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Chapter One
Harper
Saturdays are my favorite days.
That moment where the world is starting to move about town, open signs are flipped, and the bright sun starts to filter through the large windows. But not today. Today, the sun is nowhere to be seen. That should be an indicator of how the rest of the day is going to go. Yet, evermore the optimist, I flip the sign on the front window and prepare to greet the day.
Kiss Me Goodnight is my home away from home, the premiere destination for whatever your heart desires. I have subtle satins, sexy laces, daring leathers, and even a few pieces that may cause you to question your particular brand of kink. But we’re more than that too. I stock handmade lotions and soaps, locally made shampoos and conditioners, and perfumes from a small independent business that got their start in the family kitchen.
But I want more.
I have ideas.
Just no space to make it happen.
Sure, I’ve checked into a couple of other available buildings in the square, but neither of them are what I’m looking for. Neither of them have the proper space for my vision. It wouldn’t be a solid move upward, but more lateral. Plus, they both face the north and are shaded by a huge oak tree that would eliminate the early morning sun warming up my boutique. Those spaces just don’t feel right.
The best option is to buy the building that’s pieced directly between Douglas Hardware and myself. It’s been empty forever, the owner never even entertaining an offer to sell. She’s rented it a few times, but nothing ever stuck. It’s a small space, barely five hundred square feet, but when you add that to my existing eight hundred square feet, it would make for a wonderful place to spread my wings and grow. Yesterday’s conversation with my loan officer comes back to me, along with the dollar amount he approved to lend, if my offer is accepted. Then, there was the trip to the realtor’s office and the earnest money I delivered to make said offer. It’s starting to come together.
I smile as I glance around my business and complete my customary two-twirl spin by the front door. I built this myself, with blood, sweat, and tons of tears. It wasn’t easy, that’s for sure. Not when the old men on the city council wanted nothing to do with a “dirty sex shop” coming to paint a bright red A on the town square’s sweater vest. But this isn’t a sex shop. There isn’t a sex toy to be seen, outside of my own nightstand drawer. This is about seduction, self-confidence, and feminism. Empowerment, that’s the word I like to use. Hell, I even have it on my company business cards.
Grabbing my nonfat, caramel mocha and the white bag containing my morning blueberry crumble muffin (my little sister is seriously the best baker ever), I slip behind the counter and fire up the computer. It’s slow to boot on this gloomy Saturday, so I keep chugging my sugary coffee drink and wait it out. When the machine is finally alive, it starts to blink back at me. The cursor. Right there at the top of the screen. Blink. Blink. Blink.
I start to click like a madwoman, because, when all else fails, just start stabbing your mouse with your index finger. Yet nothing seems to happen. I recall Samuel’s control-alt-delete trick, pressing all three buttons at the same time and waiting, fingers figuratively crossed. I rip into the muffin, shoveling my first bite into my mouth in annoyance—not at the breakfast treat, but at the situation. After a few long seconds, it starts blinking again, mocking me with its inability to do its job.
So I kick the tower under the counter.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
Nothing. Works.
“Dammit!” I bellow, cursing my super cute strappy sandals and their failure to cover my now aching toes properly.
Grabbing my phone, I fire off a text message to my older brother, Samuel, who will surely come to my computer crisis rescue. He’s the oldest of us four Grayson siblings and takes his role very seriously. He’s also the most anal-retentive man I’ve ever known. He’s our resident negotiator, computer guru, and town government buff. Plus, if you ever need lengthy contracts reviewed, he gets off on that shit. Well, I don’t know that for a fact, because—eww, he’s my brother—but you get my drift.
I fire off a quick text message.
Me: Computer at work won’t turn on. Help?
He replies right away.
Samuel: Getting ready to bury Mr. Crosswell. Should be done by one.
Did I forget to mention Samuel is a funeral director? Oops. My oldest brother spends his days and nights with the dead, which is actually quite fitting, considering he’s the most awkward of us all when dealing with the living.
Me: One?!? *insert whiney GIF* What am I supposed to do until then?
Samuel: Do it the old-fashioned way. Carbon copy receipts and a calculator.
Me: That sounds horrible! *insert crying emoji*
Samuel: You’ll survive. Sales tax is seven point two-five percent. Don’t forget that. Otherwise, you’re paying it out of pocket. Keep your receipt copies and I’ll do a spreadsheet when I get there.
Me: You’ve ruined my Saturday.
Samuel: I did no such thing. Besides, you get to create a spreadsheet and input numbers. This will be fun.
Me: Said no human being ever…
