The Virgin Society Collection

22. He Rose to the Occasion

22

HE ROSE TO THE OCCASION

Veronica

Since Wednesday is hump day and I’m feeling a little sassy—or maybe a lot—I decide to surprise Milo. A few minutes before the shop opens, I pop outside with the chalk and make a declaration on the board.

I stand back and read my new slogan under the bright morning sun. I am seriously pleased.

Milo must catch sight of me through the window because he strides outside, question marks in his eyes. He scans the sidewalk, but no one else from the store is in earshot. “You look very cat-who-caught-the-canary-of-a-cock.”

I laugh, shaking my head at his ridiculousness. “Yes, the only reason I could be grinning is that I like your dick.”

He gives a confident shrug. “I thought so.”

I step aside and sweep out my arm to show off my handiwork.

National Hump Day. You rose to the occasion, right?

Laughing, he drags a hand down his face. “A dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste, and you don’t waste it,” he says, admiringly.

“It’s not too much, is it?”

He scoffs. “No way. Business has been up since you started your campaigns.”

Business goes up today too. We sell out of roses in a few hours, so I have to change the slogan that afternoon.

Get tulips for the one you want to kiss, and yada, yada, yada.

I’m finishing up with a customer when a mom I recognize from the Little Artists class pops into the store. Ashlee’s on the marketing team at The Dating Pool, and I’ve met her once or twice when I’ve been to the offices, so our worlds already collided. “I could not resist. I have to snag some tulips for my wife,” she says. “Especially since the kiddos will be at your class tonight, which gives us a free hour.”

Wink, wink, indeed. “And I trust you’ll use it well,” I say.

“We love your column but especially the reader comments. That’s my favorite part—the Q and A,” she adds. “We read it after the kids go to bed, of course.”

“So glad to hear that,” I say as I ring up some bright red buds.

“And I’m trying to decide if I want the new butterfly vibe from Just for Her,” she says, and I love how bold she is, asking for sex-toy advice as she shops. “It’s pricey. I can’t decide if I want to spring for it.”

I beckon her closer. “The company just sent me one. For free. Gah. I’m still dancing.”

She gasps. “You have arrived.”

I preen a little. “It might have been one of the greatest moments of my life. But I need to test it solo. Last night, I used another one.”

One well-groomed eyebrow arches. “Did I just hear last night I used another one . . . with a man ?”

Ohhh. I suppose that cat’s about to come out of the bag in my column. I give a coy smile. “I sure did. Man and vibe. And it was soul-shattering.”

She beams. Then she blinks. “Wait. Hold on. Does that mean...?”

She sounds worried, so I toy with her for fun. “That I have to retire?” I ask with a frown.

“Well, do you? Please say no, please say no.”

I smile. “My editor and I discussed my status when I started the column. We’d just change the name to The Virgin Club Alumni .”

Ashlee laughs. “Get it, girl.”

She takes the tulips and goes. A few seconds later, Mister Big Ears strides over. “Should I add toys to the inventory?”

“Maybe you should,” I say playfully, then furrow my brow. “Do you want me to stop talking about them when customers ask?”

“Hell no. I might even change the name to Bikes, Blooms, and Buzz.” He steals a glance at the bike side of the shop. Zara and Ian are busy with customers, with James working on a bike, so Milo lowers his voice. “When can I see you tonight? I’ve got my palm ready and willing to smack your gorgeous ass.”

With a devious glint in his eyes, he lifts his right hand and mimes swatting, and I laugh.

“Oh, you won’t be laughing later,” he teases.

“Good,” I say, my stomach flipping. Then I turn serious. “I have to teach my Little Artists class on Christopher Street. I should be done by seven-thirty,” I say, and I’m about to suggest we meet at my place at eight-thirty or nine, but Milo says, “I’ll pick you up after class if you’d like. We can get a bite to eat first.”

Tingles whoosh down my chest. I wasn’t expecting a date or a pickup. But I am not turning them down. “Sounds perfect.”

I’m not feeling so perfect that evening when I check my email as I head to class. Walking up Seventh Avenue, I read a note from Peterson Books for Young Readers, thanking me for my résumé and saying it’s on file. My shoulders sink. That’s a shame, because Peterson had posted a specific job opening I was more than qualified for. It’s strange that I wouldn’t even get a personal reply, and my stomach twists with worry. Then it knots tighter when I read the next email. It’s from Reiss and Reardon, and it’s an automated message— we have no openings at this time .

But that’s not true. Reiss had an opening as a middle grade editor, and while it was an executive editor job that I’m probably not qualified for, it was still an opening. This email feels like a lie, but it’s not as if I can point fingers at this generic HR reply.

When I reach the community center, I do my best to put the nagging fears out of my mind as I go inside, head to the art room, and smile for the kids. “Who wants to create today?”

The beaming faces of the kiddos help me ignore my woes for the next hour as we work on collages, sprinkling some with glitter.

When class ends and I’ve cleaned up, the head of the community center walks out with me. “Looks like your new gig is going great,” Jessica says with a curious glint in her dark eyes.

“It is. I’m enjoying it,” I say. That’s all true. It’s been the temporary gig of my dreams, but the bike and flower shop is not hashtag life goals .

“I got a new bike there a couple weeks ago, and I saw your sign out front, then checked out each new one after that on social. So clever. Would you ever be interested in doing some social for us? For pay, of course.”

Wow. I wasn’t expecting that. I don’t see myself as a social media strategist, but I won’t turn down good side gigs. “Sure. I’m open to that,” I say cheerily.

“Cool. I want to expand our marketing. I’ll reach out soon.”

“Great,” I say, then a flash of a sexy silhouette catches my gaze. I can’t help but smile when a bearded man in slim-fit shorts and a casual green polo waves from the sidewalk. I beckon him up the steps. “This is Milo. He owns Bikes and Blooms,” I say, introducing them. “This is Jessica. She runs Little Artists, and she got a new bike from your shop a few weeks ago.”

“Sweet,” he says, shaking her hand. As they talk wheels for a minute, my mind returns to the emails. Will other publishers decline so quickly? I still haven’t heard from Tiffany, TJ’s contact. But maybe I will soon. I draw a deep breath, trying to ease my anxiety.

I reconnect with Milo and Jessica’s conversation as they talk about an upcoming charity ride Milo plans to do. “One of my business partners asked me to join his team,” he says.

I paste on a smile so they don’t think I went to la-la land.

Jessica turns to me but wags a finger at Milo. “And don’t you dare let her go, but I might want to steal her away every now and then to do some social media for us. National Pajama Day was my favorite.”

Milo deals me a smile that feels both personal and professional. “Thanks. Veronica is a rock star,” he says.

His professional praise is a welcome counterbalance to the two rejections. But I’m still not ready to think about a future in social media.

We say goodbye, then Milo and I dart a few blocks over to Charles Street.

After we grab a table at a Middle Eastern café, ordering falafels and hummus, I zoom in on him, pushing the book business as far away as I can. “What’s the bike ride you’re doing? And is that why you like sexy pants—because you’re so used to tight bike shorts?” I ask, cradling my chin in my hand.

He glances down at his shorts. “I like clothes. I’m just not one of those Levi jeans-and-gray-shirts guys,” he says, giving a simple answer that I adore.

“Hallelujah.”

“I’d say, since my clothes got you to notice me,” he says, with a crooked smile. “Anyway, Chet from Fletcher Parts is doing a two-day ride this weekend. It’s a charity fundraiser, and he has room on his team. So I think I’ll join him, and maybe convince some of my buddies too. The cause is near and dear to my heart.”

I sit up straighter, eager for details. I want to know more about the man. “Is it an animal rescue?”

“Actually, it’s for a crisis hotline and online support groups for anxiety and depression. My mom works in the field, and I just think mental health doesn’t get enough attention. I’ve always tried to help raise awareness when I can.”

My heart warms, thumping harder. “That’s lovely. Is that why you say it’s near and dear? Because of her work?”

“Definitely. I personally haven’t struggled with those issues, but she really helped my brother and me when we were growing up to see the scope of things people deal with and their different coping mechanisms. Back in high school, I helped out with some groups that tried to raise awareness for teen mental health, then in college too. So it’s always something I’ve done,” he says.

“You’re an ally,” I say.

“I try,” he says with an easy shrug.

My heart flutters, and I dip my face.

“Why are you being all shy?” he asks.

I wave a hand, trying to dismiss my reaction. “Maybe just stop being so . . . yummy,” I mutter.

With a soft laugh, he presses his forehead to mine. “Sorry, not sorry. That’d be impossible. I’m delectable and you know it.”

But he’s also unavailable. Last night, he said he was taking a hiatus. He didn’t say his timeout had ended, but he didn’t have to. The implication was there—he’s still detoxing and knowing how off-limits he is hurts a bit. Though I get it. I have to get it. And maybe his status frees me to say the next thing. “You sure are.”

Since I know we’re going nowhere. Which means I better embrace every second of our to-do-list days.

When the food arrives and we tuck in, Milo gestures down the street toward Little Artists. “What Jessica suggested—is that something you want to do? Social media?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it before. I really want to return to publishing, but I got two rejections today,” I say, as I slice a chunk of the falafel then dip it into the hummus.

He frowns. “That stinks. But there have to be more jobs out there.”

“There are, but it’s a small field. There aren’t many publishing houses, and I’m a little worried I might never get a gig,” I admit.

“Why’s that?” he asks, concerned as he swipes a pita through the hummus.

I set down my fork, then rip off the Band-Aid and tell him the full story of the night of my mortification.

He looks horrified for me, muttering whoa after wow after holy shit . “Sunshine, your cat’s a dick.”

“But it’s my fault. I should have been more careful.”

He cups my cheek, shaking his head. “We all make mistakes. Look at Callie and me. The key is learning from them.”

I believe that. I am trying to learn from my mistake. But what is the lesson? Be more careful? Trust my instincts? I’m not sure, honestly. “You’re probably right,” I say, half-heartedly.

“Listen, I have faith you’ll get interviews soon. And I’d be happy to fill in for you if you needed to go during the workday. I can even ask Iris if I can’t make it. I bet she’d come in for an hour or so.”

“You’d do that?” I ask.

“Of course,” he says with a crisp nod. “You’ll get back into children’s books. Just like I’ll keep expanding in custom bikes.”

“Is that your dream?”

His blue eyes twinkle as he tells me more about the custom ones he’s built, his thrill in crafting them, the reception they get. He’s lit up in a whole new way, and I love how he’s letting me into his mind and his soul.

I love too that when the meal ends, he bends close to me to whisper, “You know what’s next?”

I shiver. “I’m pretty sure I do.”