Sexy and Funny, Hilarious Erotic Romance Bundle (31 page)

“Tell me what depraved sexual things you let Dalton Deangelo do to you,” Shayla said. “Or I’ll keep spraying you with water.”

“Well, you know how I always say I can’t see the fuss over receiving oral sex?”

Her face lit up.

“Let’s just say I’m a believer,” I said. “This postal outlet is now open for incoming mail of the tongue variety.”

“You dirty slut!”

I got up and closed the bathroom window, because Mr. Galloway didn’t need to know what a dirty slut I was, and I was about to tell Shayla every detail, even the embarrassing ones.
Especially
the embarrassing ones.

I woke up in my own bed, which contained only me and some fig newton cookie crumbs—a few more fig newton cookie crumbs than I would recommend for a good night’s sleep.

Shayla and I had stayed up far too late discussing every word out of Dalton’s mouth and what it all could mean.

She annoyed me, actually. The way she acted like what happened next was completely up to me. Bullshit it was.

I hate when people tell you “it’s all about the attitude” and “fake it ’til you make it.”

You know what that advice amounts to? Kicking you when you’re down. Because now it’s your fault, because you didn’t believe in yourself enough. You didn’t clap your hands, and all the pixies died… or however that story goes. You know what I mean.

If a willingness to be confident was all it took, we’d all be confident. We’d all leave the house in one-piece rompers, ass hanging out for everyone to enjoy.

That morning, I should have been in a great mood, but I wasn’t. That’s the thing about moods—they’re not logical. And change is stressful, even if it’s good change like dating someone hot.

When you have nothing, you’ve got nothing to lose, but dating a hot guy meant I could potentially fuck everything up with a hot guy.

Argh!

I took it out on myself by putting on a drab outfit of dark brown cords and an olive green button-down shirt. I looked like I was going off to war.

What people wouldn’t know was that underneath those drab clothes, I wore a hot pink bra and panties set—another brand-new set I had been saving for a special occasion. Apparently, that occasion was today.

I ran out the door and started the walk to work with my morning Pop Tart in one hand and my phone in the other. I didn’t remember giving Dalton my number, but I still had hope he would call.

Mr. Galloway, out in his front yard tending his roses, waved and said, “Sell those books at your store!”

“You know it,” I replied, feeling guilty for the lie of omission.

A lot of people around town think I am the owner of Peachtree Books. Naturally, they assume the store is named after me, or vice versa. I suppose the fact I refer to it as “my” bookstore may be most of the problem, but it’s so much easier to say “my bookstore” than “the bookstore I manage and work way too many hours at.”

The truth is, the shop is owned by the same people who own the whole building: the Oliver family. Mr. Gordon Oliver founded the bookstore in 1982, and passed it down to his son Gordon Junior in 2003, when he retired and moved to Phoenix, Arizona. There, he lived in a trailer park half the year with his Canadian Snowbird girlfriend Ida, who, from what I hear, is a terrible cook.

Gordon Junior liked the money, but he didn’t like books. For a number of years, his money-focused system worked well for Peachtree Books, and business grew. He believed in customer service, and met people’s needs quite well. However, he still didn’t care that much about the actual books, and when Black Sheep Books opened up across town, the customers were ripe for the poaching.

I was working there part-time, having just dropped out of college, when he started making drastic changes. Desperate changes. Like those internet coupons.

To avoid bankruptcy, we brainstormed many ideas together, along with the rest of the staff, and came up with some good ones. Our initiatives always seemed promising at first, but then Black Sheep Books would copy things like our Customer Loyalty Program and find a way to one-up us. They literally ran a sale called the One-Up Sale, where customers donated a used book for charity in exchange for a discount.

Gordon Junior knew we’d never be able to increase sales by much, so he set to work on the other side of the formula, reducing costs. Because his family owned the building, he had a lot of power.

Without consulting me, he got the necessary permits, and a construction crew showed up one day when I was receiving stock and asked where I wanted the wall.

Gordon’s big plan was to put a wall right down the center of the bookstore, bisecting the place to save money. He added another door and more signs. Now the shop on one side was books, and right next door was a brand new specialty wine and beer store.

Just try and guess which business was more profitable.

As the wine business took off, and he spent more time over there (he was as passionate about wine as he was
dispassionate
about books), I took over more of the bookstore’s operations. I put in the orders, then entered them in our computer. I received the stock, put it on the shelves, and hand-sold books to customers. I pretty much did everything except write the darn things, and I’ve half a mind to do that some day as well.

It’s not so hard to write a book, I bet. You just pour yourself a tall glass of inspiration and start typing, right? I’ve already met a sexy, famous actor, so that’s plenty of inspiration and research all rolled up in one.

I started thinking about Dalton Deangelo on the walk into work, and my vagina (I hope you’re not offended by my frankness, but I’m not going to call it a funny word every time) got swollen and lubricated in a way that made walking both pleasurable and embarrassing. I tried walking like a mermaid, the way Dottie had recommended, but that felt too much like foreplay, what with all the rubbing. What had gotten into me? Not Dalton Deangelo, if you didn’t count his fingers, which I didn’t. Oh, but I wanted him to get into me. Big time.

By the time I opened the front door of the bookstore, my pleasure pumpkin (ha ha! I lied!) was demanding I take some “art” books into the back room for a little personal time, or “Safety Session” as my friend Ricky would call it.

Ricky was a college friend I fell out of contact with, but who will always remain in my heart. Over pizza and after tequila, he told me the most disturbing yet sweet story about watching movies with his parents. Whenever a sex scene came on the TV, his parents wouldn’t ban young Ricky from the room, but simply said, “Blanket!” At that command, Ricky would cover his eyes with a blanket to avoid being exposed to on-screen sexuality at a young age. I’m sure you’re snickering, thinking that
listening
to on-screen sexuality with a blanket over your eyes and your parents at your side is so much healthier!

There were a lot of things about sexuality that Ricky found confusing, perhaps due to sitting on a couch with his face under a blanket while his parents watched movie sex scenes. That could warp a person. Ricky’s cousin was the one who introduced Ricky to pornography and masturbation, assuring the young boy that jerking off was not just acceptable, but healthy, because it staved off the horror of blue balls.

Ricky checked his balls every day for signs of blueness, and self-scheduled weekly Safety Sessions, usually on Sundays, as a necessity.

I learned these things about Ricky during a game of I Have Never, which is basically the greatest game ever for fun people, and just okay for people like me. Have I kissed a girl? No. I have never. No drink for me.

Me and my regrets reached the door of the bookstore ten minutes before opening. I had my mocha in hand, and my plan was to use the computer for nine and a half quiet minutes before opening the shop, but I was thwarted by over-eager customers who followed me in when I unlocked the door.

I turned on the lights and turned off the alarm, feeling grumpy. Who needs a book so desperately that they show up at the crack of ten in the morning, just as we’re opening? People who need to tell you their whole sad story, that’s who.

Trying not to think about how much I’d rather be drinking my mocha and looking over email to start my day right, I listened as the customer, a middle-aged woman with frizzy hair and terrible halitosis, told me all about her sister’s daughter, whom she was hoping to induce into a lifelong love of reading.

I brought the woman over to our YA section, but she turned up her nose at the “trash” available and picked up some moldy old thing from our clearance table, whose only redeeming feature was the five-dollar price sticker.

“Good choice,” I said, ringing it up. You can only offer your expert advice; you can’t make them take it, especially if something else is cheaper. When I put the book into a bag, I slipped in a flyer for some better stuff, the paper discreetly folded in half.

The woman thanked me and started to leave the shop, looking very pleased with her decision. I hoped her niece would genuinely love the bargain book, which was not about cute vampires, but an English translation of a Swedish book about a young man coming to terms with degenerative eye disease; however, I had a bad feeling it was the sort of thing that scares kids away from books, much like outdated high school English curriculums and E. Annie Proulx’s
The Shipping News
.

“Oo-OO-OOH!” the woman exclaimed on her way out the door. She was ooh-ing the person coming in, not me.

She held the door open for a man carrying a lavish bouquet of peonies and other pink and white flowers, blossoms and leaves hiding his face.

My heart jumped up.
It’s happening
, I thought.

The flowers lowered, past dark brown hair.

This is it. We’re falling in love
, I thought.

The flowers lowered some more, revealing eyes a bit less twinkling-with-lust than I expected.

Nope. Not happening.

Brown mustache.

It wasn’t Dalton Deangelo, but his trusty butler and driver, Vern.

With a heart full of hope, I peered behind Vern, but he was coming into the bookshop alone.

Frowning, he put the vase of flowers down on the counter between us. “You ran away last night. I was supposed to see to your safe return home.”

I held out my hands. “As you can see, I’m in one piece.”

“Mr. Deangelo requests your company on Friday afternoon, if you can make yourself available.”

“Three days from now? What does he have in mind?”

Frowning under his bushy, ultra-serious mustache, Vern said, “That’s confidential.”

“Ooh. Mysterious. And so dramatic! Is Dalton always so dramatic?”

“Also confidential.”

I plucked the card from within the flowers and opened it up. The note read:
Thanks for the fun.

Thanks for the fun?

What the fudge did that mean? Was
fun
code for blowjob?

Without Dalton’s gorgeous face in front of me, I felt differently about him. His charm was now coming second-hand from his butler, and Vern had a charm-dampening effect. With his grouchy face, Vern was the cold shower of charm.

Charm.

What would the pink-haired lady who gave the charm workshop advise me to do here? Dottie would want me to play hard to get.

“I’m really busy,” I said, handing Vern a business card for the store. “Have Mr. Deangelo phone me when he’s got the time.”

Vern took the card, his face grim. “There’s no need to play games,” he said. “It’s quite clear to me that you like Mr. Deangelo, and I’ll tell him as such.”

“Fine, do that.”

“Why is everyone in this town… so odd?”

I put my hands on my hips. “Oh, no, you didn’t. Vern, did you just insult all of Beaverdale?”

“I suppose not,” he grumbled. “It’s just that…”

“What?”

“I thought people in small towns were supposed to be friendly, but hardly anyone’s been friendly to me.”

“You can’t just expect people to show up at your door with pie. You need to make the first move. Take an interest. I know you’re not here very long, but check out the community cork board on our wall and find something you’re interested in.”

He walked over to the board and started looking, his hands folded behind his back. I let him have his moment as I cupped the beautiful flowers and fluffed up the arrangement. Flowers. From my gentleman friend! How old fashioned and wonderful.