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MEG'S POV

I hadn’t suffered this much gut-crunching anxiety and loin-tingling thrill since I’d been Meg Crutcher, lying to Mom about staying at Georgia’s house on graduation night when I was actually meeting Joel at the Island Value Inn on Gorge Road.

I slowed my rented SUV, and the steering wheel grew slippery in my sweaty palms. My skin tightened with the pressure of holding in my lewd secret. My ears filled with a rushing noise. I kind of had to pee.

Screw parallel parking—I found a spot where I could nose in.

My conscience writhed with snakes that hissed, You’re being bad, but I was a grown-ass woman. I could do what I wanted.

Which was exactly what I’d told myself twenty-one years ago, when I’d left my virginity in room twelve of the I.V. Inn.

That act of rebellion was supposed to turn me into an adult. It had. Except, I’d thought growing up meant making choices for myself, when in reality, cells had met and combined and divided without my permission. From there, one responsibility after another had appeared in front of me like stepping stones leading into a cave where a neon sign above the opening flashed, Where did my life go?

Now I was a few kilometers east of my youthful misconception. I had lied to my mother again, this time texting her that I was running an errand for Georgia.

It was kind of true. I had agreed to run Georgia’s store. Actually, I’d agreed to open the doors and figure out if there was a way to keep it running—even if she couldn’t come back right away. Or at all.

I cut the engine and sat there, listening to the February rain patter on the roof. Winter never really arrived in Victoria, BC. Not the way it did in the rest of Canada. Snow rarely stuck to these streets, but spring wasn’t here yet, either. It was a messy, unpredictable shoulder season, and very much a metaphor for the state of my life.

This wasn’t even Victoria. Not the downtown waterfront that looked so pretty on the postcards. No, this was Milestone—one of the oldest suburbs of the city. It was the name of the most popular streetcar stop back when those were a thing here. Locals called it ‘Mild Stone.’ I’ll give you three guesses why.

It had had its rough years, but it was still where the broke creatives came together. Its commercial area was a colorful hodgepodge of brick storefronts and people running businesses out of their Victorian-style homes.

Georgia had picked this location because it was busy but affordable. And because they had said ‘yes’ to an adult toy store. Sometimes people were picky about that sort of thing.

I studied the two-story building through the drips that gathered and ran down the windshield. There were four windows on the second floor. Georgia had told me there were two apartments up there. She’d been cagey when I asked about the tenants, making me think she knew someone up there. A man? I hadn’t pressed her. She was either in pain or drowsy from painkillers these days. All I’d really needed to know was that she had asked me for help.

She’d shocked me by asking. Georgia was the poster girl for independent women—meaning she would kick the ass of anyone who dismissed her as a girl or tried to put her face on a poster without her permission.

She had called me out when I began moaning about how envious I was of my daughter. Shelby was living the university life I had never experienced because I’d had her straight out of high school.

“You just got divorced. It’s the perfect time to reinvent,” Georgia had said an hour ago.

“I know, but I have to get Mom moved closer to me in Toronto first. Then get Roddy through high school and off to uni. Then I can start making changes to my life.”

“Seriously, Meg? Do you hear these excuses you’re making? Just jump.”

I have responsibilities, I wanted to say, but this was Georgia. She’d always been able to throw herself off cliffs and then yell, Just jump. She’d always known how to keep her head above water.

Three weeks after grad, she’d been the one to say, I’ll go with you if you want an abortion. She also had a healthy respect for leaps that were truly too big, but I had been convinced I was getting everything I wanted—independence, a husband, and a life off this damned island. I moved to Montreal with Joel, and Georgia went to California. She didn’t get into the movies like she wanted, but she danced on cruise ships, sang backup in a studio, and had thousands of colorful stories that spoke of a life well lived.

I had two kids I loved beyond measure, a steady job as an accountant, and a Final Divorce Order.

“I’m scared,” I had admitted to Georgia with a laugh that didn’t disguise any of the painful truth in that statement. “What if I make a wrong choice? It’s easier to blame Mom and Joel and work than accept that I’ve wound up with exactly what I settled for. Which is what will happen again unless I get it right this time.”

“You never change. You know why? Because you never change.” Georgia had shaken her scarf-covered head.

Her spinal tumors weren’t cancerous, but she was in so much pain her hair had become more work than she wanted to fuss with. She’d shaved her head, and because it was still winter—and winter in Southern BC was a damp cold that settled into your bones—she had to keep her head covered. Her light brown complexion was wan, her mouth strained with tension and worry, but she still managed to make me feel like the pitiful one.

“There’s no ‘getting it right,’” she had scolded. “Shake things up. You know what you should do? Quit your job and run my store for me.”

“Can you imagine? Mom would shit a brick.”

“I’m serious.”

“Right,” I scoffed. That store was her baby—still spanking new and something she’d worked hard to make happen.

“Meg. I actually am.” Her expression had sobered into pensive. Desperate. “I’m really worried about it. The landlord is calling about rent and…” Her eyes welled up.

“Hey.” I reached out to squeeze her hand. “You know I’ll do anything. I can cover rent for a few months if you need me to.”

“It’s not that. I need my business to run. To generate income. For bills and the bank loan. I put all my savings into this. If I lose it, I’m starting from nothing at forty.”

“You’re not going to lose it. That’s the pain pills talking.” They cramped her mood, she’d told me.

“I’m high as a kite,” Georgia had agreed as she ran a thumb under her leaking eye. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t ask for help. But I really don’t want to lose my store, Meg.”

“I know, but—” I bit back the protest that rose from sheer cowardice.

I thought of Roddie, who lived with Joel and kept insisting he was fine. And Mom, who was fighting me at every turn when it came to cleaning out the house. She wanted to keep everything the same. I didn’t want to be Mom—stuck in the past. We both needed to start moving forward.

“You don’t want to let me down, do you?” Georgia prodded.

I dropped my jaw in exaggerated outrage. “You ruthless bitch.”

Georgia showed all her teeth in a slow, wide grin, knowing she had me.

So here I was, shaking things up.

Shaking.

Afraid.

Imagining I could hear Georgia yelling, The water’s fine.

I studied the awnings on the brick building—one blue, the other pink—that sheltered the storefront windows and the stoop in between. Under the pink one, the building looked gloomy and dark. Below the blue one, a golden light beckoned.

No use waffling. I had said I would do it, but I couldn’t help wondering if this decision would leave me as screwed as last time.

Mom was going to hate it. Helping a friend meant dropping off a casserole or donating bone marrow. It didn’t mean becoming the face of an adult toy shop. As for what Joel would say—

Ugh. No more Joel. No more spiraling through old choices, wishing I’d made different ones. No more sitting in a cubicle promising myself things would get better.

Get out of the car, dipshit. Make it better.

I threw open the door. A gust of wind caught it, nearly smashing it into the side of the SUV parked next to mine. I managed to hang onto it, stepped into the puddle of water backed up from the clogged drain in the curb, swore, slammed the door, and trotted the half block until I was under the pink awning of the building.

I gasped against the frigid air filling my lungs. I really needed to start some cardio.

At the darkened window, I cupped my hands above the gold-stenciled Afternoon Delight on the glass. A translucent white curtain hid the window display, but there was nothing to see. The display was empty. A tall wooden shelf was strategically placed to limit the view of any stock it might hold. Sheets were draped over odd shapes on the table in the middle of the room. There was a cheerful area rug before the cash desk, open rafters in the ceiling, and a slatted wall at the back peppered with hooks. Bagged goods hung on either side of a door that presumably led to a stockroom and bathroom.

For me, it was Room Twelve all over again—filled with mysteries both titillating and intimidating. It was filled with sex.

I felt in my coat pocket for the key and moved to the door.

The two shops were mirrors of each other. I glanced through the door where Twice is Nice Emporium was painted on the glass. Their Open sign glowed extra bright on this gloomy Thursday.

Inside their window, a flowery ceramic basin and jug sat next to a small pendulum clock atop an ornate wooden dresser. A lazy Susan stood on a fancy coffee table with pretty china cups arranged on it. Old-timey tins were stacked on shelves lit beneath a lamp with a fringed shade.

The crowded display reminded me of the books my kids used to love—the ones with busy photos and rhyming lists of things to search for: five buttons, a dime, three yellow tins, and a thing that tells time.

Twice is Nice had an additional selling feature hand-printed on a piece of paper taped to the inside of their door: We specialize in wood revival.

Same, I snickered to myself as I unlocked the door to 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.

“So don’t get comfortable?” My heart was sinking on Georgia’s behalf.

“I honestly couldn’t tell you.” He shoved his hands into his back pockets, palms out, and braced his weight between his widely set feet. “At first, we thought it was funny that Dad had missed such an important detail. Then Georgia told Zara that Dad was coming in here and getting confused. Zara got him to the doctor, but she has kids and works full-time. She can’t run point on him, too. I moved back after Christmas to live with Dad and…” He shrugged again. “I don’t know how long this will work.”

Oh. I bit back saying how nice it was that he had come home to help. No one—least of all my husband—had praised me when I helped my mother-in-law after she broke her hip. I’d put school on hold and left our kids with my own mother so I could take care of Mrs. Boyd, because Joel hadn’t wanted to cancel any of his lucrative root canals and crowns. It hadn’t occurred to any of us—least of all me—that he would. Or that he would look after his own mother. His parents had since moved to the Okanagan, or Joel would still expect me to check on them.

“You’re here to ask about rent?” I guessed. “Georgia said Zara let her skip January while she figured things out, but she texted the other day, asking what her plans are.”

“I actually forgot Zar was doing that. Yeah, people have been asking what’s going on over here.” Zak glanced over his shoulder. Brim Stokers Coffeehouse was across the street next to the new microbrewery, Tap That. “There’s been some revitalization lately. By that, I mean gentrification. They don’t like staring at a dark window.”

“Understandable.”

“One of them offered to buy the building, but we want to keep it for now. Dad’s used to getting up for work every morning. His doctor says it’s good for him to stick to a routine. He likes dinking around with his knick-knacks, so…” Another shrug.

Oh. I bit back a laugh, adoring how affectionate he sounded.

“Where do you usually live?” I asked.

“Vancouver. You?”

“Toronto. But I grew up here.”

“Me, too. I’m a programmer. I had a good job, but I was burning out again. This is a nice break. Mostly I dink around, too. Strip wood. Post photos.”

Don’t say it.

“That sounds like I post dick pics.” His grin flashed. God, he was gorgeous. “Actually, they’re chests.” He waited a beat. “Of drawers.” His mouth twitched with irony.

“I was trying not to ask.” I was trying not to ogle his chest, but I could feel a smile teasing my lips.

“How is Georgia?” he asked with concern. “Zara said Dad was making things awkward with her staff and customers. There’s been a lot of turnover in this shop the last few years, actually. We should have clued in to what was causing it. Can you let her know I’m here, though? That shouldn’t happen as much now.” He glanced right as he spoke.

I realized he had done that a few times. He had stationed himself so he could see his own door through this one.

“She’ll be off sick for a while longer. She’s staying with her sister in Sidney.” It was about thirty minutes from the shop, but close to the ferry, which was good since she was seeing a specialist in Vancouver. “She should be back on her feet soon.” I was staying positive.

“That’s good news.” His gaze flickered down, taking in my mint green rain jacket over peg-leg jeans stuffed into ankle boots with faux-fur cuffs.

When his eyes came back to my face, I was prickly and humid inside my damp clothes.

“That you’re planning to reopen, I mean.” He cleared his throat. “And yeah, rent would be great. My wages over there are circa most of the furniture.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Today I just dropped by to get the lay of the land.” My voice faltered at the double entendre. “I wanted to see what I’ll be working with.” I fought the urge to glance at the vibrators but couldn’t look at him either, certain he’d be laughing at me again.

“Sure,” he said easily. “I won’t bother you, but one thing has been driving me crazy since I spotted it through the window. That’s why I came roaring over here the second I heard you come in. What the hell is that?” He pointed at the cash desk. “I can’t find anything like it online.”

I blinked at what looked like a three-pronged candelabra made of clear plastic dildos, all of different heights and widths, arranged like a tripod, not a fork.

“Um…” I was equally mystified and walked over to gingerly pick it up.

“Are they flexible?”

I tested one branch. “No.” It was solid and weighted at the base so it wouldn’t tip over.

“Who uses something like that? I’m not being judgmental.” His expression became boyish, one eyebrow quirking upward while his hand flailed in bafflement. “It’s a real question. What goes where? How? There’s not enough room for three people to use it at once. I honestly don’t think it would be comfortable for one. Maybe that’s the point?”

I was just as perplexed. If someone wanted to rotate through poking me with three differently sized dildos so vigorously that they needed a common handle, I would have a lot of questions first.

“I can’t figure it out,” he continued. “And believe me, I’ve put in the hours.”

“I’m picturing you over there with a corkboard and red yarn.”

“Mostly doodling on the back of provenance certificates, but it keeps me from worrying about Dad.”

I tucked my smile into the zipper of my jacket. “Perhaps it would be kinder to keep you in the dark, then.”

“Please don’t. I’ve reached my limit for edging my curiosity.”

Oh heck. I was really starting to enjoy this.

I lifted my chin, trying to project some level of competence while I admitted, “Full disclosure, I’m new to all of this. Fortunately, I can phone a friend.” I snapped a photo and texted it to Georgia with a question mark.

“So you don’t… do this?” He drew a circle with his finger to indicate the store.

“Sell adult toys for a living? No, I’m an accountant. Helping small businesses pay their taxes is my day job. I’m friendly and punctual, and Georgia says it’s no more awkward than selling cans of soup, so I agreed to pinch-hit.” I was starting to think she’d misled me on that front. I was feeling extremely awkward as I set down the X-rated version of the Cat in the Hat’s moss-covered, three-handled family gradunza, trying not to imagine which one went up my bum or how much it would sting.

How hard could it be had been my naïve assumption about working here. And there I went with the dirty puns again.

“Pro tip? You can sell anything with a story. This trunk was supposed to be on the Titanic.” He waved at an imaginary trunk at his feet. “It was accidentally left behind and went to the passenger’s cousin, who found a pearl-handled knife inside—one that was later found to have been used in a murder.”

“You make stuff up?”

“No.” He frowned, insulted. “I’m saying you need to know what you’re selling so you can pique curiosity. I guarantee you could sell that thing if you told your next customer that your vanilla neighbor has been obsessing about it for weeks. They won’t care what it’s actually for. They’ll buy it for the story.”

“Maybe I’ll keep it as a conversation piece, then.”

“No,” he warned sternly. “Never get sentimental. If you can sell it, sell it. You can tell I haven’t had anyone new to talk to in a while, can’t you?” His mouth twisted with self-deprecation. “I should get back, make sure Dad’s okay.” He canted his head. “But if you find anything else that stumps you, run it by me. I’m genuinely interested.”

“I will, thanks. And I’ll let you know what I learn.” I nodded at the trident of dildos.

“Great. See you tomorrow.” He left with a jangle of the sleigh bell.

I opened my jacket to air out the trapped heat. Talk about trial by fire!

I had gotten through it, though. Maybe I could handle this job after all.

My phone buzzed. I tilted the screen to read Georgia’s reply:

It’s a condom tree. Change it up for the holidays, but don’t use flavored ones. People will lick it.

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