Embrace the Mall (Love at Westbrook Mall #5)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Arrow

In med school, we had gloves to deal with butt-stuff. Here at The Intimate Closette, I was expected to untangle thong underwear with my bare hands. I pinched the edge of a string waistband with trepidation.

Was this sanitary? We didn't even have thin stickers to protect the crotch, let alone a coating for the string that wedged in people's booties. But people still bought them.

I guessed five dollars was a bargain, despite there not being much material. Fashion wasn’t always pragmatic. After all, my sister Kat had an affinity for fishnet stockings, and those didn't exactly keep the heat in.

Thongs must be more like an accessory. For the butt. For, um, confidence. Like the lady wearing one of these in that grayscale ad.

Wait, was I holding the waistband of this thong? Or was this the butt-end? I inspected the twisted fabric with the puzzlement of solving a cat's cradle.

The store owner, Giselle, strode up, her long black sweater swishing around her ankles like a cape. “Question?” she prodded in her faint French accent.

I flinched and dropped the underwear into the pit of stringy fabric. “I was just... Sorry, I wasn’t sure if people could try these on.”

“Of course they can. Over their underwear.” She gestured to the front of her tailored pants.

“But wouldn’t it be too close to other things? What if they...soil it?” I winced, not sure how to phrase my question.

Giselle’s eyebrow twitched. “You got this job because you're comfortable with human bodies, yes?”

“Yes?” Some aspects of them.

“And you can do sales, yes?” she asked.

“Y-yes.” I hadn’t made any yet, but that was because I’d spent the past two days tidying dressing rooms and getting trained on the register. Today, I had butt floss to contend with.

“So, sell it to them,” she commanded.

“Uh-huh,” I squeaked. Was that a threat? I couldn’t make people purchase anything.

I swallowed against a lump in my throat and picked up a ball of panties. “Is ‘you stain it, you buy it’ a store policy I can use or more of a preference?”

She eyed me with mild disdain. “Use your best judgment, Victoria. We'll do the same.”

“It’s Tori,” I said, but she had already swished away to talk to her daughter, Meg, by the register.

Heat ironed the inside of my chest. They were going to judge me and my performance.

Meg, with her cloyingly sweet voice and baby-doll bangs, glanced at me and nodded.

Oh no. This job was supposed to be a safety net. I couldn’t lose it for being awkward about butt-stuff and lingerie.

I had to sell something today. Now, in fact. To the next person who walked in.

A gentleman with white feathered hair strolled into our heavenly paradise, his elegant face obscured by designer sunglasses. He was draped in tailored black slacks and a partially unbuttoned dress shirt. Chances were, he knew what he wanted, and he could afford it.

This was the perfect chance to prove myself.

Older men loved my bedside manner. And masculine-presenting customers usually wanted to get what they came for and leave ASAP. It was an easy sale as long as they knew the size they needed.

Meg slunk out from behind the register. I had to get to him before she did.

He made his way to the back half of the store. Closer to Meg.

She couldn't have him.

“Welcome to The Closette,” I chirped, scurrying to head him off.

“Thanks, pigeon,” he said, his fingers warm in a brief caress of acknowledgment on my arm.

‘Pigeon?’ I stifled a laugh. What a bizarre term of endearment. The last person who’d used it on me had been a jerk classmate.

The customer’s smooth skin glowed all the prettier in this low light. But something glimmered through his sleek white hair: an arrow piercing slatted through the top of his ear.

A horrible, familiar tingle blared through my system like a defibrillator to my brain.

Angel.

This ‘silver fox’ wasn't an old man. He was the twenty-something playboy slacker from med school who’d slept through lectures, blown off labs, and flirted for study guides, now sporting a new style.

I couldn’t help him. I couldn’t stand him.

Releasing the tension in my fists, I snapped a thong free from the tangle, which launched another in Angel’s direction.

I clutched my makeshift slingshot, horrified.

Did I just throw underwear at him?

It struck the center of his spine, and he flexed on impact. Back muscles rippled through his shirt, and within an instant, he turned and snatched the offending garment.

Dazed, I swayed against a nearby display.

What just happened?

He caught that so fast. And I'd flung our wares at a customer in front of my boss’s daughter.

I crumpled in shame. “I’m so sorry.”

He played with the thong like a pitcher getting familiar with a ball. “Don’t sweat it. This isn’t the first time a girl's thrown her underwear at me to get my attention.”

My jaw unhinged. No way someone did that to him!

Besides, I wasn't trying to get his attention. But now, unfortunately, I had it.

Angel lifted his sunglasses, his gaze narrowed in recognition as he crushed the thong in his palm. “Hey, pidge. You're a long way from the roost.”

I crossed my arms, bristling. “So are you.”

Had he been expelled? Flunked out? Or was he still enrolled and just shopping for a girlfriend?

His practiced smile gave nothing away. “I’m just browsing on a break.”

He spent his free time perusing women’s underwear? I wasn’t totally surprised. But did ‘just browsing’ mean ‘definitely not buying?’

Meg edged closer, reading us. Judging.

I didn’t want my first customer to be the guy who’d nudged the back of my seat and called me a "Teacher's Pet" for reminding him we couldn't talk during lectures.

“What about you?” He sidled up to me, dangling the thong from his hooked fingers. “Are you playing with underwear for fun, or is this your new profession?”

“I'll take that, thank you,” I muttered, reaching for the underwear.

He pulled it a little further away to tease me closer.

I sighed. Apparently, the only thing that'd changed since our school days was his hair.

“Do you need help with anything?” I asked somewhat nicely.

He smiled. “I think you could help me, Tori.”

I gasped, his cologne snaking down my throat.

He actually knew my name? I thought women were all just pigeons to him. Annoying, flighty things that got in his way, like I had today.

But maybe I could help him.

I gestured to the thong. “Would you like to try that on?”

Angel widened his eyes, then burst out laughing, a warm shock to the chest.

I bit back a smile. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

He wiped his face. “I didn’t realize you thought so ‘little’ of me, pidge. I’d need a much bigger size than this, lots of stretch.” He drew out the elastic in front of his waist in an obscene gesture that lit my imagination on fire.

My mind filled with the image of tight, tiny underwear strained over a big, erect dick. Angel would be playing with the string waistband, waiting to spring himself free for whoever begged the prettiest.

But that wouldn’t be me.

I tore my gaze away and threw the undies in the bin, my cheeks hot.

“So, what do you want?” I asked. I didn't have all day to play games.

“I need you,” he said, clasping my hand.

“Me?” My pulse jumped. I must've misheard him.

He smiled thinly and guided me deeper into the store. “Come on. I want to try something.”

“It better not be the underwear,” I said, stumbling after him.

If I didn’t sell him that thong, I’d have to burn it.