"Where did you get the peas?" I asked.
She knelt beside the chair. "The Asian market next door. Lift your leg as much as you can."
I did and groaned at the painful pull of my muscles. She placed the peas under my thigh. The cold was shocking but also provided relief.
"Keep the bag there for twenty minutes."
"Thank you."
"I hope you didn't do serious damage."
She leaned against the desk. In the small space, I was inches away from her. My eyes traveled over the curve of her hips and the fullness of her breasts in the tight tank, then traveled higher to the ropelike hairs hanging over her shoulder. I itched to touch them again, winding them around my hand as I had during the time she spent in my bed.
She crossed her arms. "Was this your first yoga class?"
"Actually, no. It was my last yoga class."
She fought a smile and lost, the corners of her mouth tilting upward slightly. "Why were you in the class in the first place?"
I shifted in the chair to buy time. What should I say? "I was curious about yoga and figured it might be something I could incorporate into my schedule—assuming I liked it."
"Oh really?" She obviously didn't believe me. "Why did you pickthisparticular class? They teach yoga at the brand new, state-of-the-art gym where you have a membership."
"Do they?"
She narrowed her eyes. "I'm sure you know they do."
I met her gaze. "You're right, they have yoga. But they don't have you."
My bold statement changed the air, and I was immediately reminded of us dancing in my living room, of kissing her soft lips, of holding her in my arms, and the breathy sounds she made as I thrust into her.
"Are you trying to sweet talk me?"
"Maybe." I screwed the top off the bottle of water and took a swig. "I have a second reason for coming here. You didn't tell me how the presentation to Mr. Ochoa went."
Her expression clouded. "Do you want the bad news or the bad news?"
Oh no. "What happened?"
She sighed, perching on the edge of the desk. "We presented our case, which included listing the length of time long-term tenants had been there. We talked about the sense of community and shared testimonials from our customers."
"Let me guess, Ochoa didn't care."
"He listened and then said he appreciated our efforts, but sob stories don't pay the bills." For the first time since I'd known her, bitterness crept into Tallulah's voice. "I asked him to give us one more shot to convince him, and he agreed we could return on Friday with a more convincing presentation, or the rentincreases would go through. We have no idea what to tell him to make our case, but we're working on collecting those extra signatures I told you about."
I adjusted the peas under my leg. "Did your presentation include showing him how costly turnover would be?"
"You told me to include that type of information, and I discussed it with the team, but we didn't know how to convey that message to him." She seemed agitated.
"Emotion doesn't work on people like Ochoa," I said carefully. "They care about their bottom line, which is basically what he told you. But after being in banking for years, I will say most landlords don't consider the expense of tenant turnover."
"How expensive is it?"
"Depends, but they risk losing between six months to a year of rent. They might also have to pay improvement costs for the new occupant, along with broker fees and, in some cases, legal costs. If the new tenant doesn't work out and can't pay the rent, they have another set of problems."
"How do we prove what you said? Is there a report I can take to him? A study?"
An outline of the argument formed in my head. "You need to pull together vacancy rates in the area and other figures to show his potential revenue loss compared to the guaranteed income from retaining stable, long-term tenants."
