Hope was late on the ever so important morning of inventory and she'd never felt better in her life.

She and Brad had made love long into the night, shared the cake Carmella had sent home and made more love. Hope had fallen into a peaceful sleep sometime after midnight and hadn't awoken until eight a.m.

There was no sign of Brad when she opened her eyes. Noticing the time, she scurried out of bed and did a quick once over the bedroom, living room and kitchen. She glanced around and finally noticed that propped against the coffeemaker was one of those notes that took him fifteen minutes to craft. "Sleep in. Your well-trained employees will handle it. Brad"

And then she was calm. She rested the yellow Post-It note against her chest. Her apartment actually felt empty without him. Was this love? Standing nude in her kitchen on the morning of inventory indicated that it most likely was, but she couldn't love him. Not even when he filled her so completely in every possible way. She couldn't love the shoe salesman/Wisconsin dairy farmer/dyslexic law student.

Hope wandered into the bathroom and adjusted the shower. She stepped in and soaped her body that tingled from head to foot. What exactly would it hurt to feel this a little? The end of the relationship would cause pain--she was fully aware of that. But if it ended now would it be any less painful? Of course not.

It was completely logical to ride this out, allow herself to experience it. Hope rinsed her hair that smelled of cucumber and melon. Maybe she'd find that she didn't love him at all. Maybe the sex would spoil and the beating of her heart when she spotted him would wane. That could happen.

With that thought in her mind, Hope toweled off, ate a bagel half and brushed her teeth. She pulled on a pink turtleneck sweater and charcoal gray wool pants that he'd commented once he liked and began to fervently style her hair.

She took the long way to work, taking care to pay

attention to the sights and sounds of a late winter morning in the city. How could it be that she was generally too busy, too hurried, to notice the carts of soft pretzel vendors and mounted policeman on shining brunette steeds?

By the time she reached Milton's, Hope felt cheerful and relaxed. She'd been well-loved physically with the hope of being further loved later on. She'd spend this day taking pride in her job, her newly born sexuality and the lover who'd made it happen. Brad Simon was a liberating moment in her life.

The store was darker than usual since the house lights weren't on high. The Milton's employees had six hours to inventory the unsold remnants of the previous seasons. Donuts and coffee were hastily spread out on a table near the time clock. Hope gabbed a glazed and broke it in two, gently setting the other half down on a plastic tray.

"Good morning, Agnes!" Hope called to the four-foot- nine woman who worked in housewares and was busy counting soup bowls just outside the door of customer service. "How has inventory been so far?"

Agnes looked up from her clipboard. "I had more left than I thought." She lifted a small crock by its handle.

Hope felt her brow crease. "Did we over order?"

Agnes shrugged and turned back to her clipboard. "Just not a popular pattern this year I guess."

Hope took a tiny bite of her donut. She never ate donuts. "Well, count them up and we'll mark what's left on clearance this afternoon."

"Very good," Agnes said and ran her finger down a column.

Hope licked a crystal of glaze off of her finger and threw her purse, briefcase and coat over the side of the counter. Classic rock, Tom Petty maybe, beat through the store's stereo system that generally hosted elevator music in the form of John Denver and Michael Bolton. "I'm leaving these here for a moment, Lynette," Hope said to the young girl who worked customer service and seemed terrified of her. "I'd like to make my rounds before I head up to the office."

"Certainly," Lynette said and lowered her eyes behind her tortoise shell glasses. She could be pretty if she'd only loosen up a bit, Hope thought and then wondered why.

She made her way through housewares, domestics and cosmetics. There was nothing that pleased her more than seeing the whole of Milton's working as a well-oiled machine.

Tom Petty sang, calculators clicked and laughter rippled through each department as Hope's employees interacted as people, not just colleagues. She'd never been good at it--the casual conversation, the polite questions, the warm smiles. There had always been too much to do, to accomplish, to plan for. She wasn't a proponent of rose-smelling time.

But she envied them now--the easy grins, the plans for a life that wasn't just Milton's, only helped along by Milton's.

Hope nodded hello to a few associates who looked her way. Each time their light conversation stopped and they all seemed to suddenly have figures to run or hangers to replace.

It made her sad, but more than sad it made her feel small. A ripple of resentment pushed at the seams of her pink sweater. She had a sense of humor. She could appreciate a joke, find irony in the strangest of places. But why did everyone jump to attention when her pumps clicked in the walkway?

"Good morning," Hope called to two women in petites.

"Good morning, Ms. Milton," they called back and then turned to their work.

Hope kept up her pace and rounded the store, finding the same reaction in children's, jewelry and lingerie. It had always been that way--she'd always known, just never cared. The best way to crank a top-notch performance out of an employee was to utilize a tiny element of fear.

But as Hope glanced behind her to see two guys in electronics whisper as she passed, she felt genuinely embarassaed. What the hell had Brad done to her? She was giving blow jobs in the park, sleeping in, noticing scenery that she'd never noticed before and she was caring about how she was viewed by her eight dollar an hour employees.

Hope was down right resentful by the time she entered shoes. Doris held a clipboard as Larry counted stacks of boxes resting near the register. Brad dangled on a ladder to access the ones that were out of reach. He didn't see her at first; he just counted, chuckled, leaned down toward Doris and made her laugh too. Then he turned, lifted an arm--so sculpted in his brushed denim shirt--toward the highest box on the shelf.

Where had he come from, this farm-boy-cum-lawyer who had shaken the very foundations of her life? She hadn't asked for him, hadn't sat home and wished for a hard and irresistible body to hold her tight. She'd had her planner, her Rolodex, her blueprints of The Garden Room in her mind. She'd had a vibrator and Donald Jordan to dine with when she'd grown tired of frozen Lean Cuisine. That life had been just fine. Had Brad ruined her for it now? Could she ever be satisfied with the guarded, regimental existence again?

Brad spotted her. He turned with a box in his hand and that devastating smile on his face. "Good morning," he said and gave a mock salute.

"Good morning." Hope took care to walk straight and tall and give no indication that she'd seen him so recently, there beside her in her bed. "How are things in shoes?"

Brad hopped down and set the box he held on the station. "Good, we're almost done. Mostly just these old loafers left. Maybe it's time to mark them down." He smirked and brushed dust from his hands.

"Hi, Doris," Hope said when she looked up from her clipboard. Doris raised her eyes above the top of her glasses. Did she know what was going on between her recruit and her boss whom she'd known all of her life?

"Hi, Hope. These boys sure made my job easier. They just dug right in. This is the fastest we've ever gotten done."

Hope ignored Brad's stare and reached for the box he'd set down. "Do you think these have been around too long, Doris?"

Doris glanced at the box and then back to her ledger. "Reagan administration."

A tiny laugh escaped Hope's throat. So maybe it took her awhile to catch on to the latest, the newest--she arrived eventually. It seemed silly to slash the price of perfectly good loafers when most likely octogenarian men would be the only ones buying them--clearance or otherwise. But Hope set the box down. "Go ahead and slash 'em."

She felt Brad's palm on her hair as he whispered, "Thatta girl. Be a rebel."

Hope flinched and squirmed to the side. If anyone saw them--

Tom Petty had turned into Matchbox 20. Brad grabbed Hope's hand and pulled her close. "Dance with me."

She attempted to push away but he tightened his grasp. "Stop," she whispered.

"No," he whispered back and started to sway.

"Brad, I mean it."

His left hand tightened on her right and he lifted it to his cheek. Their hearts beat side by side and she couldn't ignore the strange, fluttery rhythm hers fell victim to each time she was near him.

Larry and Doris had noticed now, as did the two associates in hosiery across the way. "Brad, honestly--"

He tilted his head back to better see her. "You owe me. I kicked ass at your inventory and I let you sleep in."

She felt the redness in her cheeks and the contrast they must give to her pink sweater. "Shh!"

Brad was enjoying himself. He spun her, dipped her so her leg popped up from the floor and then reeled her back in. Someone in men's wear applauded. "Come on, Hope. It's just a little dance amongst colleagues."

It was so easy to fall into it, fall into the thick pool of emotion he caused to ripple. But she couldn't. Not here at Milton's. Not anywhere.

Hope pushed away and placed Brad's hand in Doris'. "Well I don't mind if I do," Doris said and spun into him.

Brad gave her a twirl and winked at Hope as she did her best to slink into the oblivion of retail.

Man, she was going to be a tough sell. For someone who had devoted her life to marketing, presentation and profit margins, Hope sure as hell wasn't buying anything new.

Brad laced the register tape over the spool of the terminal. He was supposed to be in Ethics and Legal Responsibilities, but he'd conned Tommy Munroe to take his notes. Tommy's wife, Michelle, was in the same class and the way Brad figured it, one set of notes per household was sufficient.

Of course it would mean he'd have to spend a lot of time trying to decipher what Tommy banged out on his laptop and then transferring what was useful onto tape, but even so, helping Hope on an important day was a lot more important.

It was one o'clock. Milton's had sprung for pizza and wings before the store opened for the day. While all of the associates huddled in the coffee shop, Hope had disappeared into the hallowed halls of the third floor. Brad spent an hour trying to think up an excuse to head up there. So far he hadn't come up with one legitimate enough to get him past Rose. Though she'd done her share of flirting with him and sent out plenty of signals that even he as an almost non-reader could read, Rose was like a mama lion when it came to getting in to see the boss.

The lights came up and Milton's came alive. Marty, the security guard on duty, unlocked the main door and the crowds shuffled in for post-inventory bargains.

"Wait until word gets out that we have half-price loafers in size eight," Doris handed Brad a roll of nickels. "We'll really have the rest-home crowd in then."

Brad smiled and broke the roll on the register drawer. "So." Doris rested a full hip against the terminal. "What's going on with you and Hope?"

Brad lifted his eyes as the nickels tumbled into their designated cubby. "Nothing."

Doris laughed a smokers laugh, complete with a wheezy cough. "Come on now. You don't have to tell me--but don't lie to an old woman."

Brad pushed the drawer shut and ripped the tape that spewed from the top of the machine. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Doris wasn't having it. "I've watched Hope for a lot of years, Brad. She doesn't rattle easily. You my friend, have her shaking and rolling too."

The image pleased him. The fact that someone else noticed it pleased him even more. "She's a tough one," he said, hoping it told enough without offering too much.

Doris tapped his shoulder and pointed a shuffling old couple to the chairs. "You keep on wearing her down," she whispered before she went to work.

It was four o'clock before Hope ventured back to the sales floor. The day had been busy-the kind of day where by the time you looked at the clock, it was nearly time to leave. Except Hope never left Milton's. Not really. Sales figures and displays were constantly hovering in her mind like reels of a movie, rolling, rolling and rolling. The only thing that had ever stilled the whirl of the projector was Brad.

Hope pressed the button on the elevator and covered a yawn. She'd slept later than she had in years but still she was weary. The very thought made her bristle. Brad wore her down in so many ways. Even though this deep and smooth feeling of contentment was pleasurable, she didn't trust it. She trusted nothing that wasn't sales printouts, demographics and cold hard facts.

She stepped off of the elevator and nodded hello to several customers assembled near the entrance to housewares. Inventory day always proved to be busy. Customers were faithful in their desire for a great deal. Like a knight in shoe leather, Brad had volunteered to skip his classes and stay for the day. Since he really was the most productive of the shoe associates, Hope was grateful on a professional level. Unfortunately she found herself grateful on a personal level too.

On her way past, Hope pointed to a gold necklace hung askance in a case. The salesgirl hurried to find the key. Hope continued on and stopped in her tracks as she approached shoes.

A buxom girl with flowing red hair sat in a white resin chair in the shoe department. Her heel was resting precariously on Brad's shoulder. From his vantage point of squatting, he must've been rewarded with an excellent view. Something quite similar to steam began smoldering inside of Hope when Brad used his right hand to stroke the girl's shin.

"You don't think they make my legs look chunky?"

Brad lowered the girl's shapely leg and shook his head. "Not at all."

A ridiculous royal blue shoe graced the girl's foot. "I have a wedding to go to. I used to date the groom." She threw a blaze of hair over her shoulder. "I want to look fabulous!"

Brad nodded his understanding and pointed toward a short mirror. "You have great calves, but even if you didn't, the shoe is very slimming. It's the slight stiletto heel. It's a good look for you."

Hope crossed her arms and sucked in a breath when the girl hoisted her already too short skirt a bit as if it would help her view of the shoe three feet below.

Brad adjusted the other of the pair in the box and waited patiently for the verdict.

The girl glanced over her shoulder. "I love them. You were right. I knew there was a reason I bought that dress."

Brad helped the girl ease back into the chair and stooped to unbuckle her. Hope beat back the flame of jealously licking inside. She'd never felt the need to be envious. It made no sense to feel envious now. Brad wasn't hers. He was free to do as he pleased certainly, she'd all but told him that. He was doing his job effectively, a quality she would applaud in anyone else. Why then did she have to will her fists to unclench and convince her now unoccupied hands not grab a tangle of that fiery mane and pull like she were five-years-old and completely justified?

Brad fit the shoe back into the box with utmost care. The obnoxious girl's eyes trolled Brad's frame. "No wedding ring?" she asked as she pulled on a pump.

Brad shook his head. "Nope," he said with a smile and closed the box.

"Girlfriend?" the girl asked as she followed him to the terminal.

He just smirked and reached for the card that she handed him.

"Is that a yes or a no?"

"Hello, Ms. Milton," one of the stock boys said as the rolling cart he pushed snapped Hope back to reality.

Embarrassed to be caught gawking, Hope stepped back. "Hello, Eddie."

By the time Hope looked back, she'd missed Brad's answer. The girl had taken the magnetic pen and formed what looked to be loopy strokes on the credit pad. Brad watched intently.

Hope felt like she'd just seen Mommy kissing Santa Claus.

"My number's there." The girl flung the bag that Brad handed her over her shoulder. "I need a date for this wedding so think about it, okay? He'll just shit if I walk in with you!"

Brad gave her a salute. Hope noticed that he watched the girl's swinging hips for a moment too long before he disappeared into the stock room. She ploughed to the register station and keyed in her number on the credit pad. She scrolled down and found the name, Kendall Bannister.

Kendall Bannister.

It didn't even sound like a real name.

She cleared the information and headed into the storeroom. Brad was rearranging boxes to better fit on the wire rack. "Hey," he said when he looked up and noticed her.

Hope gave her arms a haughty cross.

He threw down the last box and moved toward her with the precision of a lynx. "I was just thinking about you."

"Oh you were?"

He touched her cheek but she turned away. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of enjoying his touch, his radiance.

He let his hand fall. "Yeah, I was."

"Are you sure you don't have me confused with Kendall Bannister?"

Brad's eyebrow shot up. "Who the hell is Kendall Bannister?"

Hope rolled her shoulder in the direction of the sales floor. "Miss March--royal blue shoes--"

Brad smiled that lopsided smile--the one that made her angry and unbelievably turned on every time she witnessed it. "Are you jealous, Hope?"

"Absolutely not! I just won't tolerate flirting or some warped mating dance on my floor."

Brad leaned against the rack and shoved his hands into his pockets. "I was just doing the job I was hired to do, Ms. Milton."

"She was obviously indicating that she'd like to see you in a--less formal setting."

Brad's green eyes turned dark. "How long were you listening?"

Hope hoisted a brow. "I wasn't listening. I just couldn't help over hearing. Please arrange your social schedule on your own time."

There was anger there now. She'd seen it brew from time to time, now it was steeped and raw. Brad took a step in and swiped Hope's arm into his hand. "Don't give me that bullshit. You know I'm not interested in her. You know I'm not interested in anyone else. You know that." He softened a bit as his hands slid up and cupped her face. "Don't go psycho on me, Hope."

Hope pushed him away. "This is the oldest and most respected store in Central New York. I will not have its reputation compromised."

Brad raised a brow. "Compromised?"

She crossed her arms. "To anyone looking, whether it be a customer or colleague, there was obviously innuendo and invitation wrapped up in that sale. I will not allow it, Brad."

He tilted his head and seemed to be pondering something. Perhaps he was wondering who exactly she was that she could so easily shift from being wild for him in the heat of the night and to reprimanding him for an infraction in the middle of the day. "Are you pissed because someone flirted with a sales associate, or are you pissed because someone flirted with me?"

Hope sucked in a breath and jutted her chin. "A sales associate who did nothing to dissuade her."

It took a minute before he spoke. He ran his hand through his hair, looked away and then back again. "You know what? I think I agree with Donald Whatever-the-hell his name is. I agree that you might just be a tease. I've been lucky enough to benefit from that fact where Donald hasn't, but still and all, I ain't thrilled, honey."

Hope stepped back. "Don't threaten me," she whispered in a voice that she didn't recognize as her own.

Brad shook his head. "I'm not threatening you, Hope. I don't work that way. I walk away. Because no matter how much I want something, I'm not desperate. You can take me or you can lose me. Either way I survive. Maybe more jaded--but I survive."

Hope felt a shiver of something unknown and unwelcome descend from her neck to her toes. "I've told you that I just want it casual."

He smirked again, but this was a smirk of gall and nerve. "Casual? You mean fucking when you wanna fuck, how you wanna fuck?" Brad inched closer. "Is that what you mean, Hope?"

Hope tossed her hair over her shoulder. "You're vulgar," she whispered, eyeing the doorway.

Brad emitted a sinister chuckle and swiped her wrist into his hand. "I'll show you vulgar." His hands were quick. He was already kneading her breasts to their beaded peak right through her pink sweater before she was even completely aware. He spoke in a gravely, breathy voice. "You don't want to talk about love or the future. You also don't want an attractive female within ten feet of me. Is that what you mean by casual, Hope?"

She gnawed on her bottom lip but Brad dove down and sucked it with his powerful mouth until her flesh was inside. His tongue traced the outline before he released it. Without any apparent thought to who could possibly and very legitimately walk in, he pushed her against the cement wall of the storeroom and pinned her hands above her head. With his left he held her in place and with his right he tugged at the hem of her sweater, lifting it high to expose her taupe-colored bra. "Nice," he murmured before lowering to suck a silk-covered nipple into his mouth.

How dare he! Hope squirmed to no avail as Brad continued to suckle. He was horrid. He could be simply horrid!

But her body proved that it could be simply horrid as well when the familiar feeling of desire bloomed at the tip of each breast and down through the valley of her legs.

"Get off of me," Hope snarled as she attempted to buck him from her chest. Brad never lifted, just answered with the sharp edge of his teeth. "Ah!" she cried out, not certain if it was passion or pain. He still held her arms above her. This was humiliating and glorious at the same time.

Hope had no control over her head as it rolled across the cinder blocks. Her eyes closed, her body suspended and pinned. "I hate you," she moaned.

"Fuck you," he whispered with her silky nipple between his teeth.

Hope opened her eyes and bucked again but Brad's grip on her wrists tightened and then just as quickly he released her and raised his face, that wild look blazing in his green eyes. "You tell me I'm vulgar, that you want it casual--fuck you, Hope. You don't get to make all of the rules."

He allowed her arms to fall, but only so he could nudge her into an ancient swivel chair tucked under the receiving desk. Then he reached for the button of her wool slacks.

"Don't you dare," Hope spat--emphasizing the importance of each syllable. Brad just laughed--hearty and triumphant--as he gave the button an expert flick and unfastened it.

"Fuck you," she muttered as her heart pounded in the cavern of her chest.

"Exactly," Brad said as he hoisted her hips, peeled the slacks off and threw them to the floor.

She could hear the voices of her employees just on the other side of the curtained door. They could come in here so easily, this was positively ludicrous! But when Brad jammed his pointer finger through her creamy wetness and into her core, Hope's eyes closed and her head fell back in swimming ecstasy. He wasn't gentle but she needed him this way--hard, brutal, possessive.

"Just a warm up," Brad said as he withdrew the finger. Hope opened her eyes and Brad wiped the wetness over her lips as she dutifully licked, knowing he loved to watch. His free hand set to work unbuckling his belt and lowering his zipper just enough to release his turgid, meaty cock.

Hope stopped licking and looked at the monster tool he meant to take her with in moments. "We can't, Brad. Not here."

He just smiled that arrogant smile, the kind that made his cheeks hollow into dimples. Then in the time it took to exhale, he stooped again, threw Hope's legs over his shoulders and plunged. As if he anticipated her cry, Brad's hand flew to her mouth to muffle it.

Hope's eyes turned to saucers as she felt every huge inch of him begin to thrust. He was so massive and the position so compromising that the pressure extended to her navel. "Damn you," she whispered when he removed his hand.

Brad ran his hands over her thighs that rested on either side of his neck. "You love it," he panted as his thrusts increased.

She shook her head, but the delicious flavor of his fucking must've registered on her face.

Then she remembered.

Hope attempted to squirm though she was quite clearly pinned between Brad's heavenly body and the old chair. "This might move my diaphragm. It's such a deep angle--the doctor told me a position like this could cause it to shift--."

Brad stopped her by sticking his finger back into her mouth. Instinctively and hating herself for it, Hope sucked. What if he meant to get her pregnant? What if that was his intent just to show her who was really the boss, who meant business, who was king? But his rhythm was so consuming, her thoughts flittered away like a butterfly as she suckled his strong finger and opened herself to his glorious assault of her pussy.

"Come for me, baby," he whispered. "Come now before I do."

His hips thrust until he hit that perfect location of both of Nirvana and Heaven. Unable to last another millisecond, she cried out around his finger but Brad--ever so practical--teased it in and out in mock intercourse so she'd quiet and suck once again.

When her quivering had subsided, his finger fell from her lips and her thoughts cleared. Then Hope remembered the danger of the sperm that could fill her soon.

Her eyes met his in a desperate plea. "Please don't," she whispered.

Brad held her gaze as he thrust, thrust and thrust more--before he pulled from her core with a savage withdrawal. Hope watched in awe as the visible plum head of his cock shot out from inside of its robe of flesh and exploded in pearly fluid on the nest of curls covering her ravaged pussy.

Brad hung his head and Hope recognized his effort. She reached to touch his strong shoulder still covered with a pale yellow shirt and hung with a Scooby Doo tie, but Brad swatted her hand away. He wiped the tip of his cock with his shirttail and then stuffed the still engorged flesh back into his pants.

He glanced at her then--precariously balanced in the old chair, spread eagle with his come oozing down her V of hair and sighed. "You'd better think long and hard about what you really want." He leaned near. "We know you like it long and hard but that's not enough for me, Hope. I want it all. The whole goddamned Norman Rockwell painting. And I want you to be the one holding the turkey platter on Thanksgiving with adoring little grandchildren staring up at us. That's what I want. Not the girl with the royal blue 'come do me' shoes, not anyone. You."

Doris called his name from the floor.

"Coming!" Brad yelled. Then he leaned closer still and whispered into Hope's ear with a breathy sigh, "But not for you again until you make up your mind."

Then he sauntered off to assist Doris and the frantic customers waiting in shoes.