12. Boobs on the Half
12
BOOBS ON THE HALF SHELL
Milo
All of Tuesday, I berate myself for my text transgression the night before.
Though technically, I made several text transgressions. Using her nickname, texting so late, and acting like the whole damn convo was a Lay’s potato chip—couldn’t eat just one.
But I have to stop snacking on Veronica’s texts. What’s it going to lead to?
Dognapping. Bike stealing. Tanking my business with bad reviews.
So I course correct, talking politely to all my employees, like Zara and my part-time mechanic James, as well as Veronica, asking how they’re doing, and zipping my lips when it comes to flirty comments.
I spend most of the day in the back of the store, working on a handmade hybrid for a customer who wants to commute across the Brooklyn Bridge each day to the office.
When I hop on my bike after work for an evening ride, I renew my vows.
Like a devoted monk, I abstain from late-night texting on Tuesday night, and all through the next day too, giving my full attention to the store so I can claw my way out of the five thousand dollar hole.
I’ve seen a slight uptick in flower sales thanks to Veronica’s National Day efforts, so that’s another reason to lay off the Lay’s.
On Thursday night, Zara takes off early, and James signs out too, leaving Veronica and me to close. At six twenty-five, I’m finishing adding new reflecting pedals to a bike as Trudy noses a stuffed alligator toy in the corner of the shop.
Veronica’s busy helping a good-looking, forty-something guy in a tailored suit pick out flowers. “I bet these would do the trick,” she says, guiding him to a bucket of orange roses. Then her lips turn up in a devilish grin. “You could add coral too. Those will get your message across even more.”
The silver fox hums for a few seconds then nods. “I should probably do both then.”
“Go for doubles, I like to say.”
I whimper silently. I want doubles with her. Hell, singles would do.
“You’re brilliant . . . Veronica,” the man says, and out of the corner of my eye I catch him reading her name tag.
Hold on.
Is the dude flirting with her while he’s buying flowers for his lover? I rise, adjusting the bike seat as I listen in.
“Why, thank you,” Veronica says. “Let me just put these bouquets together. Two dozen of each, right?”
“Yes. I was going to just get a dozen, but this seems to send a better message . . .”
“It sure does,” she says, as she arranges the flowers. “Anything else planned for your special night? Dinner out, dinner in?”
The customer smirks.
It’s the kind of look a man gives when he plans a seductive evening for his woman. “ In . Definitely in. And while we’re at it, I hope you don’t mind my asking, but I want to give her a little something sexy to wear too.” His voice dips like he’s the slightest bit shy, but not shy enough to stop. But I take the question to mean the dude’s not hitting on her, and that’s a damn good thing.
“Any suggestions on where I could go at this hour? I’m a little late.”
She ties a piece of twine into a bow, as she answers, “Try You Look Pretty Today. They opened a second shop here in the Village. It’s a great lingerie store and the owner is so helpful.”
“Great,” he says. “Appreciate that.”
And I appreciate Veronica’s upsell to four-dozen flowers, but why did the dude have to mention unmentionables? Now I’m thinking of teddys, nighties, and those cropped bras that can fry a man’s brain.
I bet Veronica wears one of those bras. Boobs on the half shell I call them.
Yup, in one fell swoop, there goes my monkish restraint. Here comes my curious cat. Once the customer leaves, I flip the sign on the door to say closed , then make my way to Veronica’s half of the shop.
“So now customers are asking for lingerie recommendations? I’m a little surprised,” I say, editing out the part where I ask: how do you know so much about what people need, from friendship to the boudoir? Her expertise is unexpected. “No shade on Iris—my friend does a great job—but no one ever asked her where to get underwear.”
Veronica laughs softly then drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “No one is getting anyone underwear, Milo. He’s getting his wife of twenty years a teddy, a garter belt, and stockings.”
I blink, a little hot under the collar. “He told you that?”
“He might as well have. It’s a Thursday night and he’s bringing her flowers that represent passion. I think it’s safe to say he’s not popping into the nearest Target to grab her the store brand three-pack of cotton undies on sale for half off,” she says, as she organizes the display of greeting cards on the counter.
But I bet you’d look good enough to eat in the Target brand, or any brand, or nothing at all.
“Good for them,” I say, but it comes out strangled. I try again to get to the heart of the matter. “I’ve gotta say—customers like talking to you. You’re like an Ask Me Anything of the flower world.”
As she stacks the cards, she gives a little shrug. “It’s probably because of my freckles.” She wiggles her nose, showing off the spray of dots across her nose. “Supposedly, they make me seem more approachable and less threatening. Who knew freckles were so . . . inviting? But mostly, I give off an ask-me-anything vibe. I probably should have worked at an information desk. Maybe I missed my true calling.”
In her corner, Trudy chomps down on the toy gator.
The soundtrack of a dog killing a stuffy puts us in safer territory than lingerie chatter. “You have a gift, Veronica, and I’m glad this worked out. I needed someone who could take the bloom side of the business under her wing. I’ve had a lot to deal with since Trudy came back.”
She tilts her head. “Where was she?”
Ah, shit. I didn’t intend to go there, but I walked into that. “With my ex,” I say, the words as bitter as the memory of Callie’s lying, stealing, and cheating. “We had a dog custody thing. She took Trudy, even though she was mine. I adopted her years before I even met my ex, but I had to go to arbitration to get her back, and . . .” I stop myself before I go further. No one likes hearing about past loves, especially from their boss. “And now she’s mine again.”
Veronica winces. “That sounds terrible.” She crosses the shop, stopping at Trudy, whose mouth is full of green fur. “Sweet girl, are you glad to be home?” she asks.
Trudy drops the toy and licks Veronica’s hand.
Fuck me, that is too sweet. I better not look, or my heart will scamper over to the two of them.
But I can’t pull my gaze away from the sight of the woman petting my dog.
“Yes, you are, you sweetie-pie. You’re back with your person.”
Be still, my beating heart. Veronica didn’t say baby to the dog, or dog daddy to me, and I couldn’t be happier.
Veronica stands and smooths out her apron. “She’s clearly yours, and I’m glad she’s back.”
“Me too,” I say, and since some truths bear repeating, I say it again. “Me too.” Then I shift gears, moving away from this getting-to-know-you chat. It could lead to text transgressions later. “Anyway, we’re both glad you’re here.”
“Thank you,” Veronica says, and lets out a long breath as she returns to closing up, grabbing the broom to sweep. “I really like the job so far, and I need it,” she says as I join her, sorting the flowers in the cooler case.
“But you do want to return to publishing,” I say. This job is temporary. It ends in three months.
“Definitely, but I’m glad to do this in the meantime.” Her voice is a little tight.
I want to ask what happened at her last gig, but chances are her company let her go because of cutbacks or some stupid shit. A part of me imagines asking her out in three months when we’re no longer working together. But entertaining that line of thinking won’t get me through the rest of the summer, so I table those dangerous thoughts.
“Do you think you’ll return to editing? Or is there a list-making side of the publishing business you could go to?” I ask with a smile.
She smiles back. “Editing definitely. Making lists is about the extent of my writing skills.”
I arch a dubious brow. “I have to disagree. I think you’re selling yourself short. Your sister might have the romance-writing genes, but your chalkboard posts are pretty clever.”
Snorting, she waves a hand. “That’s just social media stuff. Besides, I love editing. I was a total bookworm as a kid.”
“The kind who brought a flashlight under the covers to read well past midnight?”
With softness in her gaze, she nods. “I had reading forts everywhere. We grew up in Wistful, Connecticut, and Hazel and I even tried to convince our dad to build us a tree house for reading.”
“And did he?”
Her fond expression vanishes. “He said once we mastered the four forms of the conditional tense, we could have a tree house.”
“Ouch. Sounds like a tough guy,” I say, but I suspect that’s an understatement.
“And he wonders why his marriage didn’t work out,” she says heavily, jaw tight. I could tell her my dad’s a prick too, but when Veronica resumes sweeping, she steers the conversation back to lighter grounds. “And were you under the covers with beakers and Bunsen burners?”
I laugh. “Full geek, Veronica. But , I did all the seed-in-a-jar and soil-testing experiments known to middle school.”
“Ah, the blooms part of Bikes and Blooms started early. And now you’re selling orange and coral roses to men who adore their wives and buy them lingerie.” Those green eyes twinkle again as they meet mine. “What if tomorrow is National Lingerie Day?”
Here we go again.
What if tomorrow is National This Will Be the Death of My Restraint Day?
I swallow past the desert in my throat. “Yeah, that sounds great,” I rasp out, closing the cooler door.
“What’s better for a Friday night? A romantic evening and a passionate night in,” she says.
“Nothing,” I say in a smoky voice that’s just shy of betraying my desire.
“Then let’s make it so.”
“By the power vested in you by the National Day Council, tomorrow is . . . Lingerie Day,” I say, like a declaration.
We set up the chalkboard outside and she writes the new tagline, then takes the photo. Back inside, she sends the pic to me, and I upload it in a draft.
“Do you want to write a caption? The others you did were pretty catchy,” I say. She’s shown she’s got a magic touch with words.
“What if we do something that makes it seem like we’re telling a story about a Friday night?”
“What do you mean exactly?” I ask, enrapt. She might be casting a spell on me already.
“Something about . . .” She glances over the bikes, but she seems faraway in her thoughts. “ Friday is my favorite night of the week. Bring me flowers and when you come home, I’ll be wearing a little lace, listening to an undress-me tunes playlist. Make your Friday night the kind of night worth waiting all week for .”
When she turns back to me, her eyes have a dreamy look in them. I couldn’t see them on Monday night when she was on her balcony, but I know, without a doubt, that’s how she looked on her balcony.
She’s got this sensual energy about her. I can feel it wafting off her. It feels the same as when she talked into her phone into the summer night.
She’s Naughty Juliet.
And I am Too Hard Romeo.
“That’s really good,” I say thickly, my brain a storm of erotic images. “Sounds like a great Friday.”
“Mmm. It sure does,” she says, perhaps still a little lost in the haze as she takes my phone and types. My resolve crumbles a little more when I catch another whiff of her. “Is that . . . orange blossom?” I whisper.
She raises her face, those big eyes glimmering. “You have a very good nose, Milo.”
I would love to use it to learn all the flavors of her skin. But I have to resist.
I clear my throat, the sound a dividing line between my flirty alter ego and my reluctant monk. “I’m going to, um, finish that bike,” I say roughly, hoping my voice doesn’t give away where my body is at, and that my words don’t reveal the lie. I’m done with the bike.
But I fiddle with it, hoping it’ll take my mind off Veronica as she finishes closing up. When she’s done, I could make an excuse to stay, but I find myself leaving with her, and my dog.
After all, there’s nothing flirty about walking. It’s a practical activity involving placing one foot after the other.
Out on the street, I take one last glance at the sign advertising National Lingerie Day . I try to fight off the urge to talk about lingerie.
But I’m woefully unsuccessful. I’ve got underthings on my mind. “So, undies don’t cut it? Do we say lacy numbers? Sexy panties? And while we’re at it, what about bra? It sounds so practical, but then, those half-bra thingamajigs hardly seem practical.”
She giggles. “Do you mean a demi-cup bra?”
I snap my fingers with my free hand. “Yes, that’s it. I forgot what it was called.”
“Demi cups are sexy. But, no, not at all practical,” she says.
“Shame, that,” I say, my mind drifting off as Trudy trots in front of us.
“And when you’re peddling flowers and passion and romance, then underthings should be lacy lingerie, and so on,” Veronica says, then slings her purse higher on her shoulder. The move dislodges the strap of her dress. It falls down her arm, nestling in the crook of her elbow.
That strap. That lucky piece of strap. I look away. If I find out she’s wearing a demi cup, I will melt into a puddle of once upon a man.
I point to my favorite girl, prancing along. “You know, you can bring StudMuffin to work if you want. I have a shop dog. We could probably manage two shop dogs.”
She sets a hand on her heart. “Aw, I wish. You’ve met him. They love him at doggy daycare, but he’s kind of a dick with strangers and bikes. And your girl is such a sweetheart.”
I laugh. “Trudy’s a good one.”
“How did you wind up with that name? Trudy’s unusual and I’ve been curious since that day I met you on the street.”
I smile, picturing my dog’s namesake. “My grandma—Mom’s mom—was close with my brother and me. Helped raise us. Her name was Gertrude, and she loved dogs. She asked me to name a dog after her one day. So I did.”
Veronica sighs happily. “That’s really lovely, Milo.”
My heart squeezes at the thought of my grandma. “She had a good, long life. A healthy one. I hope Trudy will have the same. Now, it’s your turn. Where does StudMuffin come from?”
Veronica dips her face as we reach the street corner. I nudge her side with my elbow. “C’mon, ’fess up.”
“You’ve seen him. He’s a sexy beast,” she says, with a little smoke and fire in her voice. “And so is my cat.”
“Is his name Casanova?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Nope. Hot Stuff.”
“So, pretty much the same,” I say.
“Yup. I guess I just like romance, and well...”
I fill in the and well .
Sex.
She likes sex and romance and talking about it and helping others find more of it in their lives.
From the names of her pets to the names of her lipstick, from the devils on her butt to her knowledge of lingerie, Veronica Valentine is a woman who’s in touch with her sexy side.
So much for my attempts to clear my mind. Guess I won’t be joining a monastery after all.