Page 23 of Afternoon Delight
“Most of the toys use chargers, but you’re right.” I looked toward the back wall, wondering if I could hang batteries on one of the hooks there.
“I have a key rack at home with a mail holder your father never got around to mounting. It would look nice behind the desk and hold enough batteries for convenience. This basket needs something.” She frowned at the gift basket I was planning to raffle for the low price of joining the newsletter. “I’ll see what I can find and come back after lunch.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
She left, and I helped two more customers before Zak strode in.
“Hi.” A zip of electricity jolted through my limbs—but how could it not? He was all sexy in his faded jeans and open flannel over a shirt that read, Favorite Uncle, Only Uncle.
“Hi.” He stopped short and took in the masquerade theme. “This looks great.”
“Credit to Mom. She’s worried I’m not doing enough to get the word out, but also that it won’t be good enough if people do show up.”
“Tell her I’ve invited everyone from Dad’s church.”
“Great.” I scratched my upper lip. “Did you really?”
“Dad hasn’t been to church since Mom died. Me neither. Zara’s coming with her book club, though.”
“That’s nice. Hey, Mom thinks this gift basket needs something.” I gestured at the square basket filled with a bottle of white wine, two glasses, flavored lube, furry black handcuffs, and a bright pink dildo. “Would you give me your email address for this?”
“You already have it.”
“For the newsletter? Wait—you're not Tinfoil, are you?” A notification for a new subscriber had popped up the day after I posted that the store had reopened. The timing had struck me as odd, but I hadn’t thought much more about it.
“Yeah. Twice Is Nice…TIN. Get it? It was my first alias account. I still use it for subscriptions and stuff I don’t check very often. Let me give you my number so you have it if you need anything.”
My brain half-exploded, but this was only as significant as I let it be. We weren’t exchanging numbers. He was being professional. He was the shop’s landlord.
Even so, I was flustered as I tried to call up my contact book on my phone.
“You can just tell me your number, and I’ll call it,” he pointed out.
“Right.” Clearly, I had never given a man my number before.
I told him, and my phone rang once.
He ended the call and nodded at the basket. “I have an idea. I’ll be right back.”
While he was gone, I fiddled with my phone, adding him to my contacts.
“I want you to treat this with the reverence it deserves,” Zak said when he returned. He set a Penthouse magazine from the mid-seventies on the desk. A young woman on the cover was removing her black bra, revealing uptilted nipples on small, pert breasts.
“The articles are worth reading,” I noted as I scanned the callouts. One was about Castro and another about Paul Newman. “Did you know this?” I pointed with mock alarm. “Streaking leads to making love in public?”
“It’s a gateway kink.” He nodded somberly.
“Who knew?”
“Penthouse.” He nodded again. “Take a photo and post it. You will get offers and they will be generous.”
“Really?” I wrinkled my nose in skepticism, thinking about how body hair trends had changed over the decades, not to mention breast augmentation. Then I narrowed my eyes. “Where did you get this? Do you have a secret room in the back?”
“Where I polish wood? Yes. And I’m not embarrassed to admit it.”
My pulse tripped, and I bit my lips together to hide my smile.
“Nor should you be.” I fought to keep a straight face. “I’m working with a different product, so it’s mostly about keeping the dust off, but, you know. Same diff.”
