Yogasm: A Romantic Comedy - Page 5

I’m a little surprised, to be honest, because… our place is hopping.

I say it’s because of Madison’s connections. Bitch’s got rich investors all up the fuck, thanks to Mommy and Daddy. Turns out when you're opening up a business, it really helps to have connections.

Madison says it has something to do with Allie’s energetic healing or something. And hell, maybe it does.

Both of them say it has something to do with my social media marketing. But I'm not really sure if that's it either. I’d done a little research and found out ways to market new places and businesses. I got us a sweet Groupon deal, have been snapping pictures for our Instagram, and we have some friends that have spread the word.

Honestly, though? I think it helps that today is the first sunny day in Boston.

You can’t underestimate the effects of good weather around here.

Other people in warmer climates might not really get it, but we Bostonians hibernate in winter. We start to emerge from our caves at about mid-March, and by April, when the trees are starting to show hard, green little nubs and the crocuses push their heads out of the frozen earth, we start to feel hopeful again.

That said, April in Boston’s as unpredictable as a bitch in heat. Spin the wheel and what will you get? Warm and sunny, with the balm of a southern climate? Or spin again and land on… cold and blustery, bringing northern winds and icy rain or snow.

So an early April sunny day feels like a gift from the gods.

But I’m not the world’s best optimist. I consider myself a realist, and the realist in me is waiting for the other shoe to drop. The honeymoon phase to wear off.

Things are… too good. Too fast.

And we haven’t heard a peep from our neighbor, which means we’re kind of holding our breath. He has a reputation, and rumor has it he doesn’t want us here.

Madison’s chatting it up beside me at the smoothie bar, Allie’s gathering a group for a yoga session, and I’m dusting the glass display case of cookies next to Madison when the door opens and a little girl rushes in. She looks over her shoulder like someone’s following her, and I pause mid-swipe as she makes a beeline straight for me.

“You’re her.”

I blink in surprise at the little pipsqueak. She’s got to be about six or seven years old. And she looks… strangely like me. She’s got the same dark brown, wildly curly hair, a smattering of freckles across her cheeks, and even a teeny pair of adorable glasses. When she reaches the display, I see her eyes are a deep, chocolate brown unlike my blue ones, but other than that, she could be a mini-me.

Impossible, of course. I have no progeny because that would require sex.

“I’m… her?” I ask.

She looks to her left and right, like she’s being hunted, like she’s a detective or something. I know the moves. Then once she’s apparently satisfied that the coast is clear, she leans in and waves her fingers at me to come closer. I do.

“You’re Samantha Graboski.”

I nod. “That’s me.” My name isn’t a secret. There’s even been an article in the Boston Globe about the newest store owners of the spring, and we were featured. But there’s something about the way she says it that makes me feel like she knows more than my name.

She leans in even closer. “You’re the detective.”

I draw in a breath, leaning on the glass myself. We don’t advertise our services, but I’m not going to deny it either. “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not,” I say, eyeing her warily. I barely refrain from saying, “What’s it to you?” like a gangster.

“Oh, you are,” she says with absolute confidence. “And I need your help.”

Oh, dear.

A casual glance at the faded tee that barely fits her, faded jeans that are a tad too short, and her thin pair of flip flops tells me that our client fees start at a price far, far above this girl’s pay grade.

But I’m not the sort to be cruel to children, either. So instead, I decide to at least be polite.

“And your name is…?”

“Antonia.”

I extend my hand, and she takes it, utterly serious.

“Pleased to meet you, Antonia,” I begin. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

She takes in a deep breath, climbs up onto one of the barstools we have at the smoothie bar, and places her hands flat on the counter, like she’s about to sign a business contract with me.

“I need you to find my mother.”

Before I can react, the door to the shop swings open and I swear the estrogen gods wave their magic wands and every ovary spontaneously contracts, as none other than Miguel Santiago himself comes our way.

I know who he is. Everyone from here to the West Coast knows who he is.

Tags: Jane Henry Erotic
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