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)
“My bad. You’re a dog mother,” I say, but wait. That sounds ridiculous.
“I prefer dog-gess.”
Veronica’s pretty voice comes from behind me, knocking me right back into the danger zone. I turn around to see her walking toward the store, wearing a pink dress that swings seductively around her knees, drawing my eyes to her legs then up her frame.
Tiny blue tulips cover the fabric.
Hmm. What covers her butt?
“Like goddess,” she adds, as if I’m a dumbass.
Because I am. I’ve been staring at her lasciviously. “Right. Yes. Dog-gess,” I repeat, proving that I cannot function as a human being when I am suffering from an overload of lust.
Veronica strides up to the bike and stops in front of Trudy. “Want me to unbuckle her?”
“Sure.” I’m super swift with one-syllable words today.
As she unsnaps my girl, I try to act normal. “So, you’re here early.” But not by much. Maybe like five minutes.
She gives me a friendly smile. “I dropped StudMuffin at a new doggy daycare near here. Fingers crossed he does well.”
“Or paws crossed,” I say.
There. I said almost a full sentence that wasn’t I want to strip you naked.
I’m giving myself an award.
Veronica scoops Trudy out of the seat, sets her down, then heads to the green door. Trudy follows, tongue lolling, tail wagging.
“Yeah, Trudy, that’s how I feel too,” I say under my breath.
I survive the first few hours of the day, but barely. I’m frayed thin, my resistance worn down to a thread. In between customers and phone calls and orders, I steal glances at Veronica in her pink dress.
She’s busy all morning too, tending to a steady stream of foot traffic on National No Worries Day. Don’t worry today. Stop and smell the lilacs instead.
As Veronica chats with a curly-haired woman who leans in close to whisper a question, I’m dying to know if the friendly neighborhood virgin is making another sex toy recommendation.
Bet she is, and I have to know if vibrators are the gifties mentioned in the review the other week.
Would a good boss ask that, though? Probably not.
But I can’t stop this train of thought. She’s a virgin with a filthy mind, and I am obsessed.
When lunchtime rolls around, I jump on the chance to get some space. I ask Zara and Ian if they want a sandwich from the new shop down the block. After they give me their orders, I amble over to Veronica. “Want anything for lunch? There’s Thai, quinoa bowls, and a new sandwich shop nearby?”
The angel on my shoulder says I’m just being a good boss, trying to feed my employees.
The devil says no, you’re trying to entrap her.
Fucking devil knows me too well.
“Tempting. I would love some . . .” Veronica bites the corner of her lips.
Just say it. Say you like sandwiches and sex, and you want both with me. ASAP.
But then she smiles. “Spring rolls. With peanut sauce. Please.”
Curses. “Coming right up,” I say, then I take off.
What was I trying to do? Set a clever sandwich trap? Shout aha, I knew it was you?
I head down the block, pop into a couple of shops, and snag lunches. When I return to Bikes and Blooms, I hand out lunches then go straight to my office with Trudy and shut the door. I crunch into my chicken and sun-dried tomato sandwich in silence.
I’m going to need to regroup. Immediately.
By three, I’m no closer to a survival strategy. When the clock ticks five, Ian skedaddles, and Zara asks to leave thirty minutes early to see a friend.
“Of course,” I say.
“Thanks. You’re a good boss on No Worries Day,” Zara says on her way out.
Her words echo.
Veronica’s been jumpy at times. A little evasive. She’s been hiding her identity, and that’s understandable. But what if she’s legit afraid I’d be pissed she writes about me? That has to be why she’s danced around the sandwich topic, why she claims she doesn’t have the writing gene, why she told me she was dictating a to-do list that night.
More like how to do her, and I fucking want to.
But she’s probably freaked out that I’d let her go.
I need to tell her I’m not bothered by her objectification of moi.
Not. One. Bit.
When the last customer leaves, and I lock the door, I head over to her counter, determined to just say it. I know I’m Mister Sexy Pants and I’m so good with it, and can we start working through your list as soon as humanly possible? Starting now. Right now.
“Hey,” I say with a smile. “Can I help you straighten up? Since I know you need to get your dog soon.”
Her eyes flash with gratitude. “Thank you. I would never turn down an extra pair of hands.”
Because you like a man who’s good with his hands. You wrote that the day I crashed into you. You said, and I quote, “This is my fantasy, so he owns a combination bookstore and calorie-free cake shop. He’s good with his hands too.”