And then he opens his mouth and asks Mark J., “How’s your morning going?”
Liquid smoke, whiskey, sunshine and musk pours out of that jaunty, sultry mouth and all over my body like I am standing under a waterfall of oh, yeahhhhh. Everything goes into slow motion around me. My world narrows to what I see, and I can’t stop staring at Mr. Sex in a Suit.
Mark J. says something to the man in what sounds like Klingon, and they share a laugh. Beautiful, straight white teeth and cheeks that dimple—dimple!—make me fall even more in lust with Mr. I Will Make You Omelets in the Morning Wearing Your Suit Jacket and Nothing Else.
I look down and nearly vomit, because my torn t-shirt may actually have remnants of omelets on it. From yesterday. I sniff in that secret way people try to surreptitiously look like they are not so hygiene-deprived that they don’t know whether they’re offending half the eastern seaboard.
Damn. I am.
My phone rings. People around me look as I stare at it, slack-jawed. I can see my open mouth in the glass and realize my hair is still in a loose topknot on my head. Is that my nephew’s My Little Pony scrunchie?
I really sprinted out the door this morning, didn’t I? Being made an honorary Brony by a seven-year-old with two missing front teeth meant I’d been named “Thparkly Thunthine Auntie Thannon.” I smile at the memory.
“Hello?” No one calls me. They always text. And the phone number is new. I don’t know this person.
“Shannon, it’s me.” Amanda. My co-worker. My best friend. My thorn in my side. A ringing phone is an anomaly these days. Most people just zombie text. Me? I have a twenty-four-year-old friend who uses her phone like it’s 2003.
“Why do you have a new number?”
“Greg made me get a cheaper plan.” Greg is our boss. He makes those crazy coupon queens who buy $400 worth of groceries for $4.21 with 543 coupons look like people from Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.
“Huh. Well, you could have answered the phone when I called this morning and taken some of these bagel hell assignments, you know,” I whisper. “I am going to name my reflux Maple Horseradish Amanda after you.”
“Oh, thank God! You picked up the jobs.”
A very attractive college guy walks in, donning a lacrosse team shirt and a pair of legs that make me wish I were wearing my good underwear instead of my safe underwear. You could go fly fishing in these granny pants.
My eyes can’t stop flipping between college dude and Christian Grey. Eight bagel shops, and on the ninth, God gave Shannon a smorgasbord of hot men.
“You took them all?” Amanda’s voice is somewhere between a dog whistle and a fire alarm. She shakes me out of my head just as Mr. Sex in a Suit walks by, making me sniff the air like an animal in heat. Which I kind of am, suddenly.
He smells like a weekend in Stowe at a private cabin with skis propped against the back wall, a roaring fire in a stone fireplace that crawls from floor to ceiling, and a bearskin rug that feels amazing against all your na**d parts.
Even the dormant ones.
Especially the dormant ones.
“On the ninth one right now, but you’re blowing my cover,” I hiss. “And you so owe me. I’m making you pick up those podiatrist evals next month.” Podiatrist shops don’t exactly feed a sense of sexual desire, so my mind makes me go there. Feet. Hammer toes. Eww. Mr. Sex in a Suit leaves through the main doors, coffee in hand.
But wait, I want to cry out. You forgot to let me lick your cuff links.
“You can’t make me do the bunion walk!” Amanda protests. Yes, mystery shoppers evaluate podiatrists. Doctors, dentists, banks, and even—
“Then you can do all the sex-toy shop surveys,” I say, biting my lips after. I can feel the heat from her blush through the phone. Or maybe that’s my own body as I lean to the left to search for a glimpse of Mr. Sophistication.
“Bunions it is,” she replies curtly. “Come to the office after. We need to talk. Clinching this huge account hinges on how well these bagel shops go.” She pauses. “And I am so not doing those marital aids shops!” Click.
Chapter Two
Nineteen questions compel me to wrap up the rest of my sandwich, throw my half-full latte away, and walk with confidence toward the restrooms, hands shaking from too much caffeine. So what if, in my rush out of the house, I’d forgotten to change out of my yoga pants and torn t-shirt?
I look down. I’m wearing two different navy shoes. Which wouldn’t be a problem, except one of them is open-toed.
Whatever. I am fine. This is my last shop of the day. So what if I look like something out of People of Walmart?
Thank goodness Mr. Omelet Cashmere Jacket is gone. He didn’t even look at me, which is fine. (Not really, but…) Living in my own head has its privileges, like pretending I have a chance with someone like that. What would he see if he looked at me? Crazy hair, a full figure in an outfit so casual it classifies as pajamas, tired but observant brown eyes, and the blessings of good genetics from my mother, with a pert nose and what Mom calls a “youthful appearance”, but I call a curse of being carded forever.
And the whole two-different-shoes thing, which could be a fashion statement, you know? It could. Don’t question it.
The coast is clear. Tap tap tap. I knock softly on the men’s room door, assuming it’s a one-seater like all the other stores I’ve been in this morning. No reply.
Sauntering in, I do a double take. Damn! Two urinals and two stalls instead of the big old square room. Someone could walk in on me. A guy could come in here and whip it out if I’m not careful.
Then again, it’s been so long, I’m not sure I remember what they whip out.
Last year, one of my shops for a gas station chain made me count the number of hairs on the urinal cakes. That was, I contend, the low point in my secret shopping career. Fortunately, this particular chain does not have an obsession with hirsute urinators.
How progressive.
I tap on my phone and open the app, scanning the questions. Enough toilet paper? Check. Faucets in working order? Check. Paper-towel dispenser full? Check.
Toilets and urinals in operating order? Hoo boy.
If you’ve never been in a men’s room, and have only set foot in the ladies’ room at most fine (and not so fine) establishments, you need to know this: store owners hate men. No, really—this is the one area where women get treated better. We may earn seventy-seven cents on the dollar compared to men, but, by God, our public bathrooms don’t look like something out of a Soviet-era prison.