Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
“If you’re not lying, then you’re obviously into kink.” She smirked.
“Excuse me?” I pocketed the two dollars and thirty-seven cents in change. The scent of essential oils hung heavily in the air, the herbaceous ones dominating the rest.
She held up a hexagonal pointed stone before wrapping it in tissue paper. “This is a butt plug, or sometimes it’s used for rectal cancer healing. And these two oils are used during cancer treatment, or they are very common aphrodisiacs—especially when used together. So just be careful.”
My hair dripped rainwater down my face, but it could have been sweat, too. And the rain continued to pelt the windows as I glanced over my shoulder and prayed for a reprieve.
“There is a third option.” She added the incense to the bag, tucked the receipt next to the healing butt plug, and slid it in my direction. “Perhaps you don’t practice natural healing or have kinks. Maybe you feel bad for tracking water all over my floor instead of paying attention to the forecast and packing an umbrella.”
She pulled her cinnamon brown hair over her shoulder, slowly braiding it while wearing a beaming grin. I knew when girls were flirting with me, and Scottie Rucker was better than anyone—a flashing neon sign.
“It’s my parents’ anniversary.” I winked. “No cancer. All kink. My sister always out-gifts me. But not today.”
Scottie cupped her hand over her mouth and snorted. “Oh my god. You win.”
“But I do feel terrible about the wet floor.” I strolled toward the door just as the rain let up.
“Then come by on a sunny day around noon with a cherry hibiscus tea from Bea’s Teas down the street. And for the love of god, don’t let anyone stick that blue sodalite stone up their ass.”
I turned at the door.
She shot a sharp arrow into my chest with one smile. “I’m Scottie.”
“Price,” I said while opening the door and heading home with my bag full of sexual healing.
I arrange green glass bottles of water on the counter.
Wash veggies.
Pour dirt into my pans for sprouts.
Hang grow lights.
And nap.
When I wake, I open my fancy black box and dump the first bag of Legos onto the kitchen table. It’s Harry Potter Hogwarts Castle.
Two hours later, I suddenly need something from the local general store. Of course, I hope Scottie will be excited to see me. And she delivers.
“Hey! I was just thinking about you,” she says, unpacking a box of oranges. Her bangs are clipped back with a white barrette that matches her white, off-the-shoulder sweater, and the rest of her hair is braided into short pigtails. She bleeds youth.
“Yeah?” I pluck a basket from the stack and hook it over my arm. “What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking you need a job.”
I stand beside her and inspect an apple. “Been there. Done that. What else do you have?”
She deposits two avocados into my basket. “You need to put on some weight.”
“You’re uncharacteristically bossy today. Or is this the newer, more mature version of Scottie Rucker?”
She arranges the oranges in a basket. “Haha. I’m serious. Is everything okay with you?”
I focus on finding two more suitable apples. “Indeed. I started sprouting today. You should stop by in a few days to see their progress.”
“Who are you?” She laughs.
“Why do I need a job?” After I steal a green grape and pop it into my mouth (it’s sour), I mosey a few feet from her to the bins of nuts and seeds.
“A job gives you purpose.”
“Purpose? I just started a new Lego set. It’s over six thousand pieces. It’s not going to put itself together. I still haven’t ruled out knitting. But let’s be honest, curling is where it’s at.”
Her giggles fill the store. Do the other customers know how lucky they are to shop here and be in the presence of such raw joy?
“I think part of your purpose should be a part-time position at a lovely little general store.”
Shooting my gaze to hers, I wait for her to elaborate.
She doesn’t.
“I’m not qualified.”
“Price, you’re overqualified times infinity. That’s what makes this so perfect.”
“Sorry. You’ll need to elaborate on your definition of perfect.” I smile at a gray-haired lady who squeezes past me to reach for a brown bag.
“I bet you’ve never stocked shelves, made soda and ice cream concoctions, operated a cash register, or mopped a floor at eight o’clock at night.”
“Hmm. I need to bone up on my vocabulary. I don’t recall Merriam-Webster listing any of those chores under the word ‘perfect.’”
“It’s the simplicity. It’s doing something basic but necessary. It’s not about the paycheck. It’s contributing to society. It’s the conscious or subconscious acknowledgment that no job is beneath you. We are all equal.”
I set my basket on the counter, eyeing her with a healthy dose of skepticism she earned with her We Are All Equal speech.