Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
On a Saturday evening, nearly five weeks after Veronica started working at the shop, I’m in my office, emailing a supplier, when my phone pings, signaling another new review.
I click on the alert, bracing myself for a slap in the face.
But I relax once more as I read: Love the new florist! She knows how to find the right blooms for any occasion! And she sure knows her other gifties too. Love her recs. She deserves all the buzz!
Huh.
That’s quite a review, and quite intriguing. Maybe this person means the lingerie recommendation? But gifties is ringing a naughtier bell.
I swear I’ve heard Iris use that word. I plug gifties into Google, then add sexy for fun.
And it’s a damn good thing I’m using an incognito browser. The third search result is the sex toy brand Just for Her. The slogan promises a vibrator is the giftie that keeps on giving.
Oh, hell yes.
That would probably bring us repeat business. I switch to my phone, calling up the review there.
Then, I take a beat to devise a plan. It’s not like I can say, Are you recommending sex toys on the sly? If so, that is fuck hot.
But I can drop clues. Test her reaction.
Phone in hand, I head for Veronica.
When she finishes ringing up two dozen lilacs for a salt-and-pepper-haired lady, my new florist turns to me, eyes sparkling. “Confession: lilacs are my favorite flowers,” she says. “I always get excited when customers want them.”
Confession: I’m excited now, thinking how Veronica would smell if I locked the door, tucked a lilac behind her ear, then leaned in to inhale her.
And kissed her all over, then asked what toy she likes best.
But I strike that sensual fantasy from my head. “Check this out.” I turn the phone to show her the praise, then keep my tone light as I skirt the topic. “Maybe you do want to confess. Are you running an underground gift advice business here at the shop?”
Her eyes widen with a flicker of fear, but the look passes quickly as she gives a casual shrug and a smile.
“You’ve figured out my secret,” she says, all playful.
Damn. I’m more confused, but I’ve got to know. It’s just too tasty a treat for me to walk away from.
I park an elbow on the counter. “Yup. I knew it. You’re an anonymous expert at . . .”
I don’t say gifties. I want her to connect the dots. But at the word anonymous she swallows, looks away. Only, when she returns her gaze to me, her smile has turned devilish. “At flower recommendations, of course.”
Nice sidestep, but I’m not quite buying it. Think, Milo, think.
I mean, if she’s a secret agent for Just for Her, imagine the buzz—all puns aside—she’d generate for the store.
I can’t resist. “You do give amazing flowers recs, that’s for sure. But you’re good at gift suggestions in general. Is that a special skill of yours?”
C’mon. Just admit it. Say you’re an agent for good—the good of orgasms.
But her expression doesn’t change at all. “Thanks, I try. And sometimes customers ask me for recommendations for lingerie, as you know, and restaurants and stuff,” Veronica says, breezily. “PJs too. Thanks to all the National Days.”
Then, the door swings open and a new customer comes in. I walk away, wondering what stuff is.
But I bet it involves gifties.
I know you have a secret, Miss Cute Devil Butt.
On Sunday afternoon, I put secrets and stuff far out of my head while I chill with my friends at the arcade.
I cock my arm, then roll the heavy ball up the lane.
The Skee-Ball jumps in the air, dancing close to the thirty-point hole, then it lands and sinks. “Yes! I am the stud of Skee-Ball,” I declare, showboating in front of my friends Axel and Drew, and my brother. We’re at Let the Good Times Roll in Chelsea.
“Not so fast,” a familiar voice deadpans from my side.
Shit, I forgot Drew didn’t take his final turn in the game. He’s at the lane next to mine. No way will I beat him with my arm. Maybe my mind, though. I like to win at Skee-Ball, a tall order against an NFL quarterback, but maybe I can trip him up on a technicality. “Don’t you have a clause or something in your contract that says you can’t play games like this?”
Flashing a confident grin, Drew reaches for a ball. “That’s for dangerous shit, like ziplining and parachuting. But Skee-Ball? I’m sure it can only improve my excellent arm.” Then he sends the orb right at one of the toughest targets and adds one hundred points to his score. “Yes!” he shouts.
My brother pats my shoulder sympathetically. “Some guys have to show off,” he says.
Drew goes down the line, pointing at each of us. “I make you all play harder when you try to beat me. Now pay up.”