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“I’m okay,” she says, shoving a lock of hair out of her face. “But customers should go through the door on Main Street.”
Did I…walk into the rear door of the wrong shop?
Recognition hits us both at the same time.
The eyes. The hair. That smile. It’s her.
“Customers?” I ask, squinting.
Her face turns to complete mischief. “Or mannequin molesters.”
Shit, what is happening?
I try to laugh it off, but I only manage a sneer. “I’m the owner.”
“Oh. Well, nice to meet you. I’m Dakota.”
Dakota.
She blinks up at me. “And you are?”
“Dean. What are you doing in my stock room?” I ask, more growly than intended.
“Working.”
“On what? Stealing shit?”
I didn’t have “make a citizen’s arrest of a stock-room pillager” on today’s bingo card—or game master’s guide, as it were—but here we are.
The girl named Dakota pinches the bridge of her nose. “Clearly there is a communication problem here as well as a branding problem.”
“Huh?”
“Let’s start over. Hi,” she says, thrusting out a manicured hand. “I’m Dakota, your new brand manager.”
I put it together that Rhys or Forrest, or both of them, hired her on the spot in the time it took for me to take a shower.
“What’s a brand manager?” I ask flatly, trying to work on my smile without baring my teeth like a weirdo.
She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, clearly trying not to look impatient.
“It’s a person who helps you tweak things here and there so you don’t get walk-ins from folks looking for dildos.”
“Excuse me?”
Just then, the front bell rings, and I hear Forrest’s awkward greeting, followed by, “Yes, I was wondering if you have any furry handcuffs.”
Dakota locks eyes with me and raises an eyebrow.
“Oh. So you do want to start stocking adult toys.”
“No.”
“Pornography?”
“No,” I say firmly, transfixed by her pert little eyebrow. I must have moved in closer to her without realizing it because now I can smell her scent…spicy and creamy and so tempting it puts filthy ideas in my head.
“Building a sex dungeon?”
