Chapter 6
SIX
D AKOTA
I swirl my straw through the ice and oat milk, churning up the chai at the bottom of the cup while I sit in the corner of Hotcakes. Marlowe, the owner, is one of my best friends, and another of Hazel’s bridesmaids. She’s working with a couple of her employees, finishing up their closing routine before she can come sit with me. The place opens at the crack of dawn, so they close just after the lunch shift, which leaves me plenty of time to chat with her before I have to go back to Seven Sins across the street for my shift.
I hadn’t been able to sleep in like I wanted this morning. Grant let me off the hook late last night, but the events of the evening just kept playing in a loop in my head. The way he talked to me. What he asked for in exchange for the help he was giving me—if you can call destroying my side hustle help .
Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t thinking of leaving behind my bar and changing careers, but I didn’t hate the subscription site work. The men were easy enough to talk to, and several of them had even been nice. I expected to be wading waist-deep in creeps when I leaped into this whole thing. Still, I was pleasantly surprised to find it was mostly guys who were lonely and wanted someone to talk to about their days or escape their daily routine through fantasy for a half hour or two. It isn’t nearly as scandalous as I’d made it out to be in my head. It felt a lot like running the bar—look cute, flirt, show a little cleavage, keep the discussion light and the patrons smiling. Simple stuff really.
I still know that it’s the sort of thing I’d be scorned for in this small town. I already took enough shit for being the wild child who’d been running a bar since she turned twenty-one. Grandmas clutched their pearls, and mamas didn’t see me as the type you took home for family dinner on Sunday nights. I’d learned to live with that over the years, but this would bring out the gossips in full force if they found out.
Which is why I don’t know whether or not to tell Marlowe. Not that she’d tell anyone. In our friend group, she’s the vault—the one you can tell anything to without fear of judgment or overbearing advice, and the same one who would take all your secrets to her grave. But we don’t usually keep secrets from each other in our tight-knit group, and I’d be forcing her to do just that.
I can’t imagine telling Hazel with the wedding looming and her former and future brother-in-law at the center of it. Bristol, our other best friend, is drowning in her own money and time problems. I can’t add mine to the pile just to ease my mind. So it’s Marlowe or no one. I look up to see her putting a few baked goods on a plate and grinning at me from across the room. I smile back.
She’d never get herself into this situation. In addition to being the secret keeper, she’s also the good girl. The one who dutifully took over her mother’s bakery and charms every single person who walks in the door with her sunshiny disposition. Some days, I wish some of it could wear off on me, but it never seems to take, no matter how many years we’ve been friends.
She sits down across from me and immediately clocks my mood. She pushes a plate of chocolate croissants, cookies, and mini cupcakes in front of me.
“Dealer’s choice for your troubles, but you gotta spill.” She raises a brow.
“What makes you think I have something to spill? Maybe I just wanted some afternoon tea and company,” I counter.
“You look like you haven’t slept, and if you’re here instead of in bed grabbing the last few hours before you have to be ready for work, then it’s dire—whatever it is.”
“It is dire.” I sigh and tear off a piece of the chocolate croissant. “But I don’t know if I should pull you into it or not. It’s messy.”
“How so?”
“I can’t tell the girls. I can’t tell anyone. It’s…” I look out the big picture window to see a pair of couples walking by. “It’s embarrassing and awkward.”
“But?”
“But I need perspective.”
“All right. Then I’m here. Spill.” She insists.
“Okay. I’m sparing details about the whos and the hows in order to simplify this and keep you out of the mud.”
She nods and sips her drink while she lets me continue.
“Say someone needed extra money, and instead of joking about that whole selling pictures of their feet thing, they actually did it.” I look up at her to check her reaction, but she’s unmoved, simply waiting for me to continue. “And then one of the people who saw those pictures of her cute feet decided that he wanted to be the only one seeing them.”
“A subscriber who wants to date you?” She tilts her head and drops the pretense of this being about my friend. She knows me too well. Well enough to know I’d be exactly the friend who would try something like this for shits and giggles.
“Not date me but be an exclusive subscriber. I’d still be selling pictures of my feet, but he’d be the only one buying them.”
“But he’d make up for the lost revenue?” She’s all business while she considers this.
“Yes, and then some.”
“Is he a creep?” Her brow arches up in concern.
“No. He’s… Well, he’s not boyfriend material or anything like that, but he’s not a creep.”
“Not going to cause you any sort of trouble or harm?”
“Not in the way you’re thinking.”
“But there’s a problem.” She looks at me thoughtfully, tearing off a piece of croissant and taking a nibble.
“I know him outside the subscription website.” I run my finger over the edge of my nail as I explain.
“A regular at the bar?” Her brow creases.
“Yes.” It was technically true, and I was running with it.
“Okay… so you’re worried he’ll say something to other people you know?”
“No. I don’t think he would. It wouldn’t do him any good to do that.”
“Is he married?” She looks up from her glass, and her eyebrow climbs a little higher.
“No. Nothing like that just… if you were selling pictures of your feet and a guy who came into the bakery every day was suddenly the only one buying them. But then he was still co ming into the bakery, getting his bread and muffins. Wouldn’t that be weird for you?”
“I suppose it would be an odd arrangement, but if he’s not creepy and not married or anything. I don’t see the problem.” She shrugs but then blinks and gives me a curious look. “Unless I liked him as something more than a customer.”
“I…” Don’t know about the word like. I’d had a crush on Grant when I was younger. The same way every other girl in this town grew up having a crush on at least one of the Stockton brothers. But the older I got and the more we clashed, the less it was a crush and more of a complication. A weird echo of a feeling that I couldn’t put words to.
“Let me guess. It’s complicated.” She knows me well.
“Something like that.”
“Wait… is he hot?” She pauses mid-sip to ask the question.
“Yes. Very.” That’s one I can be honest in answering because it’s ridiculous to lie about, even if I do hate him most of the time. She grins brightly, and I feel like she’s about to do a little dance on my behalf.
“Dakota!! Oh my god. Okay then. I don’t get it—what’s the problem, or I mean… what’s your question that has you worried?”
“Am I stupid for getting into this situation? I mean, it’s going to backfire somehow, right?”
“As long as you think he can be discreet, it honestly sounds perfect. You get your money. He gets his feet. He’s hot, has disposable income, and he keeps your secrets? What’s not to like there?” When she puts it like that, it’s hard to argue with.
“I don’t know. It just seems risky.” I sigh.
“Less risky than taking feet pics for hundreds of guys who could be creeps,” she counters, playing devil’s advocate.
“I suppose that’s true.” I nod.
I could trust Grant. His loyalty to my brother had been unwavering, and even if we don’t see eye to eye on much, he would never try to hurt me. Not on purpose. Even with the rival bar situation, it’d been a natural thing for him to do. He ran a casino and a resort. The place having a bar just made sense. We’d both thought, and I’d hoped, it wouldn’t have any effect on my sales.
“So if it were me then… I’d do it. Too many upsides to worry about the slim chance of a downside.” She shrugs. “Simple economics.”
“This is why I need you for advice.” I smile at her practical assessment.
“I’ve got you. I’m guessing this is vault?”
“Yeah. I don’t want to tell Hazel. Not right now. She’ll feel guilty, and I just want her to enjoy this wedding and have fun. Bristol too. She’s got a lot on her own plate, and I don’t want to drag her into my moral dilemmas.”
“Fair enough.”
So that was it then. I had the Marlowe good girl stamp of approval to go forth and take naked pictures for Grant Stockton in exchange for keeping the bar out of the red and Hazel’s wedding celebrations on track.