Tequila Four by Tricia O’Malley EPUB & PDF – eBook Details
- Author: Tricia O’Malley
- Language: English
- Formats: PDF / EPUB
- Status: Available For Free Download
- Series: None
- Price: Free
- File Size: 1 MB
“I’M NEVER TOUCHING another man so long as I live,” I vowed,
plucking another grape from a gold and silver bowl set on Luna’s whitewashed counter. Luna snorted, shaking her blonde hair as she breezed past
me to hand a beautifully wrapped package of magickly brewed lavender
soaps to a woman who stood just inside the front door waiting. A regular
customer from the fancy-schmancy side of Tequila Key – which the rich
liked to call Port Atticus – Mrs. Brewster slipped into our store once a month
for Luna’s healing elixirs and soaps. She had a standing order, which allowed
her to spend only a minimal amount of time in the shop – so as not to be seen,
naturally, and have her reputation tarnished.
I had no idea why. It wasn’t like coming to the Luna Rose Potions &
Tarot Shop was slumming, exactly. At least not on Luna’s side of the shop.
I’d gone into business with Luna years ago, as our otherworldly talents
complemented each other delightfully. It didn’t hurt that we were best friends
as well.
But no one would call us two peas in a pod. I leaned against the counter
and surveyed Luna’s side of the store – all white on white on white. If
elegance were a fragrance, it would be the scent of the shop. Beautifully
wrapped soaps, healing tonics in white and gold bottles, and tables full of
stunning crystals were artfully arranged against a backdrop of white. A few
of my underwater photographs – a hobby of mine, which helped me
decompress – were delicately framed, offering small splashes of color around
the room.
Even the screen dividing our shops was delicate. Its gold wire etching and
pretty cherry blossom design effectively separated our respective spaces. And
thank goodness for that, because stepping from Luna’s side of the shop to
mine was like going from the symphony to a Guns N’ Roses concert. I’d
learned long ago that it was best to meet people’s expectations of a psychic
tarot card reader. My side of the shop was an explosion of velvets and
leopard prints, with hundreds of mystical trinkets and antiquities tucked on
the shelves lining the wall. Herman, my skeleton, sported a Ramones shirt,
and lounged on a leopard-print chair in the corner. Though I drew the line at
wearing a turban and caftan, my shop reinforced almost all the expectations
of a tarot card reader.
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