Page 2 of Toy Shop

I. Am. Melting.

For fuck’s sake, Nola, it’s a voice.

I focus back on my goal. Switching the items in his order.

Clarity follows, and I start anew, “Chad? Chad Chadwick?”

Doesn’t take rocket science to realize it’s a false name. Most of our customers use an alias. The fundamental difference here is the name of the credit card holder is also Chad Chadwick.

My curiosity piques, a stark interest I keep to myself. I learned long ago to not shove my nose into the lives of the clients who are adamant about remaining in the shadows.

Allowing him a moment to process who might the caller be, I say nothing. He could be around friends, coworkers, family members. Anywhere really, where he doesn’t want to or shouldn’t discuss vibrators out loud.

If any of the above applies, this is his moment to distance himself where he can talk privately or ask me to phone him at a later date.

Chad does neither. “Speaking.”

“It’s about your reservation.” Always a reservation, never an order.

He answers, unfazed and in no need of the mincing of words, “I was about to call you about it. About the reservation.”

“You were?”

Who’s stumped now?

I mean, it’s a good thing. Maybe he read the small print somewhere, saving me from the need to save him. Or his partner. Definitely has a partner.

A man owning this insane level of flirt and swag over the phone, I can’t imagine what he must be in real life.

I sigh inwardly.

Focus on the task at hand, thirsty Kirsty.

My confusion apparently amuses him, or is endearing to him, depending on how you analyze his short and rugged chuckle. “Yes. But here you are, calling me. Imagine that.”

That. Voice.

I’ve avoided any sexual encounter for years. Haven’t needed it, haven’t missed it. Even working in an adult shop where I’m around sex between five to six times a week hasn’t changed the fact I’m not interested.

And yet this guy wakes it in me. Warmth swarms in my lower belly; my throat clogs with need.

Another sigh? Really?

Go home, Kirsty.

“Okay.” I bottle up the tingles his teasing spurs in me, smiling in hopes he can hear it.

“I would like to cancel it.”

“What?” Didn’t see that one coming.

Another short, sensual laugh emanates from his end. The effect on me remains as it was before, the lightning bolt between my thighs ever-present.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience.” There’s a trace of a Southern twang to his apology, but it ends there. I hear it because Miss Kirsty latches onto his every word. Not me. Her.

“Was the order shipped already?”

“No, um, no…” I stammer. Juvenile. I sound fucking juvenile in front of someone who’s clearly older and more mature, the way he’s handling this conversation. Suddenly, it’s crucial to have the faceless client think I’m anything but childish.

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