My stack feels light.

Good sign. Possible bad sign if they all ended up in the rubbish.

I step inside a small bookstore a few businesses down from mine. Old editions are propped up on display in the window. Wuthering Heights. To Kill A Mockingbird. Moby Dick. The woman behind the counter lifts her head at the sound of the bell.

“Good afternoon.”

“G’day, Miss. How are you?”

She slides her glasses back on her nose, grinning. Her silver hair is cut shorter than mine and spiked on the top. “I’m terrific. What can I help you with today?”

I pass a flier across the counter. “I just opened up a studio just down the way there. First class is free, if you’re interested. It’s tomorrow night. Have you ever tried yoga?”

She shakes her head, laughing as she sets the flier down in front of her. “Oh, Lord no. I don’t think I can make my body move like that anymore. I’m nearing sixty.”

“It’s really easy. God’s honest truth. It’s more about the breathing than anything.”

I hear her pick up the flier again as my eyes fall to a photo aside the computer.

“Is this your daughter?” I ask, picking up the frame.

“Yes, that’s my Amber. She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

My mouth twitches as I study the picture. I look up at the woman. “She is. Would she be interested in attending a class?”

“Oh, um, maybe. I could ask her. She’s busy tomorrow night though.”

“That’s all right.” I set the frame down and grab a pen, turning the flier over. The ink saturates the paper. “Here’s my number, and email. I check that daily. Stop in and see me or give me a call. We’ll work something out, yeah? I’d love to have her.”

The woman takes the flier and the pen, then shakes my hand. “Okay. That sounds great. I’m Trish. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

“Mason, and thanks. Everyone seems . . .” I pause, my mind racing to Brooke.

Those eyes, hungry and calculating as she circled me, sizing me up.

After a hard swallow, I continue. “Friendly. Very friendly.”

Trish chuckles softly, dropping her hand. “That we are.”

I wave on my way out, tucking the remaining fliers against my body.

BROOKE

“I’m going to run out for lunch today,” I announce as I secure the lid on a container of icing and slide it on the shelf in the fridge. I close the door. “Is it okay if I take forty-five minutes instead of thirty?”

Dylan glances up from the worktop. “You’re buying lunch? What happened to packing every day to save money?”

“I did pack.” I grab my bag off one of the stools and pull out a can of soup. Progresso, Italian Style Wedding. “See? I’ll heat this up when I get back. I need to get something to wear to yoga tonight.” I set the soup on the wood.

Me, buying work-out clothes. Seems ridiculous. My idea of cardio has never involved clothes.

“You can borrow something of mine if you want.”

“No, thanks,” I reply, sliding off my apron and hanging it on the hook by the fridge. I grab my bag and slide the strap up my arm.

Dylan sticks her hand on her hip, the fingers of her other hand drumming the wood. “What exactly are you planning on buying? I have a ton of running shorts and T-shirts. And we’re the same size, practically. Save your money and just borrow something.”

“I’ve seen the clothes you wear when you go running. Your tops barely give the illusion of breasts, and I plan on highlighting mine tonight.”

I also plan on leaving the tags on whatever I end up buying. Wearing an outfit for an hour, or less, depending on how long it takes Mason to kick everyone else out and strip me naked hardly classifies as a non-refundable purchase.

“Oh.” Dylan smiles. “I see. Really, Brooke. Why don’t you just save yourself the hassle and walk over there naked? I’m sure what’s his name won’t mind.”

“Walk over where naked?” Joey steps into the back, eyeing up the bag on my arm curiously.

Shit.

He raises an eyebrow. “Going somewhere?”

“No,” I lie to the man who for the past two months has taken it upon himself to monitor my spending. “Just . . . putting this up front.”

“She’s going to buy an outfit to wear to yoga. Something that gives the illusion of breasts.”

I whip my head around and glare at Dylan. “You have a big mouth, you know that? And I hardly need an illusion.”

Please. My biggest asset has never failed to get me the attention I want, when it’s showcased properly. Dylan’s baggy T-shirts are a tragedy to the female race. She has always had a killer body, but she looks like a potato with legs in those things.

Joey takes a step back and blocks my exit. Dylan chuckles off to my left.

“Really? What happened to saving up so you can move out?”

“I’m planning on returning it tomorrow,” I explain, stepping closer to him. “This is a necessary purchase in the name of sex. Sacrifices have to be made. Besides, I read somewhere that if you don’t use your credit card at least once every few weeks, the banks assume you’ve died and will close down all your accounts. I’ll lose my savings if I don’t go through with this.”

My eyes evade his, roaming casually around the shop.

I don’t understand why I have to explain one freaking purchase to either one of them. I’m an adult, for Christ’s sake. I’ve been extremely disciplined the past two months. The only thing I still buy is our morning coffees, and I never hear either one of them riding my ass about that. One calculated credit card charge isn’t going to kill me. And hello! Are they both not hearing the plan I have to return this shit tomorrow?