Chapter Thirty-Two
Thirty-Two
Josie
You know I’m not keeping the Mini Cooper. I’m driving it to Toygasm, and then bringing it right back to the dealer.
Feel guilty cheating on Gertrude?
Yup. I’m a car monogamist
I hit send and stare at the phone. Is this flirting?
Am I flirting? Thankfully, our texts will not be part of data collection for She’s the One.
Still, I’d be embarrassed if it wasn’t so much fun.
We’ve been texting off and on since six this morning.
(Does the man sleep? I have no idea what his house looks like, but for some reason, I think of Batman’s underground lair—all sorts of tech gadgets under one long concrete roof.)
I’d expect nothing less from you. And I bet Gertrude respects your loyalty. Though I do think she needs a little help on the safety front
You ride a motorcycle and you’re worried about safety?
My motorcycle is held together with more than duct tape and good vibes
Right, it’s held together with magic and machismo
There’s a pause, and then Axe calls me on FaceTime—and even though I’m in the bathroom, trying to wrangle my hair into something that looks less like a hot mess, my desire to see his face is an irresistible gravitational pull.
“Heyyy!”
“Morning.” His eyes crinkle with a quick smile, but then he’s all business. “I wanted to give you this news in person before you hear it from the crew.”
“I’m listening.”
“She’s the One wants to data map us for a weekend away. Somewhere cozy, not too fancy, and maybe up near Shimmy Beach.”
“Oh cool.” I sound casual, but I’m squealing inside.
I’ve wanted to go to Shimmy Beach practically my whole life.
It’s always in Shelton’s top-ten nearby romantic destinations, and my Instagram feed is filled with high school friends flaunting engagement rings with Lake Erie shimmering in the background.
Of course, Bryan never wanted to go.
But then it hits me—my first time at Shimmy Beach and I’m not going there for romance.
I’m going there for faux-mance, something even less real than all those staged Instagram photo shoots I’ve long outgrown believing in.
In the next moment, I can feel my smile fade, and then I can’t help but dive into the awkwardness of it all.
“So, are they going to map out everything? Like, even how I take my coffee and whether I wake up with bedhead?”
Axe laughs, a sound that eases some of my nerves. “I doubt they’ll care about the coffee metrics. Also, for your information, you’ve got resting bedhead.”
“Hey!” I pull out my messy bun, trying now to tame it into a high ponytail, even though my hair doesn’t do sleek unless I spend hours burning my fingers and singeing my strands on a flat iron.
“Not to worry. I’ve got a thing for lasses with resting bedhead.”
“I’m not blushing, you’re blushing,” I shoot back with the kind of sarcasm that fools nobody, hoping Axe can’t see the red in my cheeks through FaceTime. Compliments and I go together like toothpaste and orange juice, especially when they come from Axe, who never says anything he doesn’t mean.
“But, aye, to answer your question, it’s pretty comprehensive. There’s a whole haptic suit plan. Section twenty-three of the contract.”
“Subsection A, and if I remember correctly, there are additional sub-subsections one and two,” I say. I keep my voice calm, though I remember that part of our agreement very clearly. I have done plenty of haptic suit googling. I feel my pulse skitter at my throat.
“You should have been a lawyer,” Axe says with a grin.
“Instead of my lifelong dream of being an AI avatar? Please,” I say, smirking. “Look, it’ll be fine, as long as the man in the haptic suit knows how to use his controls.”
“That I can promise,” he says. “I’m actually looking forward to this weekend. We’ll take in the sunset and toast with glasses of perfectly chilled, sweating champagne.”
“And write each other’s names in the sand,” I add.
“Only after I sprinkle the hotel bed with rose petals.” His voice is laced with teasing.
Now my face is full-on tomato as I imagine Axe and me.
In the same hotel room. Sharing a bed. No.
The contract was specific about two separate rooms, but still, there aren’t enough toys at Toygasm to quench the thirst this image has inspired.
Not to mention the fact that my escapades last night have only heightened my wanting. Shit.
“Though we’ll have separate suites, of course, in our separate haptic suits.
Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply…” Axe trails off.
Now Axe MacKenzie is flustered—and Axe MacKenzie doesn’t get flustered.
Could this be my favorite version of Axe?
A little ruffled? His hand pulls through his thick hair, making it stand on end like it’s rebelling against him.
Him off-kilter is as outrageously sexy as when he’s cool and confident.
“Oooh, can you do that thing where I look off into the distance and say, The view is beautiful, and instead of looking at the view, you look at me and say, It is beautiful.” Oh, no—I’ve gone and accidentally shared my favorite romance trope of all time.
“And it’s obvious you mean me and not the view? ”
“Sounds easy enough. I won’t even have to fake it.”
My stomach does a giant swoop, and I bite my lip trying not to grin into the camera. “I’m dreading the analytics team reviewing our hand-holding technique. I can already see the feedback: Fingers were awkwardly entwined. Zero romantic energy.”
“We wouldn’t want to fail hand-holding. Maybe we should practice before, just to make sure we get good scores. Shimmy Beach looks pretty crap—the truth is, if we’re going for a lake view, I prefer the Amalfi Coast. Plus, you get Italian food.”
When I’m quiet—does this guy know I don’t even have a passport?—Axe adds in a lower voice, almost a shy whisper, “Though I’d rather take awkward, data-mapped Shimmy Beach walks with you than go anywhere else in the world without you.”
Does he realize he’s not wired? That he doesn’t have to say all this nice stuff when we aren’t actually on a She’s the One date? Certainly, the butterflies in my chest can’t tell the difference between real and fake flattery at this point.
Axe and I chat about all the places he’s been—and all the places I’m dying to go—until I realize that if I don’t leave now, I’m going to be late for the expo.
“Talk later!” I tell him. “Got to get to Toygasm!”
“Bye, luv.”
Luv? Another tease? But he’s already left the call.
I blink at my phone, then pop it into my bag, wrangle my hair into a messy bun, and run out the door.
The new car is a dream—sorry, Gertrude, guess we’re ethically nonmonogamous now—and after ninety minutes on I-76, I zip through the doors of the Philadelphia convention center with only a little time to spare.
Life is one wild ride. I spent the better part of my childhood in hospitals.
Now, here I am, smack in the middle of Toygasm, the most unhinged sex toy and game expo on the East Coast. Talk about a total one-eighty.
I’m still buzzing from my morning cup of Axe, and I’m running on pure adrenaline while I set up the Grace & Honor pop-up before the crowds flood in.
I look around and see every kind of sex merch imaginable, and I’m all in on how bright and loud this world is, so different from a sterile treatment facility like MS Hospital.
God, I still remember the pediatric wing with that stupid Snow White mural—every night those dwarfs turned into creepy doctors, ready to poke or prod me. Suddenly, I feel the anger trapped in my chest like a fire. I shut my eyes, willing myself to breathe.
Years—years under their control. Their pitying eyes.
Their needles. Not once did anyone ask me what I needed.
Not once did I have a say in my own treatment.
I was just some glorified science project so they could feel like heroes.
The irony is almost laughable—it’s enough to make me want to smash something.
But I’m not that helpless kid anymore. And if this job lets me take back even an ounce of power from those assholes who stole my childhood, I’m taking it.
Fuck. Them. All.
Half an hour later, I’ve turned my fury into focus.
I step back to take in my booth, admiring my handiwork.
It’s a full-on sensory explosion: slick, shiny silicone toys, lots of plush and fuzzy handcuffs, and some of the store’s most popular silky lingerie.
The whole setup pops against a pale blush backdrop with a giant Grace & Honor logo blazing in fluorescent pink over it.
We’ve also got some of the more PG stuff we sell at the shop—like scented candles and oils to set that fun, sexy vibe.
I snap a quick pic and text it to Honor to show off my work.
Then, on a whim, I send it to Axe. Before I can second-guess myself, he texts back: Pure brilliant, Ginger Snap! Well done, you!
I feel a tingle of anticipation. The booth feels like a candy store for grown-ups—and I get to be the candy lady.
The crowd starts pouring in right at 10:00 a.m., and it’s game on.
I’m all about pitching our sexy stuff, from the basic to the bougie.
It’s a skill I didn’t even know I had until I started working for Honor.
She taught me that there’s freedom in pleasure, that embracing desire is basically feminist AF, and that selling vibrators should feel as easy as selling a cozy sweatshirt.
Turns out, people love talking about what gets them going as much as they love turning on gadgets that buzz, swirl, light up, or heat up in their hands. I don’t blame them.
Life is hard—adults gotta play, too. No shame in that.