The pain of the toilet handle digging into my shoulder blade when I fell back is making itself known, and my arm is dripping, but—but!—Mr. Death by Toilet Rescue is looking at me with concern, and almost as good:
I am clutching my phone.
This all took about five seconds, so I’m panting, and the top knot of my already unruly hair has come undone, leaving a curtain of long waves framing my face. The ends of some of it are wet.
Oh, gross. Toilet arm, toilet phone—toilet hair?
The first words we share finally fill the air. He initiates with a grin.
“We have better seats out in the dining room, you know.”
“My phone needed a bath,” I reply, combing my hair with my dry hand, and now it’s wet, too. I wonder what I look like right now, but I’m afraid if I look in a mirror I will crawl back into the toilet and try to flush myself out of this mess.
“What, exactly, have you been doing with your phone to make it so dirty?” he asks with a leer.
He steps back out of the stall with a gentlemanly sweep of his arm, green eyes filled with a mixture of mirth and guardedness. As he moves, he reveals a full-length wall mirror, giving me my own nightmare.
Oh. That’s what I look like. Anyone have a spare coffee stirrer? Because I could stab myself in the eye and maybe bleed to death right here.
Or embarrassment will kill me. No such luck. If embarrassment could kill, I’d be dead nine times over by now.
I study myself in the mirror. Time seems measured by increments of incredulity, so why not make Mr. Toilet Rescuer think I’m even crazier by looking at my reflection like a puppy discovering “that other puppy” in the mirror? Long brown hair, wet at the ends in the front. Split ends, no less. Who has the money for a decent cut after I needed new tires for my ancient Saturn? My torn pink t-shirt and gray yoga pants make me look like your average college student, except my shoes bring me to a screeching mental halt.
Yoga pants and one loafer, one open-toed shoe make me look like Mrs. McCullahay down the street, dragging her trashcans out to the road at 5 a.m. with mismatched shoes, a mu-mu, and curlers in her hair while an inch-long ash hangs out of her mouth.
“At least I don’t smoke,” I mutter. Then I remember where I am, and look slowly to my left.
Mr. Smirky Suit leans casually against the scarred, dented stall wall, his face settled into a look of amusement now, but he’s not going anywhere. Feet planted firmly in place, I realize he’s giving me that look.
No, not that look. I’d take that look from him any time.
I mean the look of someone who will not let me out of here without an explanation.
An explanation I am contractually obligated not to give. Outing myself as a secret shopper is verboten. Unheard of.
Grounds for termination.
See, the first rule of mystery shopping is like the first rule of Fight Club: don’t punch anyone. Oh. Wait. No…it’s that you don’t talk about it. Ever.
Though, sometimes, that not-punching rule comes in handy, because there are some really weird people in stores.
And Mr. Suit looks at me like I’m one of them.
“Let me introduce myself,” he says, taking the lead. His body moves effortlessly from leaning to standing, then he takes two steps forward and I retreat until the backs of my calves hit the toilet rim again. I’m backing away from him and I don’t know why.
“Declan McCormick. And you are?” Instinct makes me reach my hand out, and he’s clasping mine before we both realize it’s the toilet-contaminated hand.
He pretends it’s perfectly normal, keeping strong eye contact and pumping my hand like it’s the handle to a well. Except his fingers are warm, soft, and inviting, the touch lingering a little too long.
His eyes, too. They study me, and not like he’s cataloging my features so he can file a police report or have me Section 35’d for being a danger to myself and others.
I am being inventoried in the most delicious of ways.
As a professional whose job it is to inventory customer service in business, I have acquired a set of unique skills—but more than that, I now have a sixth sense for when I’m being detailed.
And oh dear…there goes that flush.
And not the toilet kind.
I realize we’re still shaking hands, and his eyes are taking me in. “Uh, Shannon. Shannon Jacoby. Nice to meet you.” I find my voice.
He looks around the room and bursts out laughing, a flash of straight white teeth and a jaw I want to nuzzle making me inhale sharply. That laugh is the sound of extraordinary want entering my body, taking up residence low in my belly, and now waiting for a chance to pick china patterns and paint colors to really consider itself at home.
Go away, want. I’ve banished you.
Want ignores me and settles in, cleaning out the cobwebs that have taken up residence where I used to allow desire and hope and arousal to live.
Squatter.
“Shannon, this has to be the strangest way I’ve ever met a woman.” One corner of his mouth curls up in a sexy little smile, like we’re on a beach drinking alcohol out of coconuts carved by Cupid and not in a ratty old bathroom with a fluorescent tube light that starts buzzing like a nest of mosquitoes at an outdoor blood bank.
“You don’t get around much, then,” I say. My toes start to curl as my body fights to contain the wellspring of attraction that is unfurling inside me. No. Just…no. I can’t let myself feel this. You spend enough time trying not to feel something and all that work gets thrown away with one single flush.
He does that polite laugh thing, eyes narrowing. I decide to just stare openly and catalog him right back. Brown hair, clipped close, in a style that can only come at the hands of a very expensive salon owner. The bluish-gray suit, textured and smooth at the same time, shimmering and flat as well under the twitchy light. Skin kissed by the sun but also a bit too light, as if he used to spend a lot of time outdoors but hasn’t recently.
A body like a tall tennis player’s, or a golfer’s, and not my dad with his pot-bellied buddies getting in a round of nine holes at 4 p.m. just so they can have an excuse to drink their dinner. Declan is tall and sleek, confident and self-possessed. He moves like a lion, knowing the territory and owning it.
Always aware of any movement that interests him.
I’m 5’ 9” and he’s taller than my by at least half a foot. Tall girls always do a mental check: could I wear high heels with him? Steve hated when I wore high heels, because it put me eye-to-eye with him.
“What are you doing in the men’s room?” he asks, smirking at me.