Page 3 of Sinful Escape

Get over it!

There was nothing to get over. For two and a half years, I’ve had a job I loved. But it was about to be yanked out from beneath me. That asshole had the power to renew my employment, so I could extend my European Visa. But he’d refused because of some new company policy bullshit.

I strode from the building. If I’d been a cartoon character, steam would’ve been shooting from my ears. But when I saw my new tour group, all buzzing with youthful energy and flashing joyous smiles, I decided I couldn’t let my boss and that stupid letter get to me. Not now. Not when thirty full-paying tourists were counting on me to give them the vacation of their lives.

That’s what I’m going to do.

It was the only thing I was good at.

Crossing the parking lot, I talked to myself like I was a complete nutter.

It’ll be okay.

My career isn’t over. Not yet at least.

I have six months to figure it out.

Glancing down, I checked my shirt was still done up. Yep. All good.

Each month, my boobs suffered scrutiny from a whole new set of people. Worse than just people. These were young tourists, high on life and usually high on something else.

Several months into this career, at the start of each trip, I’d taken to making silent bets with myself on how long It would take before someone would comment on my breasts. For no particular reason, I made today’s bet two minutes.

I was a few feet from my group when I heard a male voice say, “Nice tits.”

Wow. That was barely three seconds. A new record. I scanned the crowd for the loudmouth. “Okay. Who said that?”

A blond-haired man, with almond shaped eyes that pranced from me to his mate, slinked backward.

I zeroed in on him, stepping forward and the mob parted. Not wanting to scare him on day one of our tour, I smiled sweetly. “You were saying?”

“I said, er, nice bus.” He slapped his hand onto the Eiffel Tower artwork.

His mate sniggered.

Out the corner of my eye, Roman slotted into the crowd.

This was my chance to show him exactly how good I was at my job.

I took another step toward Mr. Loudmouth, and with a wicked smirk, I said, “You said, ‘nice tits’.”

His jaw dropped.

“But that’s so boring.”

His almond eyes widened. “Huh?”

“Come on, surely you can be more creative than that.” I scanned the crowd; all eyes were on me.

Women were smiling and giggling.

Men were glancing at each other, jaws ajar.

“I mean, there are so many more colorful synonyms. Let’s have a try, shall we?” I held up my fingers, ready to count off some of the gazillion labels I’d heard for tits. “What about hooters, bazookas, knockers, suckling mounds, or even crumb catchers.” I could go on and on with the labels, but this was the perfect chance to get them involved, loosen them up. “Anyone else want to add?”

“Coconuts,” someone yelled.

“Yes.” I raised another finger. “Come on, there are dozens.” I scanned around, grinning at all the smiling faces. I should patent this game. I’d call it the Titty Titles game.

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