The Virgin Society Collection

15. A Good Boss

15

A GOOD BOSS

Milo

I’m still reeling in the morning. And, reading .

Then re-reading.

By the time I finish my morning coffee, I’ve damn near memorized her columns. Each one is a shot of adrenaline mixed with lust, chased by dirty dreams, then jet-fueled by my nitro horniness.

Great. Fucking great.

After I lock up and leave, I carry my bike down the steps in my building, Trudy trotting by my side. As I go, I ask myself—again—how the hell I’m going to make it through the rest of the summer, let alone today.

Outside my building, I glance at the next one over. It’s a miracle I survived last night. That I didn’t bust out of my home to howl under her balcony.

With the July sun beating down on my shoulders, I stare at Veronica’s deck, hoping for a glimpse of her, but she’s not outside this morning.

All those evenings I walked past her, she must have been dictating her column. Like the night I swore she said tell me what you want .

The same words appeared in her top-five fantasies column. A guy can say to me . . . tell me what you want. And I’ll tell him. Because I’ve got a list, starting with my top-five fantasies.

A rumble works its way up my chest. Possibly a growl.

“Maybe I need a muzzle,” I mutter as I secure Trudy in her bike seat. Because all I want to do when I see Veronica is ask, Can I take you home tonight and work through your list ?

But a good boss wouldn’t say that.

And I am a good boss.

Swinging my leg over the bar, I settle onto my bike. Just as I set my phone in its holder, it pings with a text from Iris. Can’t wait to see you tonight, Funcle!

I laugh at the nickname, then write back. Give that little chunk a kiss. See you tonight, friend.

I set an alarm to remind me to go. Iris had her baby a week ago, and I’m trekking to Brooklyn after work to see the crew. Maybe if I think about babies all day, I won’t replay Veronica’s columns in my head.

And maybe my bike will grow wings and fly.

With my head down, I put my focus solely on the road, then hop onto the street and navigate the perils of the New York streetscape. My thoughts clear as I battle traffic. Maybe I’ll ride all day and all night for the rest of the summer. Sounds like a great coping mechanism.

I slow as I reach the Bikes and Blooms block, then jump up onto the sidewalk and off the bike so I can walk it the rest of the way. “You’re going to meet little Danny tonight,” I tell Trudy. “Does that make you an aunt? A dog aunt? A dog godmother?”

She wags her tongue as we roll up to the store.

“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.”

But that’s not a good entry into the no-need-to-worry topic, so I click on the card reader to sort receipts. A minute later, my office phone rings, and I’ve been waiting for a call.

“That might be an apparel guy I need to talk to. I’ll be right back,” I say, then I dart into my office and answer.

It’s Chet at Fletcher Parts, one of my regular suppliers. As Trudy wanders into my office, squeaking her gator, we discuss the delay on an upcoming order. I’m eager to end the call, but he’s not so quick to hang up. “Hey, tomorrow we have a Bike to Work event in Central Park. We’ll be passing out info on bike routes and sharing a checklist on safety procedures. You’re still coming, right?”

That’s tomorrow?

I glance at the calendar on my computer. Yup. There it is. Snuck up on me. But that’s an important event. “Absolutely. I’ll be there,” I say, and when I finally escape from Chet the Chatterbox, I’m ready to fly to the Bloom side of the store. But Veronica’s at my office door, hip jutting out, purse on her shoulder.

“Hey, do you mind if I take off now?” she asks, hooking her thumb toward the street.

Fuck. My heart clangs to the floor, right next to Trudy and the decimated reptile. “Of course,” I say, since that’s what a good guy would do.

Except, nope.

I’m wrong. Dead wrong.

It’s No Worries Day.

“Veronica,” I call out.

The charming, lively brunette turns around, tilting her head. “Yes, Milo?”

Ah, hell. The way my name rolls off her tongue is too much.

I’m not a good boss. I’m not at all gentlemanly when I close the distance between us and say, “I don’t own a combination bookstore and calorie-free cake shop, but I’m very good with my hands.”

She gasps. Her eyes widen, but the nerves I’ve seen before are all gone. The only thing I see now is desire.

“You are,” she says, soft and sultry.

I reach for her shoulders, cupping them. Her skin is so soft, and so inviting. “I want to tell you something,” I whisper, my voice a rough scrape.

“Tell me,” she says, sounding as desperate as I feel.

Then, I follow the roadmap she gave me in number five in her top-five fantasies. “I thought about you all day.”

She drops her purse to the floor, a few feet from my chomping dog. Then, she grabs my face and angles her head like she’s about to kiss me.

Bring it on.