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)
I want this to be real so badly. It’s too good. Too thrilling. Too wickedly sexy. But he’s got to be full of it.
“You read a column on dating and virginity?” I ask.
Drew stares at me, dead-eyed. “Try to read what women say, and maybe you’d learn a thing or two about the fairer sex.”
“Hey, now! I’m on a dating intel blackout. But that’s not the point. Who is this Mister Sexy Pants?”
“You are,” Drew declares, plunking his phone in front of me and pointing to it.
I read the headline: Things We Assume About Virgins. Then the date. The piece ran the day after I crashed into her. With my breath held, I devour every delicious word. When I reach the middle, my breath hitches.
* * *
Do you remember Mister Sexy Pants? I mentioned him a few columns ago when he introduced me to the pleasures of ogling men in tight pants.
Today, I met him for real. And even though my valiant dog tried to defend me against a potential attack from his bike, and even though I accidentally flashed him my panties, he was still a perfect gentleman.
* * *
Holy shit.
That is us, all right, which makes me—I steal a glance at my tight-fitting burgundy pants—Mister Sexy Pants.
As I read on, my temperature climbs. She describes a fantasy about this gallant guy coming home from work, fucking her on the balcony, and making her a panini.
All the clues add up. She acted jumpy when I mentioned National Sandwich Day, like she’d been caught. Then, when Zara commented on my style, Veronica said pants were the worst.
Lies.
All sweet, lovely little lies to cover up her secret identity.
She’s a sexy superheroine. Veronica Valentine by day, and The Virgin Club writer by night.
My employee has a wicked, crazy, dirty, filthy, beautiful crush on me, and she wants me to bang her on her balcony.
I figured out her secret, and it’s incredible.
This is the best worst discovery of my life.
15
A Good Boss
Milo
* * *
I’m still reeling in the morning. And, reading.
Then re-reading.
By the time I finish my morning coffee, I’ve damn near memorized her columns. Each one is a shot of adrenaline mixed with lust, chased by dirty dreams, then jet-fueled by my nitro horniness.
Great. Fucking great.
After I lock up and leave, I carry my bike down the steps in my building, Trudy trotting by my side. As I go, I ask myself—again—how the hell I’m going to make it through the rest of the summer, let alone today.
Outside my building, I glance at the next one over. It’s a miracle I survived last night. That I didn’t bust out of my home to howl under her balcony.
With the July sun beating down on my shoulders, I stare at Veronica’s deck, hoping for a glimpse of her, but she’s not outside this morning.
All those evenings I walked past her, she must have been dictating her column. Like the night I swore she said tell me what you want.
The same words appeared in her top-five fantasies column. A guy can say to me . . . tell me what you want. And I’ll tell him. Because I’ve got a list, starting with my top-five fantasies.
A rumble works its way up my chest. Possibly a growl.
“Maybe I need a muzzle,” I mutter as I secure Trudy in her bike seat. Because all I want to do when I see Veronica is ask, Can I take you home tonight and work through your list?
But a good boss wouldn’t say that.
And I am a good boss.
Swinging my leg over the bar, I settle onto my bike. Just as I set my phone in its holder, it pings with a text from Iris. Can’t wait to see you tonight, Funcle!
I laugh at the nickname, then write back. Give that little chunk a kiss. See you tonight, friend.
I set an alarm to remind me to go. Iris had her baby a week ago, and I’m trekking to Brooklyn after work to see the crew. Maybe if I think about babies all day, I won’t replay Veronica’s columns in my head.
And maybe my bike will grow wings and fly.
With my head down, I put my focus solely on the road, then hop onto the street and navigate the perils of the New York streetscape. My thoughts clear as I battle traffic. Maybe I’ll ride all day and all night for the rest of the summer. Sounds like a great coping mechanism.
I slow as I reach the Bikes and Blooms block, then jump up onto the sidewalk and off the bike so I can walk it the rest of the way. “You’re going to meet little Danny tonight,” I tell Trudy. “Does that make you an aunt? A dog aunt? A dog godmother?”
She wags her tongue as we roll up to the store.