Resisting Roots (Lotus House Book 1) Read Free Page A

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.
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    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-up hoodies