Page 3 of Afternoon Delight
“It was the whitest name I could think of,” Georgia had said of the store’s name. The inside of her door held a handwritten sign that read:
Closed for medical reasons.
I pushed in, and a sleigh bell tied to the door jangled. At the same time, the steady chime of the alarm system sounded from across the room. I hurried to the box on the wall and punched in the code Georgia had given me. It silenced, and I felt ridiculously proud of myself for not causing a SWAT team to descend on the street.
I slid the thermostat from frigid to survivable and hit the switches to illuminate the track lighting in the rafters. No harsh fluorescent office lights here. Intimate pools of gold landed on a rotating stand of books. A hammock-like contraption was suspended from the ceiling, and a number of whips and crops were mounted on the wall. The shelf that formed the privacy wall held a selection of vibrators in a variety of shapes, colors, and sizes. Several were displayed out of their boxes.
One monster compelled me to pick it up to see how heavy it was. Honestly, even though my eight-pound children had come out of my vagina, I was intimidated by the breadth of this goliath.
I tried to close my fist around it, using my grip to brush away the dust from its silicone coating while thumbing the dial to check the different vibration speeds. I resisted the impulse to press it into the notch of my jeans, but I was intrigued enough to consider it.
The sleigh bell jangled.
I threw the elephantine penis back onto the shelf in the most obvious Nothing, Mother in history. It knocked over two other vibrators and lay there buzzing, the sound amplified by the boxy shelf.
I scrambled to pick it up but couldn’t figure out how to turn it off. I called out a high-pitched, “I’m not open!” while I turned the dial, accidentally increasing the vibration. Why hadn’t I locked the door? Oh, right—because of the alarm. Note to self: Grab a brain, not a dildo.
“I’m from next door,” a deep voice said as I finally silenced the vibrator. “I have a question.”
Shit. The landlord Georgia had warned me about?
I set the vibrator back on the shelf and brushed my hands on the seat of my jeans, then slapped a compassionate smile on my face before stepping out where I could see him.
Double-shit. Georgia had made it sound like the guy was a senior. How did a man in his mid-thirties have dementia? There were glints of gold in his beard, not silver. Same with his hair. His thick dark crew cut needed a trim, but it was kind of sexy, all disheveled like that. He was tall and fit and had a smile that skewed left in a very charming way.
“Hi, Dale,” I said gently, repeating what Georgia had told me to say. “Debra doesn’t work here anymore. I know this might feel confusing, but if we go back into your shop, your daughter can explain.” How old was this guy’s daughter anyway? Seven? And she was knee-capping Georgia for rent?
His face moved through a comical set of emotions, landing on bemusement.
“Dale is my dad. I’m Zak. Are you not Georgia?”
“What? No. Ha.” I wanted to die. “I’m Georgia’s friend, Meg. Hi.” I moved forward and offered my hand. “I’m helping Georgia for a couple of weeks.” I kept it vague, since I didn’t really know what I was doing.
“Nice to meet you.” Zak stepped forward. He had a firm grip. There was a hint of callus on his warm palm and, for some bizarre reason, that caused a zing of electricity to ground out between my legs.
For the first time in years, I remembered that I owned a clitoris and briefly considered looking for it. I wanted to blame the vibrator, but it was him. Or me—and my utter lack of experience with being single. Whatever it was, I was regressing into prom-night Meg, smiling dopily because he wore his flannel sleeves rolled back, showing off his muscled forearms. His jeans hugged his thick thighs, and his sturdy work boots were oddly reassuring, like he knew how to take command of a situation.
I dragged my attention back to his crooked smile and straight dark brows. The combination made him seem both approachable and stern.
Too young, I cautioned myself. He didn’t look like he’d collected my level of disenchantment with life. People in their thirties tended to fall into two categories—those like me, creeping up on forty and punch-drunk with family responsibilities, or those like him, who still had the bandwidth for clumsy soccer on a soggy day.
His eyes were really blue. They brimmed with amusement, and I wanted to fall right into them.
I was staring. Damn. I’d caught a case of insta-lust, and he knew it.
“So, um.” I’m due to step into traffic. “Georgia said her landlord had a daughter. Zara? Is that your wife?” Did I really just ask if he was married? Yes, I did. I wanted to bite my tongue off.
“My sister.”
Right. Duh. He had just told me his father was Dale. Could I be more uncool?
He scratched his beard, possibly trying to hide the fact that he was struggling not to laugh.
“We own the building with Dad,” he said. “Fun fact—when he signed this lease, he told us the new renter was a toy store. It wasn’t until Zara stopped by after it opened that we learned what kind of toys.”
“Oh.” I widened my eyes. “Is that a problem?” Was he here to break the lease? Nooo.
“The neighbors aren’t thrilled. But we’re only hanging onto the building for Dad, so...” He lifted one well-built shoulder.
