The Virgin Society Collection

7. Big Dictionaries

7

BIG DICTIONARIES

Milo

The store is closed and quiet on Thursday night. But here in the back, I’m blasting the Science is Sexy podcast under the bright fluorescents as I put the finishing touches on a complicated bike repair I’ve been working on all week.

And . . . done.

I take off the glasses I wear for up-close work and tuck them into my pocket. Stretching my neck from side to side, I spin the pedals on the bike. “Check this out, girl,” I say to Trudy, who’s snoozing at my feet.

She lifts her snout.

“I know. You’re impressed with my skills,” I say. Me too, since this bike is for a pro cyclist, and he’ll be stoked to have his wheels back in time for a big race.

With that finished at last, I grab the skull earring from the workbench and quickly fix the hook. I drop the earrings into a small envelope. I’ll leave it on Glitter Gal’s stoop on the way home, except I don’t know her name.

Trudy pops up, then stretches into a downward dog. Thank you, girl. I know her dog’s name. On the front of the envelope, I write: For StudMuffin.

I snag a piece of paper from a pad on the counter, then scribble out a note to leave inside.

Hey, you! I found your earrings the other day. At least, I think they’re yours. One of the hooks was missing so I fixed it. Hope your day got better.

Me

(Or you can call me Glitter Beard)

I head home, scanning up and down our block in case she’s walking her little dog.

No such luck, but I’m not angling for another fun and flirty conversation with her, so it’s no biggie. I bound up her steps.

Before I leave the envelope, though, I impulsively grab a pen from my backpack and write my number on the bottom of the note. She might want to say thanks. I’d be a dick if I deprived her of that chance.

Then, I head home.

Tomorrow is a big day for Bikes and Blooms. I need to get cracking on a new hire that’s bedeviled me. I should have done it a month ago, but I was too caught up in the dog custody thing. Now that I’ve got Trudy back in my life, I can move forward on taking care of my business.

On Friday morning, as Trudy and I head to work, I cast a glance at Glitter Gal’s brick building. The envelope is gone. That’s good.

I check my phone.

My texts are empty. That’s a shame.

But I refuse to think about the woman. Nothing will get in the way of my plans today.

Fifteen minutes later, I push on the door to Bikes and Blooms and head inside. Trudy scampers in ahead of me, trotting like a sassy miniature pony.

Waif-like Zara pops up from the bike she’s tuning, then beams as she sets down her wrench. “Girly girl,” she calls out, stretching out her inked arms to invite Trudy in for a hug.

Eager for puppy cuddles too, my pregnant friend Iris ambles around the dahlia display, cooing sweetly, “I have a biscuit for the good girl.”

“No fair,” Zara shouts, as Trudy does what a dog does—follows the food.

Iris shrugs innocently, beckoning my girl with a treat. “When we bet who she’d greet first, we never said anything about secret advantages.”

“I didn’t think we had to,” Zara huffs, dark eyes crinkling against her olive skin.

I watch with amusement as I wheel my bike behind the counter, then set my helmet and Trudy’s on a shelf. It’s good to be back to business as usual, my dog and me at work thirty minutes before we open.

Trudy wags her butt and takes the treat from Iris. “I’m going to miss you the most,” Iris says to the dog.

“Am I chopped liver?” I ask. “We’ve only been friends since college.”

Iris stands, ambles over to me, and squeezes my shoulder. “I can’t miss you if you don’t let me go.”

“Today, I swear,” I say, stabbing the bike counter for emphasis. “We are hiring your replacement today, Iris. No matter how many times I try to nix your newest choice.”

Iris arches a brow. “You mean it, Mister Picky? You’ve eighty-sixed everyone I’ve brought you so far. Are you really going to follow through on hiring a new flower shop manager today?”

I hold up my right hand. “You have my word. We’re going to find someone fantastic to fill in for you this summer.”

While I have been distracted recently, the candidates so far have been all wrong. One guy had a perma-scowl. Another checked her Instagram three times during the interview. Yet another asked for a nap cot. As an employer, the participation trophy generation drives me a little bananas. “I will not leave till we have your replacement,” I say.

Iris smiles. “Actually, my friend Ellie has the perfect person. She has a good friend who’s—in her words—whip smart, outgoing, great with people, and has crazy knowledge about flowers. Her name is Veronica and we spoke on the phone yesterday. I’m interviewing her at eleven today in the shop.”

That sounds promising. “I have a call with one of my regular parts suppliers for my new custom design. But I should be done by eleven-fifteen. You can get started and I’ll join you,” I say, hoping this Veronica person will be the answer to my biggest business problem.

I head to my small office in the back and settle in at the computer to tackle billing and invoices. Trudy follows, curling up on the carpet.

A few minutes later, my phone buzzes with a text.

When I see a 917 number I don’t recognize, I feel a little fizzy.

You. Fixed. My. Earring. You deserve cake AND beer for this. Thank you so much.

The fizz expands like bubbles as I hit reply. That sounds like a perfect combination for . . . anytime. Glad you got the earrings.

There. I’m just being a good guy. That’s all. I set the phone down, but it pings again. I’d been meaning to get a new hook, but life kept happening, then, well, you did THIS. You’re a superhero.

Best compliment ever. It was easy. I was happy to do it. And you seemed like you needed a Good Samaritan in your life.

Before I can even think about returning to invoices, the phone vibrates again. Fine, fine, I get it. I’m irresistible. I click open her new message, giving her a name in my texts, then reading.

Miss Cute Devil Butt: I would ask if it was that obvious I needed help, but I know it was that obvious I needed help. This is a week of pure I-can’t-even-ing. But these earrings take away some of the sting. I’m going to wear them to an appointment this morning. For luck!

See? Maybe some guys Callie dated hate me and think I hoodwinked them, but this sweetheart of a woman thinks I’m a rock star. And, well, it was fun to help her. I write back.

Milo: Nice work turning ‘I can’t even’ into a gerund.

Miss Cute Devil Butt: Gah. First soap, now grammar. I, too, love grammar.

I haven’t laughed like this in a long time. I should get back to the invoices, but I allow myself one more text exchange.

Milo: I had a feeling you liked grammar and words after you slid from enraged to infuriated when we were talking about your incensed dog.

Miss Cute Devil Butt: I like big vocabularies and I cannot lie.

Groaning, I lean back in my chair, dragging a hand across my chin. What am I doing? Exactly what I said I wouldn’t—I said I wouldn’t get distracted.

Helpless to the buzz building in me, I turn to Trudy for advice. She’s watching me with her big brown eyes. “Girl, maybe I could ask her out on one date. That’s all. No strings. What do you think?”

My pooch tilts her head to the side. She can’t even believe I’m asking.

I hold up a hand in surrender. “Fine. I won’t. I’ll just text her one more time. Then, I’m done, I swear.”

Milo: You know what they say about a man with a big vocabulary . . .

Miss Cute Devil Butt: No. Do tell.

Milo: He has a big dictionary.

I have work to do. I should get moving. But I’m too eager to hear back. I’ll allow myself one last exchange, then I’ll turn my phone to silent. And her response lands.

Miss Cute Devil Butt: That’s a book you can read over, and over, and over . . .

I laugh out loud. She is too much. Would it really ruin my no-romance plan if I took her out for that cake and beer date? Followed by some sex and orgasms? I know she likes cake. I bet she loves orgasms. It’d be a perfect two-fer.

Then I’d be on my way.

She seems like she’d be cool with that scenario.

I’m considering the perfect reply, when Miss Cute Devil Butt texts me one more time with, Gotta go. Thanks again.

Okaaaay.

That’s a buzzkill for ya. There will be no cake, beer, or coming.