Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Something alluring.
I’m a scent girl. If a man takes the time to smell good, it says he cares. It says he tries. It says he doesn’t take things for granted.
He’ll make the effort.
To brush his teeth before he kisses you in the morning.
To dress in a fresh, clean shirt, rather than sniff-test his dirty laundry.
To pat on just the right amount of cologne for a date—the amount that makes your pulse speed up.
But a few seconds later, he’s glitter-free, and I jerk my hand away. I can’t spend the morning thinking about how good the man who signs my checks smells. That’s a recipe for trouble. For losing a job I both love and need. For making more mistakes. For messing up this tremendous opportunity.
I have to rein in this momentary bout of lust since that’s all it is.
Wilder gestures to the dove gray couch in his office. I sit, and he takes the navy blue chair across from it then adjusts his tie. It’s slate gray and has whimsical illustrations of skiers on it. He’s clearly ready for our meeting to finally begin and frankly, so am I. But it’s time for me to apologize. “I’m so sorry. I was rushing and I grabbed the wrong shirt and I feel terrible. I’m pretty sure I have the actual shirt for the employees’ stockings in my purse. I swear I’m an industrious elf. I can get it and show it to you,” I say, then I lunge for my purse, ready to right this ship.
“Let’s take five on that,” he says, then rolls up the cuffs on his shirt. “But don’t think twice about it. I’m more interested in something else.”
I tense and stop searching for the actual shirt. “What is it?”
His expression is intense, borderline severe. “Should we start a line of shirts with sparkly Christmas penises on them?”
He says it with such a straight face that I’m so tempted to pick up the gauntlet he’s throwing. To toss out names for a line like that. Snazzy Schlongs? Twinkling Twigs? Or better yet—Glitter Dongs and Shiny Schlongs.
But I realize he’s graciously letting me know he’s not pissed. I grab the lifeline he’s thrown and hoist myself back into the meeting. “No, but I am suggesting we start a line of sparkly shirts. Everything is better with a little bling.”
I reach for my tablet inside my purse and unlock it, then show him my presentation on the growth of our merch and the bennies of sparkles, flicking through studies on human behavior that show how we’re naturally attracted to shiny objects.
I stop momentarily when Shay knocks on the door and brings us two cups of coffee. Wilder and I thank him, and when he leaves, I return to the presentation. “It’s the peacock effect. We’re all drawn to that iridescent plumage. But here’s the issue with glitter.”
“It sticks to everything?” he asks wryly.
I smile and nod, taking that on the chin. “Yes, but it’s also a microplastic,” I explain.
He nods in immediate understanding, then adds, “Which means it gets swept down drains and blown by the wind.”
“Exactly. But this glitter—on both the Fondle with Care shirts and the one I’m about to show you—is sustainable. It’s made from mango skins and coffee grinds.”
His lips twitch in amusement, then delight. “I do love mango. Much more than…eggnog. But not as much as mint.”
I grin. That eggnog conversation with Wilder before we stacked dishes was the best part of Thanksgiving. “After we give these out as a holiday gift, we can continue to produce merch in the new year that’s eco-friendly and seriously cool. Would you like to see the shirt?”
He scoots the chair back a few inches, then smirks. “I’m ready now.”
I did it! I’ve steered this meeting plane out of a tailspin. Problem averted. I reach for my purse to retrieve the shirt I meant to show him, but as I stretch, something scratches me from inside my own top. I don’t want to scratch myself in front of him—I’m not a monkey—so I subtly sort of wriggle around to relieve the itch—when a wad of leftover paper towel falls from inside my shirtsleeve. Down to the floor. Landing on his plush blue carpet, like a stain, and making my point for me—I can’t win today.
For a brief second, or fifty, I’m hoping he didn’t see me shed, but he’s actively trying to avert his eyes.
The gentlemanliness of the gesture makes my chest ache. It reminds me of my terrible weekend and my dread of seeing my ex at my sister’s wedding. With shame coursing through me, I pick up the used paper towel, stuff it into my pocket, then lift my chin and try to play it down. “I’d like to ask Santa for a do-over on this meeting, please,” I say with a too-bright smile. Never let someone see you sweat.