown eyes. I lifted my arm and moved the stubborn strand away before caressing his cheek. All three of us had our father’s brown eyes, though Row and Mary’s were more of a caramel brown, and mine were so dark they looked almost black.
“Take care of yourself out there, okay? Come back home safe,” I said.
“You can count on it.” Rowan smiled and saluted before walking out the door.
Mary shuffled into the living room, her shirt on backward.
I laughed. “Honey, your shirt’s on the wrong way.”
She held her hand out. “I know! It’s backward day at school. Everyone has to wear their clothes like this.” She rolled down the front of her skirt. “See, the tag’s in the front.” Her eyes sparkled, and her white-blond hair fell in a flat sheet down her back.
“Well, that’s silly, but okay. You got the brush?”
Mary held up Mom’s old hairbrush. The paint around the handle was chipped and flaked off in tiny specks. I didn’t say anything. If Mary wanted to use Mom’s brush until there were no more bristles left, that’s what she’d do. Far be it from me to take away something that made her comfortable. Mary and I had our own little morning routine. She sat on the ottoman, and I sat in the cushy lounge chair that had been Dad’s favorite reading spot, and I brushed her hair every morning and each night, the same way Mom had done for me.
“Braid today or ponytail?” I asked.
Her pink lips puckered. “Two braids, tied together at the back.”
“Oooh, I see we’re getting fancy. Have you been looking at my books again?” I’d received the hairstyle books when I signed up for cosmetology school before our parents got into the accident. When they passed, I had only three months left. Only problem—besides the fact that I was a grieving—I was twenty-one and suddenly head of the household. The insurance money paid off the house and got us through the first year, but we’d been struggling ever since.
She smiled and nodded. “Yep. You can do it, right?”
“Of course I can. I’m the hair master, remember?” I tickled her ribs.
Mary giggled and wiggled, smiling wide. That smile and the pink in her cheeks were enough to make any day a good one.
All things considered, we were doing okay.
Once I finished her hair, I ran to my room and pulled on a clean pair of yoga pants, a sports bra, and a ribbed black tank. Every day, I rocked cool yoga pants, the one little splurge I allowed myself every couple of months. Today’s were a marbled mixture of hot pink and black that stopped just past the knee. I added the quartz crystal necklace my yoga guru, Crystal—a lady very aptly named—had given me. After I tucked it down into my shirt to ward off any negativity, I slipped on a simple pair or flip-flops.
I pulled my own platinum-blond, shoulder-length hair into a tight bun at the nape of my neck. Then I layered on bright pink lipstick and added a thin black line of liquid eyeliner to each eye to create the cat-eye look that worked best with my features. Finishing up with a few strokes of mascara, I was ready to take on the day and teach a slew of clients how to find peace on the mat.
Chapter Two
A chakra is often described as a spinning vortex of energy created within ourselves through the connection of the physical body and consciousness. When combined, chakras become the center of activity for our internal life force or “prana.” When the primary seven chakras are aligned and open, you experience your best self.
* * *
TRENT
I parked my Maserati GranTurismo Sport—lovingly referred to as the silver bullet—at the curb in front of the Lotus House Yoga Center. My sports doc had scheduled me for “hatha yoga.” I had about ten minutes before the class started, so after I stuffed the meter with enough for two hours, I took a look around.
This particular street was right out of the seventies with its wild array of psychedelic colors and textures in the midst of an old humdrum neighborhood. The area offered an inviting feel with its hanging flower baskets, colorful flags, and quaint outside seating.
Taking small strides, I gripped the upper part of my hammy, waiting for the pain to dissipate as I took in the bizarre area. In front of me was the Rainy Day Café. The people milling along the sidewalks and in the café sported twisted braids, afros, tie dye, Birkenstocks, and comfortable threads. A definite hippie vibe controlled the local scene.
I passed the Tattered Pages Used Bookstore, definitely not the garden-variety big bookstore. No, this one looked more like a long-forgotten tomb with its dark wood facade and minimal decoration. I stopped and peered inside one of the large windows. Shelves of used books lined the walls from floor to ceiling, along with cramped enclosures where books were carelessly stuffed every which way. Like the café, this place was packed. People leisurely came in and out of the store, carrying armfuls and bags of books. A sign on the door said Save a Tree—Bring Your Own Bag.
I continued down this street that had been lost in a time warp. Next to the bookstore was the Sunflower Bakery. I rolled my eyes at the silly name, but that did not prevent my mouth from watering at the deluge of cinnamon-sugary goodness that poured out the door as a delivery driver exited. After the bendy break-my-back-class, I’d be hitting up this bakery. That scent…damn, it followed me as I kept walking.
The front of the yoga center was white with teal trim. Heavy glass double doors stood, tall and inviting. Each door had a flower with a person in some sort of yoga pose etched into its surface.
When I entered, the scent of sage and eucalyptus assaulted me. My nose tickled at the foreign smell. Several women stood at a long counter, yoga mats strapped to their backs and wearing zip-u
p hoodies paired with long pants. I was eyeballing their asses when my name was called.
“Can I help you, sir?” a fiery redhead with big blue eyes asked. Her skin was pale and seemed to glow against the teal-blue tank that had the center’s logo on the front. A set of pert breasts bounced as she moved around the table, helping regulars while waiting for me to respond.
“Yeah. I’m Trent Fox, and I believe I’m scheduled for a class that starts soon.”
The redhead typed a few things into a computer and nodded. “Yep, you’re set for a three month unlimited membership.”
With efficiency and speed, she pulled out a card shaped like a flower. No shit. A flower. On the back was a bar code. She ran it in front of the scanner that matched the ones I saw patrons using on another set of doors that must have led deeper into the building.
“You’ll use this card by just waving the bar code against the scanner right there.” She pointed to the other set of doors. “It will get you into the building during normal business hours. Since you have unlimited access, you don’t have to check in. In three months, you can renew again or end your membership.” She lowered her voice, forcing me to lean closer to hear her. It also gave me a great view of her sweet rack. “We’re not pushy around here, so if you decide yoga isn’t your thing, we won’t hunt you down.”
I smiled my panty-melting grin. “Good to know. Will you be teaching the class?”
Her cheeks pinked up in a lovely blush. The color looked good on her. She shook her head. “Nope. There are two classes going right now. A vinyasa flow with Mila that’s already in session, and hatha yoga, which is designed more for beginners and intermediate yogis. It’s taught by Genevieve Harper every morning at nine.”
“Works for me. And your name, sweetheart?”
“I’m Luna Marigold, the daughter of one of the owners.”
Of course she was. “Look forward to seeing you around.” I tapped the counter and winked.
She blushed a fine crimson. “You, too, Mr. Fox. Thanks for joining Lotus House. Namaste.”
Using my new flower-shaped plastic key card, I entered the belly of the converted warehouse. Directly in front of me was a long hallway. To the right, two signs said Yoginis Sanctuary and Yogi Sanctuary. Based on the last letter, I figured the left was the men’s locker room, and the right was the women’s. I headed down the center hallway. The walls were painted in an ongoing mural of a meadow. As I made my way to the end of the hall where an open door was, the tall grass in the image seemed to sway along, moving with me. I knew it wasn’t possible, but it was so lifelike that it tricked the eyes. Damn good artist, indeed.
To the left was a door through which I could hear the Beatles blasting. Odd, as this was a yoga studio. Next to the door was an indoor window so that patrons in the hall could see the class in session. At least thirty people had their hands and feet on their own mat, asses in the air. Together they were a sea of triangle shapes, and then as if choreographed, they all popped a leg high into the sky. Some were a little shakier than others, and some seemed to have scissor legs that naturally separated at the hip.
A Hispanic woman with a hot little body and curly hair bouncing along her shoulders called out something that I swore was, “flip your dog.” And the entire room dropped the leg they held up, only not down. No, they twisted their entire bodies so that their fronts were now facing the ceiling, the leg that had been up was on the ground facing the other direction, and an arm was in the air.
“Holy shit.” I made a mental note never to take whatever they called vinyasa flow.
As the instructor clapped, the entire room twisted back around so the single leg was back in the air and everyone was in a triangle shape again. If this is yoga, I’m screwed.
Afraid to see any more, I took a calming breath, shifted my head, and glanced at the open doorway another ten feet ahead. Soft classical music filtered out from the room. As I approached, the lights were dimmed to a muted glow. Mats crisscrossed like multicolored puzzle pieces against the dark carpeted floor. Several women were chatting in a huddle in a corner. Abruptly, all four women stopped speaking, and four sets of eyes zeroed in on me. I was used to open admiration of the female variety and let it roll off me.
The entire room was devoid of pictures or art because from floor to ceiling the room was art itself. This time, a forest. Trees graced each massive wall. At the back of the room were painted mountains so lifelike I wanted to keep walking, maybe hike up their peaked surface. Another wall boasted a serene rushing waterfall so meticulously done, I could imagine the spray as it hit the jagged rocks below.
As I stood blocking the center of the doorway, a few women squeaked by. I stumbled out of the way and leaned against the wall, waiting to see what I was supposed to do. Maybe I should have brought a yoga mat? All of the women and the few men scattered around were flapping out their mats. A raised platform stood at the front of the room. A speck of a woman bustled around, adjusting things and setting up her space.
Her blond hair was pulled back tight into a bun. The track lighting above glinted off her head, making her hair shine like spun gold. She stood gracefully from a kneeling position. From her movements, the woman was obviously comfortable in her body…and hot damn, what a body. I’d thought the Hispanic yoga teacher and the gal at the front were attractive. They were nothing compared to this woman. When she turned around, I actually lost my breath, a completely new sensation for me. An unusual warmth started in my chest and expanded as I took in her profile while she chatted with another patron. Her lips were a bubblegum pink and stark against her alabaster skin. She placed her hands on her hips, nodded, and smiled, showing a set of beautiful, even teeth.
I stood against the wall like a creeper and watched her, my gaze glued to the only woman who had ever stolen my breath with her beauty. The woman was small, probably barely reached my chin at around five feet five. What she lacked in height she made up for in toned curves and an hourglass shape. Her hips swelled out from a tiny nipped-in waist. The black tank she wore stretched across a pair of incredible tits. A full handful for sure, and I had pretty large hands. I opened and closed my fists as I imagined taking her breasts in both hands and giving a firm squeeze.
“Jesus Christ!” I mumbled, in awe of the woman before me. With the tank that left nothing to the imagination, she wore a splotchy pair of hot pink and black knee-length pants that could have been painted on, they fit so well. Licking my lips, I kept my gaze on her, silently hoping she’d look my way. Finally, blondie’s eyes squinted against the lighting above, and eyes as black as night met mine.
Seeing her full frontal made my knees tremble and my dick twitch. She turned to the person she was speaking to and laid a hand on his arm before gesturing to an open section of floor. He clutched his mat and moseyed over to his spot. Then she addressed the class.
“Class starts in a few minutes. Feel free to go into child’s pose and start deep breathing.” After she spoke, she walked over to me.
I watched the subtle sway of her hips as if it were the last thing I would ever see. She padded my way in bare feet and stopped in front of me. Her toes matched her lipstick—a bright pink that suggested those lips might taste as sweet as they looked.
She lifted her head, gaze assessing me from tip to toe. The top of her head barely reached my shoulder.
“I’m Genevieve, or Viv.” Her brown eyes were perfectly placed within her oval face. Every blink seemed to mesmerize me. “Are you new here? Is this your first time?”
I shook off the lust daze and held out my hand. “Trent Fox.”
Her eyes widened but not enough to be alarming, just enough to indicate she recognized the name. My hand swallowed her small one, and it felt good there, locked within the safety of my larger one.
“I’m here for the rehabilitation aspects of the exercise,” I said lamely.
Genevieve’s eyebrows furrowed, and she inclined her head and pulled her hand away. I missed its solid weight instantly. That was a new
response for me to women. Any woman.
“You have a pulled hamstring, right?” she said.
My head shot back as if it weren’t connected to my neck. “Torn. How did you know?”
She laughed pleasantly, the sound creating a pleasant squeezing sensation in my chest. For some reason, I had the ridiculous desire to say something funny so I could hear it again and again.
“My little brother is a Ports fan.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe you’re here. Rowan’s going to flip.”
The sound of another man’s name coming from lips that I had every intention of claiming—soon—caused me to stand straighter, and I clenched my jaw. “Who’s Rowan, gumdrop?”
Her head jolted back at my brusque tone. “Huh? Oh, my brother…the Ports fan.”
I let out a grunt. “Sorry.” Spreading my arms wide, I pointed to the room. “What do I do here?”
Genevieve blinked rapidly, as if she’d just woken up. “Oh! Yes. Over here, we’ll get you set up with a mat.”
I gritted my teeth and followed her as she turned around and presented the most perfect ass. It was the kind of ass men wrote love poems about—heart-shaped and fuller on the bottom, which would give a man a nice handle to grip while plowing into her heat from any direction. She led me to the right side of the room where I could easily see the platform but would still have room to maneuver my six-foot-plus frame. Moving efficiently, she scooped up a mat from a nearby basket. She licked those pink lips again, which instantly gave me a semi.
While she set up a few items around my space, I shucked off my hoodie, toed off my shoes and socks, and waited for her to speak. Eventually, she finished setting me up with some yoga props, turned, and looked at me from the tips of my bare feet, up my sweats, to my white tank where she settled her gaze for longer than was appropriate, before flicking up to my face. I grinned, raising one of my eyebrows.
Genevieve laid out a bright orange mat that was at least seven feet long. “I grabbed the extended length since you’re so”—she seemed to trace my figure again—“hard.” She bit her lip, and then her eyes bulged. “I mean big! Tall!” She let out an exasperated breath.
Resisting Roots (Lotus House Book 1) Page 2