“Oh my God, Prynne!” exclaims Holly as soon she walks into our little work area at Belmont’s. “I just passed Sheila in the women’s department, you know, the one who’s trying to help get me a position on the floor.”

I think of poor, sweet Holly trying to navigate that jungle of designer clothes and Upper East Side socialites while working on commission and my heart aches for her. They’d eat her alive.

“Anyway, she said that Donnatella told her she saw you Saturday night with the most gorgeous—”

“Oh no you don’t girl!” Jermaine says, rushing in behind her to join us. He gives Holly a frown. “How dare you get the dish without me.”

Oh no.

I figured it would at least take a day or two for the grapevine to work it’s way up to the Siberia of Customer Service, if at all.

“Not doin’ nothin’ for your birthday, my ass” Jermaine sasses, giving me the evil eye. “So give me the digits.”

“What?”

“The numbers, baby girl! Income and inches, what else is there to discuss?”

“How about personality, sense of humor, intelligence?” Holly chides, giving him a scolding look.

“Y’all can take that and try to deposit it in the bank…or somewhere else,” he says holding his palm up to face her. “Ya girl gots bills to pay.”

Jermaine turns to me and leans in over the communal desks we share. “Speaking of which, tell me about this dress your man bought you.”

“That’s none of you all’s business,” I say, putting on my headset in the hopes that they’ll drop it, my accent boldly giving me away. I should have known better.

“Oh Prynne,” Holly cries, “at least tell me what you thought of the dress. According to Donatella it was a Tom Ford? Did it feel amazing? I wish I could wear a Tom Ford dress.”

“You? In Tom Ford?” Jermaine asks, giving Holly an eyebrow raised in skepticism. “Honey, you need to stick to Laura Ashley and shit. That whole,” he wriggles his fingers at her, “virginal Stepford Housewife thing you have goin’ on works for you.”

“Leave her alone, Jermaine,” I protest as Holly’s face turns beet red. To be fair, she does dress in a way that is far too reminiscent of my former wardrobe back home, with her long, flowing skirts and floral print dresses. That, combined with her huge cornflower blue eyes and blonde hair that’s even lighter than mine, but probably all natural, makes her look like some innocent waif just waiting to be preyed on in this concrete jungle we live in.

“It’s fine, Prynne. He’s just jealous because, unlike him, I can actually pull off Laura Ashley,” she says, quickly recovering. She throws in a tongue stuck out firmly in his direction for good measure.

“Ohhh, look at you!” Jermaine says, pulling back with a laugh to appraise her. Even I’m surprised to see some actual gumption in her.

I’m more than happy to let them go at it as usual. The two of them couldn’t be more opposite, with Jermaine’s loud, colorful wardrobe and as much garish make-up as Belmont’s will allow. Still, they somehow click with one another. I guess it’s true, opposites do attract.

That makes me think of Rhys. When I first met him, he was definitely everything I wasn’t. Or at least thought I wasn’t. I eye Holly, wondering if deep down inside there’s something in her that feels a sort of surprising connection to Jermaine’s fascinating lifestyle outside of work, which all of us only learn about through tiny hints and enigmatic innuendos.

“Oh no you don’t,” Jermaine says, bringing his attention back to me, eyeing me a little too speculatively. “Don’t think you’re getting outta this that easily. I want to know what Miss Thang did to earn herself this Pretty Woman treatment.”

It’s too late to stop the instant flow of blood to my face as my mind betrays me, taking me right back to the hotel room.

“I turned twenty-four,” I say primly. “It was nothing more than a birthday gift.”

“Okay, so did this birthday gift manage to come off at some point during the night. Girl, spill it. We want details!”

“Uh, heterosexual male here,” Peter says, raising his hand up as his attention is finally pulled away from whatever it is he obsesses over all day on his smartphone. “I would be perfectly happy not knowing the details, thank you.”

Jermaine side-eyes him, twisting his lips with disappointment.

“And there you have it,” I say sweetly. We’re all ridiculously unprofessional in Customer Service, to the point of violating almost every HR policy of the store, at least until our manager or a customer makes an in-person appearance. We get away with it simply because we can. Jermaine, Holly and I let Peter spend all his time on his phone doing whatever, while we take on most of the emails, phone calls, and drop-ins. He, in turn, lets us be completely uncensored. Our manager is on an entirely different floor, only popping up occasionally to remind us that he actually exists.

The phone rings, which further puts an end to any discussion. Saved by the bell.

I already have my headset on so I take the call. “Belmont’s Customer Service department. Prynne speaking, how may I be of service?” I say, giving Jermaine a pert smile.

He just rolls his eyes and puts on his own headset. Holly does the same next to me.

Crisis averted.

It’s that period after lunch when my stomach is full and I’m just watching the clock, waiting for five to come. Our department seems to work in ebbs and flows, with long periods of nothing, just before everyone in the world seems to want something. Then there are those occasional random calls or emails to fill the void.

Like the one that rings just now, waking all of us out of our afternoon stupor. It’s Jermaine’s turn to answer so he takes the call. I do that thing I always do to pass the time, listening to his end to see if I can gauge what the issue is.

“Belmont’s Customer Service department. How may I be of service?” he says in that sing-song voice of his which is ultra-feminine whenever he’s on the phone.

Something in his eyes instantly sparkles and a pert little smile comes to his lips as he listens to the response. His gaze suddenly darts to me with something in them beyond idle observation.

“Would you?” he asks, his voice even more effeminate than ever, and he bats his eyelashes at me. “And just who may I ask is calling for Prynne Dawson?”

My stomach drops. Who the heck is asking for me? Am I in trouble? Is my family okay? Is it—

“Yes, I’ll transfer you right away Mr. Rhys Connors.”

I thought my stomach couldn’t plummet any further. How did he find me? I do remember telling him that I worked at Belmont’s Department Store over dinner, but I don’t think I specified which department. Before I have time to recover, and at least try to put on a front for my coworkers—even Peter has picked up on Jermaine’s tone of voice and pulled himself away from his smartphone to observe me—Jermaine transfers the call to me.

“Hello, Belmont’s Customer Service Department. Prynne speaking. How may I be of service?” Hopefully, keeping it professional will keep Rhys professional as well on the other end.

“I can think of one way,” his voice replies with a teasing tenor to it. That voice has my stomach doing hula-hoops in the abyss it’s currently sitting in.

My idiotic Benedict Arnold of a brain hops on that voice and drives my mind right back to the Sexton Hotel. That voice telling me to remove my underwear. That voice pointing out that any one of the eight million people beyond those windows could be watching me as I strip. That voice telling me to keep only my shoes on. That voice asking me how far I want to go….

I press my thighs together and close my eyes, unable to face the interested gazes of my coworkers. What if that sexy, demanding voice on the other end started giving me orders right now. Commanding me to take off my clothes right here at work. Stand naked in front of the people I’ve worked right next to for almost two years? Maybe even walk through the store itself, surrounded by all the fine clothes I’m not allowed to so much as touch, let alone put on. Maybe even head straight out onto Fifth Avenue, filled with tourists and fellow New Yorkers rushing by?

The thought is so depraved and abhorrent and humiliating that a wildfire rushes through my body.

What’s the matter with you, Prynne?

“I’m at work,” I say in a crisp tone as I manage to mentally slap myself into composure.

“Speaking of which, I had a hell of a time trying to find you. I guess I should have asked what department you worked in when you told me you worked at Belmont’s. I think I called almost every department asking for you.”

“Every department?” I ask, horrified by the idea, though I don’t know why. No one knows what Rhys and I were up to on Saturday.

“And now I’ve found you.” I can hear the wicked smile in his voice.

“What do you want?” I ask, my voice soft with mild curiosity. I sound and feel like a kitten, cautiously exploring some new object that might be dangerous but is too fascinating to ignore.

And I’m well familiar with what happened when the metaphorical cat got curious.

“What are you wearing?” he asks in that low voice of his, thick with that heavenly flavor he knows any woman could become addicted to.

“Rhys!” I meant for it to come out stern. Instead, it just sounds pleading. My cheeks burn as both Holly and Jermaine titter and give each other knowing looks. Even Peter stares at me, wondering what’s going on.

“I like the way you say my name,” he continues, pushing me, the same way he did back at the Sexton. Back when he urged me on and my fingers found their way between my legs for all of New York.

“I want to hear you say it again this Saturday.”

I’m alert once again. “What?”

“That was my way of asking you out.”

“For what?” I ask cautiously.

“Well, dinner for one,” he says with a chuckle. “That’s what people usually do on dates.”

“Most dates don’t end the way—” I stop, suddenly remembering where I am. Jermaine, Holly, and Peter are still hanging on to every word. I give each of them a hard, pointed stare, which does nothing to diminish their curiosity, if anything making it more potent.

There’s a pause on the other end before he speaks. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

Now, it’s my turn to pause. I know what he must think, me leaving the way I did. It had nothing to do with what happened in front of that window. Everything that happened in front of that window was divine, filling a void in my life that I was only tangentially aware of. That void that had me longing for…something. And Rhys found the piece that fit perfectly inside of it.

Even Aiden and Mia, from my latest novel, got a nice little boost in their story, a tad more juicy than I originally intended. Yesterday, I wrote five thousand words, despite the upsetting news I had learned about the youngest Flanders daughter.

“Yes,” I finally reply in barely a whisper.

“I’ll pick you up at eight.” It isn’t a request, but an order. “Wear something you’ll feel comfortable in, but still nice.”

“What are we going to do?” I ask. A stupid question, since I already have a pretty good idea.

There’s a slight pause before he answers. “It’s time for me to expose myself to you, Prynne. Eight o’clock. Saturday.”

He hangs up and I’m left staring blindly at the wall before me above Peter’s head. What did he mean by that? I’ve already seen him naked. I saw him naked before I ever saw him with so much as a towel on. My curiosity is jarringly interrupted by my eagerly curious coworkers.

“Girl, with that voice I don’t even care what the man looks like!” Jermaine exclaims.

“What did it sound like?” Holly asks with avid interest in her wide blue eyes.

“The kinda voice that’ll make me cream my panties, and ya girl don’t even have a vajayjay.”

“Dammit, Jermaine!” Peter groans. “I just had breakfast.”

Even I manage a smile at that as both Jermaine and Holly laugh.

“So I’m guessing there’s a second date?” Holly asks.

“Saturday.”

“What are ya’ll going to do?” she asks.

“See if you can’t get another dress outta him,” Jermaine offers.

“That was a birthday gift. A one time thing.”

“It doesn’t hurt to try, is all I’m sayin’. Get while the gettin’s good.”

“Jermaine,” Holly admonishes, then turns to me with excited eyes. “But if he does want to buy you a new dress, there’s this gold Versace dress which would go perfectly with your hazel eyes and blonde hair.” Again, I have to briefly wonder why she dresses like she just stepped out of Anne of Green Gables. She’s such an expert when it comes to designer clothes.

“It’s just a date!” I protest.

That doesn’t stop them. What does is the ding of the elevator, which is the advance warning to our department that either our manager or a customer is arriving. We’re like Pavlov’s dogs, instantly going silent, sitting up straighter, even adjusting our hair and clothes. Peter slips his smartphone into his desk drawer and, like the rest of us, pretends to be a model employee.

Another crisis averted.