Pinky Promises

  Pinky Promises

  Deana Birch

  Copyright © 2019 by Deana Birch

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges all trademarks as belonging to their respective owners.

  ISBN: 978-2-9701368-0-4

  Created with Vellum

  For Karen, thanks for loving me when I was a teenage snot.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  LEYLA

  Poorna Kurmasana. Full Tortoise. A posture I rarely demonstrated in public because it literally looked like I had my head up my ass. But with the hot yoga room cleared out after Kara’s class and my body at its most limber, I folded forward, threaded my shoulders behind my calves, and clasped my hands at the low arc of my spine. Chin into chest and legs straight, the pose was complete.

  I counted out my sixty-second hold while trying to push away all the unsure thoughts of being in a new place, of taking over a boutique yoga studio for a few months while my long-distance friend had her babies.

  Grover Beach, California, was a far cry from Queens, New York. I’d only been in town for three hours, and I already stood out. Mostly because of the boobs. Either there was something in the water, or plastic surgery was a rite of passage here. It was like central casting for a sunny reality show. I hoped it was the water, and I planned to drink my share—by the gallon. My itty-bitty titty committee could use all the help they could get.

  The sweat dripped from the top of my head, down one dark lock that had escaped my ponytail, and onto the jade-green yoga towel covering my mat. I could do this. I’d fill in for Kara for a few months, enjoy the beach, then go back to the stanky sidewalks and abundant graffiti of New York City. Or not go back. The fact that I could live off teaching yoga for a few months and not have two other part-time jobs just to pay rent was going to be amazing. All thanks to Kara and her ability to reproduce. A work staycation of sorts. And it was commitment-free—my absolute cup of Yogi tea.

  I could handle being the oddball; it wasn’t like I didn’t know how to do that. Teach some Barbies to bend, breathe clean salty air, and be on my way. The perfect prescription for my non-committal self. Even if they all hated me and my East Coast accent, Kara would return to teaching before they’d missed her too much.

  After releasing my grip, I rolled up to standing. To my horror, mostly because I was in super short shorts and just a sports bra—which meant that my ass had very much been on display—a tall man stood in the back of the studio staring right at me.

  “Gawk much?” The snotty words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. Damn it. He might have been a student. Why did my brain have zero filter?

  The guy shook his head like he was waking up out of a haze, mumbled something, and turned around to the wall. He measured the side of the wooden bars and drew a line with a pencil he’d taken from behind his ear.

  Crap. I needed to apologize. He worked for Kara, and I was a bitch. Two points on the rude board for Leyla. Typical. But I was going to be better. Nicer. Even if it rang a little fake. I’d promised myself not to ruin anything for my friend and teacher-training bestie as she trusted me with her third baby—her business.

  I swiped my towel and mat off the floor and headed over to eat crow. Holy crap on a cracker. He was tall.

  “Um…sorry about that.”

  The tree of a man spun around and looked down at me. His light-blue eyes were equal parts disturbingly odd and absolutely stunning. And he was cute. Clean cut—probably not a tattoo on his fit body—all his short, dark hair in place. To top it all off, he wore a button-down shirt that had clearly been ironed. Maybe by his mom. Adorable. And huge. Especially compared to my little frame. I totally needed to chug some local water. A growth spurt could come at twenty-five, right?

  “No. My bad. I was staring. I actually couldn’t figure out how you’d gotten yourself into that position. Pretty sure I’ve never seen anyone do that before.” He shook his head with a hard blink.

  “Oh, good.” Kara came into the studio, wearing a white sundress and rubbing her massive stomach. “You’ve met.

  “Adam, would you be a love and drive her? I’m dead from teaching class and need a nap. Not that these two won’t take the opportunity to bang their heels into my ribs when I lie down.” She patted her tummy and rolled her eyes. “You don’t mind, do you, Leyla? I can teach you the desk tomorrow. Besides, there’s not much to do. People just sign in on the sheet of paper, and I check them off in the spreadsheet after.”

  Did I mind? I mean, she was counting on me to run her business, and we were friends. Kara wouldn’t send me off with a murdering mountain of a man. She needed me. And she obviously trusted this Adam guy.

  “Okay,” I said with a simple smile. See? Already being nicer than usual.

  Adam pointed his thumb to the wall. “I’ll just lower these bars, and we can be on our way.” He smiled at Kara, who clasped her hands into prayer and mouthed, “Thank you.”

  Over her shoulder—and already halfway out of the door—Kara said, “I’ll pick you up at eight tomorrow morning.”

  The glass door to the studio chimed her exit.

  Adam walked past me and came back with a giant yellow toolbox.

  I scrunched my face. “I take it you’re going to drop me at my apartment?”

  “Yup.” He glanced down at me. “But you’re gonna shower, right?” With the screwdriver he’d taken out in his hand, he toggled it up and down. “That’s a lot of sweat for the inside of my truck.”

  Fair enough. I was disgusting. Plus, he owed me a dig.

  I dropped my soggy mat to the floor at his feet. “I’ll hang that up when you’re done.” I freed my long dark hair from the ponytail and walked to the locker room. My damp shorts and little top clung to my body as I peeled them off in front of the shower. After a little toss, my gear joined the used yoga towel in a pile of nastiness on the floor.

  Once I was under the warm spray, I realized I hadn’t brought any soap or shampoo with me, so I dripped back to the massive suitcase I’d parked in the corner after coming directly from the airport and taking class. I dug some out and went back to the shower. Clean and hopefully sweat-free—although sweating after a shower was common in hot yoga; the effects stayed long after class—I laughed. No towel.

  I hadn’t even thought to pack one. I dripped my way back to my bag, blotted myself with a clean tank top and skirt, then dressed in shorts and a cut-off yellow T-shirt that said ‘No drama’ and had a picture of a llama on it.

  An
ear-splitting screech of a drill came from the studio as I dragged my bag around to the reception area. And ‘reception area’ was a generous term. It was a table and a chair. There weren’t even shelves for people to place their shoes. And outside wasn’t much snazzier—a small strip mall with one common parking lot.

  I peered through the glass window. There was a dry cleaner’s, some kind of pool shop, a store that sold orthopedic shoes, and a sports bar. So much for a social life. Unless I could suddenly get interested in football.

  Which wasn’t going to happen. My dad wasn’t one of those guys who followed a team and wore their sweatshirts. While his blue-collar job as a parking attendant in Manhattan lent itself to the culture of talking about the Yankees or the Giants, his Algerian heritage kept soccer close to his heart. And literature. The man loved to read.

  As his only child, I hadn’t needed or demanded to pursue the intricacies of the rules of whatever game. Our dinner conversations were about politics and religion. And what it meant to be an active and productive member of society. “What did you give back today?” he would always ask.

  And while I respected his principles, they weren’t mine. Yoga was the closest thing to spirituality I’d gotten, and even there I didn’t dive deep into the relationship between Yogi and God. I’d lost my mom on September 11, 2001, and struggled with any religion since I’d been old enough to ponder their existence and principles.

  Adam met me at the door, toolbox in hand. Kara had said that my apartment was within walking distance of the studio and that it was small but clean. That was all the information she’d given me. I hadn’t probed any further, but maybe I should have.

  “I hung your mat. Kara said to give you my key to the studio.” He dangled the jagged metal in front of my nose. “I’ll put your bag in the back of my truck.”

  “Thanks.” I offered a small smile.

  I checked to make sure the door was locked, and my own safety flashed in front of my eyes. I was about to get into a car with a total stranger. The act rebelled against every ounce of street-smarts I’d grown up with. This sleepy beach town really was the polar opposite of my former life. And the clean-cut cutie tossing my suitcase into the back of his white pick-up the exclamation point. But Kara trusted him, so I shushed my instincts. I’d quit my jobs for the chance to deepen my teaching. I could always fall back on New York, but I needed this opportunity to make me better at what I loved doing most.

  I walked over to him and rocked onto my heels. “All sweat-free and ready to see where I’m living.” My uncertain smile was met with a nod, which I took as a sign to hop in.

  Sitting next to him and buckled up, I almost felt like a child. If I reached out my hands and straightened my arms I wouldn’t have been able to touch him, the cab was so spacious.

  “I’ve never been in a truck before.”

  His eyebrows scrunched together. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Somehow the filter I’d needed earlier popped into my head and prevented me from saying, “No. Is that so fucking weird?” Instead, I looked out of the window at the palm trees lining the main road he’d turned down.

  Adam flipped on the radio, and a rock song I’d never heard played over the speakers. Probably no need to share that information either. And most likely a sign he was not interested in small talk. We drove down a narrow road and headed toward the beach. My apartment was not only close to my job, but close to the ocean? Massive score. But I didn’t want to repeat my game of stating the obvious or revealing my lack of knowledge or experience, so I sat quietly until he pulled into a driveway and we got out.

  “I’ll get your bag. You’re on the second floor.”

  Salty air brushed by on a cool breeze from the water. Waves crashed and seagulls squawked. Quite a different soundtrack from the car horns and swears of my daily city commuting. Not to mention the lack of stale urine in my subway station.

  The A-frame white-washed beach house in front of me had a covered porch with gray trim. Along the side was a neat staircase, and it was there that Adam headed, carrying my suitcase with ease and care. Not banging it on each step as I would have done.

  A warm ray of sun kissed my skin. I could absolutely get used to this for the next few months. Dear Lord, there was even an outdoor shower under the stairs.

  At the top of the steps, Adam pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. Kara must have slipped it to him when my head was up my butt. He maneuvered the rolling case closer to himself and motioned for me to go in with a clipped smile. He wasn’t just nice, he was polite, albeit quiet.

  I stepped into my new apartment and blinked. Kara’s description of ‘clean’ was an understatement and ‘small’ a bit of a lie. The open studio had pine floors, a modern kitchen with a slim, white fridge, and a huge bed. My mouth gaped. I walked past the kitchen alcove and breakfast bar to a door. Through the glass, my own personal balcony awaited.

  “This…this is amazing.” I spun around and let the bliss seep in. It was like an upscale hotel suite, and it was all mine for the summer.

  “Glad you like it.” Adam wheeled my bag in and closed the door. “All the linen is clean. There’s bottled water in the fridge, I don’t recommend the tap here. And the bathroom is just over here.” He crossed the room, opened a small door, and pointed in. “There are specific towels for the beach; try not to take the ones from here if you go.”

  Oh, I was going to the beach. In like three minutes, or as long as it took the handyman-slash-taxi driver to bid me farewell.

  “Laundry is in a room on the other side of the house, and you can use the same key to get in. If my stuff is in there, just throw it in the dryer then in a basket. No problem. I tend to forget when I’ve started a load.”

  Wait. What did the massive tree man just say?

  “You’re my landlord?” I flushed, then cringed, because I’d accused him of staring at me.

  A true smile spread across his face. “Yup. So, no loud parties.”

  “I…”

  “I’m joking.” He winked. He absolutely winked at me. And I couldn’t decide if it was playful or out of total pity. My flub from earlier hung over my head and rained on what I was certain was a botched first impression of someone I would be sure to see almost every day. Maybe I could hide like a cat and only come out at night or something.

  Then again, he was pretty aloof. Maybe dealings with him would be minimal. But the clean, organized studio with its pristine countertops and white sheets on the bed hinted at something else. The crisp crease in his shirtsleeve sliced through my understanding. He was a neat freak. Meticulous. That was why he’d made a comment about my nasty state before getting into his truck.

  Ruh-roh. My messy suitcase flashed in my head. Good thing Adam couldn’t see inside that puppy.

  He placed the key on the small square table by the door and grimaced. “I didn’t know what you liked to eat, so I didn’t stock your fridge.”

  I scratched my head. He had to be kidding. Kara had arranged for me to stay in this amazing apartment, and the landlord felt guilty about not providing food with it. This couldn’t be real.

  “No worries.” My stomach growled. “You can just point me in the direction of a deli, and I’ll manage.”

  “Well, that is the one problem with this location. The only grocery store is about twenty minutes away by foot.”

  So much for my bounce down to the beach. I would be lucky to get to food and back before sunset. And unpacking my wet clothes would have to wait. At the mention of food, my hunger grew by the second.

  “Did you want to wash your stuff from earlier?”

  I almost laughed. Yeah, he was fastidious. But I was on his turf, and I needed to make up for a crap beginning. And not botch this for Kara.

  “Thanks for reminding me. I’ll throw them in before I go.” I walked over to my suitcase and lugged it onto the end of the bed. The zipper hissed open, and I found my clothes in the plastic bag I’d thrown them in. I closed the lid quickly to hi
de my disorganized disaster.

  “Shall I go down with you? Then you can show me?”

  Adam rubbed the back of his clean neck and motioned for me to exit. On the way past the wooden table he grabbed the key and held it in front of my face. “Always lock behind you. Always.”

  “Right.” I took the key with a nod and closed the door. After a check for its security, I found Adam still standing on the small landing.

  “After you.”

  Dear God, the chivalry. It was almost alarming. But it was welcome, and it somehow fit him perfectly.

  The plastic bag of clothes hung on my wrist as I trotted down the stairs. I circled around the back of the house, the small backyard complete with a glass round table and four metal chairs. A stolen glance through his sliding doors found an immaculate living room with a huge sofa and flat-screen television.

  The side addition of the laundry room was easy to find, and the locked handle reminded me that I had the key.

  “Do you need a tutorial?” he asked over my shoulder.

  I bent down with straight legs and eyed the washer. “Nope. I think I’m good.”

  Adam said something under his breath, and then clearer, added, “I’ll be in the back.”

  Two minutes later, I found my new landlord hovering over his grill with a beer in his hand.

  “So…the store,” I said. “Which way?”

  His light eyes flashed over my shoulder at the ocean then back. “Turns out, my girlfriend is staying an extra day in Vegas. I have plenty if you want to just eat here.”