The Virgin Society Collection

13. Mister Sexy Pants

13

MISTER SEXY PANTS

Milo

Summer is a busy season for bikes, so the store is buzzing most days with customers. The whole crew pitches in, with Zara and James on the bike side, and another part-timer named Ian, a local community college student, as our swing. He helps out where needed, with Ian handling both pedals for bikes and petals for flowers.

One week turns into the next, turns into the next. On a sunny midweek morning, I wear trim, plaid pants to work, and Zara cracks up. “Are you trying to bring retro duds back into fashion?”

“Trying to? I believe I already did,” I say.

Zara rolls her eyes, cracking up. “Veronica,” Zara says, shouting across the store. “Have you heard? Our boss is a trendsetter with his fashion-plate pants.”

The employer in me likes that Zara’s included Veronica in the camaraderie, but the man really wants to hear what the florist has to say about my clothes.

Veronica glances up from the tulips she’s setting in the display case. “Pants are the worst,” she says, a little impishly.

Huh.

That’s not quite an answer. But I lose interest in pants as my gaze lingers on her skirt.

She does wear skirts all the time.

Every single day.

God bless her.

The day she flashed me her panties, she had on a red, polka-dotted one.

“Maybe tomorrow should be National Skirt Day. Maybe even Red Polka Dot Skirt Day,” I add with a wink, just for her.

Veronica’s eyes flicker with surprise, then with a heat that I feel all the way across the store.

The National Day themes lure more customers and bring new online reviews. But each time one pops up, I tense, dreading that it could be one of Callie’s awful exes trying to trash me again. I did everything I could to bury those nasty comments, but now and then, they resurface.

But so far, so good.

They’re short and sweet, like, Bikes and Blooms will find the flower pairings you never knew you needed , and, Go for the flowers, stay for the recommendations!

On a Saturday evening, nearly five weeks after Veronica started working at the shop, I’m in my office, emailing a supplier, when my phone pings, signaling another new review.

I click on the alert, bracing myself for a slap in the face.

But I relax once more as I read: Love the new florist! She knows how to find the right blooms for any occasion! And she sure knows her other gifties too. Love her recs. She deserves all the buzz!

Huh.

That’s quite a review, and quite intriguing. Maybe this person means the lingerie recommendation? But gifties is ringing a naughtier bell.

I swear I’ve heard Iris use that word. I plug gifties into Google, then add sexy for fun.

And it’s a damn good thing I’m using an incognito browser. The third search result is the sex toy brand Just for Her. The slogan promises a vibrator is the giftie that keeps on giving .

Oh, hell yes.

That would probably bring us repeat business. I switch to my phone, calling up the review there.

Then, I take a beat to devise a plan. It’s not like I can say, Are you recommending sex toys on the sly? If so, that is fuck hot.

But I can drop clues. Test her reaction.

Phone in hand, I head for Veronica.

When she finishes ringing up two dozen lilacs for a salt-and-pepper-haired lady, my new florist turns to me, eyes sparkling. “Confession: lilacs are my favorite flowers,” she says. “I always get excited when customers want them.”

Confession: I’m excited now, thinking how Veronica would smell if I locked the door, tucked a lilac behind her ear, then leaned in to inhale her.

And kissed her all over, then asked what toy she likes best.

But I strike that sensual fantasy from my head. “Check this out.” I turn the phone to show her the praise, then keep my tone light as I skirt the topic. “Maybe you do want to confess. Are you running an underground gift advice business here at the shop?”

Her eyes widen with a flicker of fear, but the look passes quickly as she gives a casual shrug and a smile.

“You’ve figured out my secret,” she says, all playful.

Damn. I’m more confused, but I’ve got to know. It’s just too tasty a treat for me to walk away from.

I park an elbow on the counter. “Yup. I knew it. You’re an anonymous expert at . . .”

I don’t say gifties . I want her to connect the dots. But at the word anonymous she swallows, looks away. Only, when she returns her gaze to me, her smile has turned devilish. “At flower recommendations, of course.”

Nice sidestep, but I’m not quite buying it. Think, Milo, think.

I mean, if she’s a secret agent for Just for Her, imagine the buzz—all puns aside—she’d generate for the store.

I can’t resist. “You do give amazing flowers recs, that’s for sure. But you’re good at gift suggestions in general. Is that a special skill of yours?”

C’mon. Just admit it. Say you’re an agent for good—the good of orgasms.

But her expression doesn’t change at all. “Thanks, I try. And sometimes customers ask me for recommendations for lingerie, as you know, and restaurants and stuff,” Veronica says, breezily. “PJs too. Thanks to all the National Days.”

Then, the door swings open and a new customer comes in. I walk away, wondering what stuff is.

But I bet it involves gifties.

I know you have a secret, Miss Cute Devil Butt.

On Sunday afternoon, I put secrets and stuff far out of my head while I chill with my friends at the arcade.

I cock my arm, then roll the heavy ball up the lane.

The Skee-Ball jumps in the air, dancing close to the thirty-point hole, then it lands and sinks. “Yes! I am the stud of Skee- Ball,” I declare, showboating in front of my friends Axel and Drew, and my brother. We’re at Let the Good Times Roll in Chelsea.

“Not so fast,” a familiar voice deadpans from my side.

Shit, I forgot Drew didn’t take his final turn in the game. He’s at the lane next to mine. No way will I beat him with my arm. Maybe my mind, though. I like to win at Skee-Ball, a tall order against an NFL quarterback, but maybe I can trip him up on a technicality. “Don’t you have a clause or something in your contract that says you can’t play games like this?”

Flashing a confident grin, Drew reaches for a ball. “That’s for dangerous shit, like ziplining and parachuting. But Skee-Ball? I’m sure it can only improve my excellent arm.” Then he sends the orb right at one of the toughest targets and adds one hundred points to his score. “Yes!” he shouts.

My brother pats my shoulder sympathetically. “Some guys have to show off,” he says.

Drew goes down the line, pointing at each of us. “I make you all play harder when you try to beat me. Now pay up.”

He rubs his fingers together. I grab some bills from my wallet and slap them in his palm. Axel does too, and Bryan follows suit. Once Drew’s collected his bet, we leave the games behind and grab a table at the bar and order a round.

I haven’t seen the whole crew like this in a few months—Axel was traveling in Europe, researching his latest novel, and Drew lives in California, but he spends time in New York during the summers.

It’s good to see the guys again. When I was with Callie, I didn’t spend much time with my friends. She didn’t like it when I hung out with anyone but her.

Man, I wish I’d read the warning signs sooner.

But then, when I was a kid, I didn’t see the signs that my dad was cheating on my mom. Maybe my douche-radar has been on the fritz my whole life, and I’m destined to misread people.

Hell, I’m not terribly good at figuring out Veronica either.

I suppose it’s safer with her on the platonic side, even though my dick disagrees. But he and I don’t often see eye to eye.

When the server brings us beers, I thank her then offer a toast. “To . . . adulting,” I say, more heavily than I expect.

Axel knits his brow. “You’re no fun.”

“Tell me about it,” I say.

My brother clinks his bottle to mine. “I take it your half-hearted toast has something to do with your Be a Good Boy project?”

Drew sits up taller. “I want to hear about this. Are you behaving, Milo?”

“Yes, and I have no idea if this is good or bad. But I know this much—it’s both character-building and dick-torturing, having to work with someone you’re wickedly attracted to,” I mutter.

Bryan laughs humorlessly. “I’ll drink to that.” One of his ex-boyfriends is a carpenter he worked with, and the results from that dating decision were disastrous.

“Another reason why I work alone,” Axel says, a little smug.

Drew leans forward, meeting my gaze. “What’s the story? I miss hearing your romantic woes. They make me feel better about myself.”

“Gee thanks,” I say, drily. But I do want to talk about Veronica. Working with her all day winds up my libido. Trying to understand her tangles my brain. But lately, I feel more than lust. Whether I can figure out her secret or not, I can’t stop thinking about her. She’s funny, clever, bright, and seems to have a fascinating life outside of work. The more I get to know her, the more I want to know her.

“So there’s this woman who took over for Iris. But I met her at a cake shop when I was filling in for Iris’s husband a few months ago,” I say, taking them back to the starting line. “And we had a fun conversation then. Maybe a month or two later, I was on my way to the arbitration hearing, and I hopped onto the sidewalk to avoid a truck.”

Axel shakes his head, huffing. “Cyclists on the sidewalk are the bane of my existence.”

Drew grins wickedly at his cousin. “I thought bad grammar was? You were bitching about the misuse of lay and lie the other week.”

“You lay an egg. You lie down in bed. It’s not hard, people,” Axel snarls like the malcontent he is.

“But what about laid? That’s what I like to do in bed.” Bryan smirks, stretching his big arms behind his head and parking them there.

“Yes, I believe we all like to do that in bed,” Axel drawls.

Drew cups his mouth. “Earth to dickwads. I’m actually interested in Milo’s tale of woe.”

“Thank you, Drew,” I say, then tell them about StudMuffin lunging for my bike, Veronica inadvertently flashing me her panties, us both spraying glitter on my beard, then me finding the lost earrings. “And after I returned them, we started texting, and now she’s my employee.”

Axel whistles, long and appreciatively. “That sounds like one hell of a meet-cute.”

Bryan squeezes my shoulder protectively. “But Milo has a list a mile long of why he doesn’t want to get . . .”

The sentence dies, and I follow my brother’s gaze to Drew, who holds his beer, hand frozen midair.

“Are you okay?” I ask, a little concerned.

The football player blinks, then stares at me with new eyes. “I know who you are,” he whispers. “You’re Mister Sexy Pants.”