Yogasm: A Romantic Comedy

“Don’t drown yourself in it,” he mutters, and at the side of the counter where Toni can’t see, I flip him off.

“Naughty, naughty,” he murmurs. “Might have to do something about that.”

“Okay, so,” I say loudly, as if he didn’t just threaten something that made my lady parts spring to life, “I need to get as much information as I can.”

He sobers. “I won’t be much help.” He hops up on a seat beside me, filling his own plate with scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast.

I nod. “You’ll fill things in for me as I need them. Toni, I need you to tell me everything you know.”

She’s young, so she can’t help me out much, but between what she tells me and what he does, plus the glory that’s the internet, by the end of breakfast I have her mom’s name, birthday, and even found some old, defunct social media accounts she once created.

I look to Miguel. “Today, I need you to put me in touch with her social worker. I can’t just ask them information. For privacy reasons, I’ll need your permission before I can do that.”

“Of course,” he says, biting into his toast, his gaze on mine seductive. “I’m happy to give you permission.”

Wait, is it my imagination again, or did he totally just make that sexual?

What a brilliant prick the man is.

He chews and swallows, and how can chewing and swallowing be so sexy? I watch his Adam’s apple move, and the way his tongue captures a stray crumb. When I realize I’m staring, I blink and bring my gaze back to my notepad.

“And your father, you never met,” I say, still taking notes. “Does he know about her?” I ask Miguel.

Miguel nods. “Yeah. He paid child support sporadically a few years ago. That much I do know.”

“What’s child support?” Toni asks. She’s pushing eggs around on her plate. She seemed to have a perfectly good appetite before, but it appears that now that we brought up her mom, her fears are resurfacing.

“Child support is money that a father will give a mother for a child he doesn’t live with.” I keep it on the simplest terms.

She doesn’t respond, but goes back to eating her breakfast, as Prince goes to the door and whines.

“Why’s he whining?” Toni asks.

“He needs to pee, probably.”

Miguel groans. “Well, no one’s asking you to handle it,” I say in what I hope is a superiorly haughty tone. I hop down from the bench and look around for his leash. I remember Miguel’s words earlier.

You need a leash.

I had one in the shop (of course), and I remember what he said about a leash to me (of course) and I’m pretty sure we brought him here with one. But I can’t find either it or my shoes. I frown, looking all around the place for them, and can’t for the life of me remember where I kicked them off. Guest room?

“I’ll take him out,” Miguel says.

“Thank you, that’s very nice of you.” I aim for icy politeness.

He shoots me his signature grumpy glare. “It’s better than letting him pee on the floor.”

So maybe not so nice of him.

“Prince, pee on his floor,” I order the dog, who’s no more capable of peeing on command than he is of walking a tight rope, but Miguel falls for it.

“Christ,” he mutters, yanking open the door and half-sprinting with the dog in tow.

Toni looks at me and smirks. “Good one.”

Maybe that wasn’t the right thing to do.

“Don’t do that. You have to behave for him, okay?” And I suppose if I’m to be a good example, I should behave for him, too. “You have to make sure you don’t give your uncle a hard time while you’re here, you got it?”

“Yeah,” she says on a sigh.

“I mean it, Toni. I want to help you, and to help you I need his help, and he’s not going to want to help you if you’re always giving him a hard time. Got it?”

She nods, and that’s when I realize she’s got braids plaited on either side of her head. “Got it.”

“Who did your braids?”

“Uncle Miguel.”

What? Since when did he add braid little girl’s hair to his list of tricks?

Well knock me over with a feather.

I fire up his laptop, and the first thing that pops up is a YouTube video, “How to braid hair.”

A rush of warmth floods me. He Googled it. He actually Googled it. Okay, so there aren’t many things about Miguel I’d call adorable? But this is one of them.

Looking around the room, I quickly tap on his browser history. What else goes on in his mind? What else has he looked up?

But as soon as I go to look, the door opens. I slam the laptop shut and spin around, hoping I look innocent, as a furious Miguel comes stomping into the kitchen.