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The List
by Tawna Fenske

Copyright © 2017 by Tawna Fenske. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Chapter One

Simon

“Excuse me? I urgently need more RAM, and I was hoping you could give it to me.”

I turn to see a hot blonde wearing cherry-red lipstick and a black dress tight enough to be a tourniquet. Her tone would be more suited for taking calls at 1-900-FuckMe, and the pointed look she just gave my crotch suggests she rehearsed that line before walking into my shop.

Yes, my shop. I own all twenty-six branches of Hot Swap Computer Sales and Repairs scattered around the Pacific Northwest, though I rarely venture out of the back room these days. The boob-graze the blonde just performed on my forearm is one reason.

“I recognize you from that article in Men’s Health a few months ago,” she continues, moving deeper into my personal space. “‘Meet the young entrepreneur with the mind, muscles, and millions.’ I knew this was the place to come for the best RAM.”

“Actually,” I say, taking a step back, “you first need to determine how much RAM you can handle.”

Her eyes widen and she licks her lips. “Yes,” she breathes. “I think I can handle a lot.”

I point to the other end of the counter. “We’re having a sale on the sixteen-gigabyte HyperX FURY with symmetric heat spreader,” I say, and watch her eyes widen. “Carl over there is our expert. He’ll be to happy help you.”

The blonde gives me a confused look, trying to ascertain if I’ve just talked dirty or blown her off.

It’s the latter.

She seems to realize this as she glances down the counter at the freckled face of my lanky store manager. His exuberant expression and over-enthusiastic wave suggest he will indeed be happy to help her, and may, in fact, be popping a boner behind the counter right this moment.

I’d rather not dwell on that.

But I do soften my tone when I remove her claws from my forearm. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to finish debriefing a new employee. Thanks for coming to Hot Swap.”

I walk away before she can make a suggestive comment about debriefing or ask me what I’ve got that’s plug and play. I know it’s coming. I’ve heard it all before.

But I escape without further incident and duck into the back room where my new hire is waiting patiently between a bank of employee lockers and the foosball table I set up for break-time entertainment. Corey’s a cheerful guy with a passion for technology, an infectious laugh, and Down syndrome. He just finished his first week of employment here through my WorkAbility program.

“Sorry about the wait,” I tell him. “Here’s your first paycheck.”

His face lights up like I’ve just given him the keys to my Mercedes, which makes my heart swell into a big, fat knot. He takes the envelope and grabs my hand to shake it. “Thank you!” he says, beaming from ear to ear. “Sarah’s coming to come get me, and we’re going to Sizzle Pie to celebrate. Now I can buy whatever she wants for dinner.”

Sarah is one of the case managers who run the group home where Corey lives, and as though summoned by her name, she appears at the back door with her car keys in hand. She smiles and greets us both. “Hey, Corey. Hello, Simon. You guys almost finished here?”

“Yeah!” Corey beams. “I got my first paycheck and everything.”

“You earned every penny,” I tell him. “You’re doing great work here.”

I mean it, too. Corey’s one of about four dozen adults with disabilities I’ve hired through WorkAbility since I launched the program four years ago. If I could bottle his enthusiasm and easygoing temperament, I’d sprinkle it on every one of my six hundred plus employees.

From her spot in the doorway, Sarah turns her smile on me. It’s not the fuck-me-silly smile deployed by the blonde in the lobby, but there’s an undercurrent I can read just the same. She’s a sweet girl, intelligent and hard-working, and pretty in that girl-next-door kind of way.

She also has a steady boyfriend, so even if she were my type, that’s a strict hell-no as far as I’m concerned.

“You doing anything fun for the weekend?” she asks me while Corey gathers his things and stuffs them in a big red backpack.

“Just catching up on work,” I say. “Probably hitting the gym or going for a hike on Saturday, then having lunch with Junie on Sunday.”

Hearing my kid sister’s name makes Sarah smile again as she turns away to lead Corey to the car. “Don’t work too hard,” she calls over her shoulder before pulling the door closed behind her.

I don’t even pretend I’ll follow that advice. The only time I’m not working hard is when I’m playing hard, and to be honest, I’ve been a little lax in that department lately. It’s not that I don’t have ample opportunity to play on a regular basis. The blonde in the lobby is a testament to that.

But if I’m being frank, I’m sort of over the one-night stands. The hookups with women who see me as an ATM with a dick.

That doesn’t mean I’m looking to settle down anytime soon. No way in hell is that in the cards for me. I’m just taking a bit of a break right now.

I hear the door chime in the lobby, and I glance out the window to see Carl still busy with the blonde. Dammit. Pete’s on lunch break and Shelly’s out sick today, which leaves yours truly to deal with whoever just walked through the door. I take a moment to clean my glasses on the hem of my black T-shirt before I push the door open and step into the retail shop.

I stop cold at the sight of her.

After being eye-fucked by two women in ten minutes, my brain takes a moment to register that this girl is doing pretty much the opposite. Bristling with tension, she’s got her dark hair piled in a messy knot on top of her head and anchored by a chewed-up pencil. She’s wearing a dark scowl and a baggy orange sweatshirt that says “OSU Crop & Soil Science” over the spot where I can only assume her left breast might be. Gray yoga pants hug her thighs nicely, though the effect is negated by the brown smear across one thigh. Dirt or chocolate, maybe, though it’s anyone’s guess. She’s frowning down at her laptop like it just ate her report and regurgitated it on the carpet.

Then she looks up and hits me with the full force of green eyes the color of a Heineken bottle. She blinks once, then softens her expression.

“I need help.” There’s no preamble, no double entendre, no hint of anything dirty in her request.

Which is kind of a shame.

No, it’s not.

I move forward and step behind the counter to face her. “What seems to be the problem?”

“My laptop. It’s frozen.” She flips it open, averting her eyes from mine. “I—uh—I spilled a drink on it last night, and it made sort of a zappy noise. I tried to clean it off, but now it’s just stuck like this, and I don’t know what to do.”

Her words are rushed and a little frantic. I’m so busy looking at her—the flush in her cheeks, the fullness of her lips—that I almost fail to notice she’s holding the sleeve of her sweatshirt over the laptop screen. I glance at the keyboard, which has a bit of sticky residue on it, but it looks mostly clean.

I reach out and start to pull the laptop toward me. “I can take a look at—”

“No!” She grabs the edges of the computer and pulls it back. Her sleeve is still covering the monitor, and this is the weirdest tug-of-war game I’ve ever been part of.

I raise one eyebrow at her. “It’s going to be difficult to assess the problem if I can’t see the computer.”

“Right.” She bites the edge of her lip, and something stirs in the center of my chest. “Um, is there any way you can do that without looking closely at whatever might be on the screen?”

Ah. Got it. Not the first time I’ve been confronted with someone’s secret pornography fetish when repairing a computer on the fritz. It happens at least a couple times a week, and this woman is hardly the first porn enthusiast of the female persuasion.

I put on my best reassuring-nice-guy smile. “Ma’am, I can promise we’re very discreet here. But I do need to take a look at the whole device before I can do anything to fix the issue.”

She seems to hesitate, and the way she’s still biting her lip makes me wonder what she looks like when she’s coming.

Why the hell did I just imagine that? The woman’s dressed like a college student during finals week, and the vibe she’s giving off is more stay-the-hell-away than come-hither. Meanwhile, the blonde is bent over the other end of the counter looking like sex on a waffle cone, and my libido hasn’t twitched once.

Maybe this laptop isn’t the only thing on the fritz.

Sweatshirt Girl seems to decide something then, because she lets go of the laptop and draws her arm back from the screen. “Okay,” she says, brushing a loose strand of hair from those eyes. Those eyes. She takes a step back and gives me a sheepish look. “I just—can you try to make it quick?”

“Of course.”

I have a better look at the keyboard now, and I can see it’s going to be a pain in the ass to deal with. Something sticky has seeped between the keys, and several are stuck in a down position. I can hear the motherboard wheezing like a sick cat, which is actually a good thing. At least it’s still got some spark. Sweatshirt Girl is right, though—the damn thing is totally frozen.

My eyes flick to the screen, and I swear I only mean to check the pixels. But something catches my eye, and I stand there absorbing the words like some sort of creepy voyeur.

Sex.

Spanking.

Roleplay.

What the hell is this? And why am I so intrigued?