Mags has her headphones on as she updates The Garden’s books, nodding to Mother Mother as she accounts for all the sales that happened during the grand opening last night.
The evening was a smash. They just about sold out of all the vintage denim JeJe has been collecting over the past year. And the Fallen Angels played one of those electric shows that had the whole space buzzing with bass notes and deep breath.
Mags relishes the feel of their fingers punching numbers into the calculator. Math is sexy. She’s always enjoyed accounting. She’s frickin’ good at it, too, especially because she has been working at the club every Saturday night for years now. Late nights counting ones, fives, and twenties has paid off. Literally.
They’re too busy getting sensual with numbers to hear the yellow door jingle open. She’s just scribbling last night’s totals into the margins of her notebook when she senses a presence in front of her. She slowly moves her eyes up, taking in a big, brown-skinned hand, sporting teal blue nail polish, laying across the counter, a tight red t-shirt, and a face with a half, sexy smile on it, dimple included.
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