You can purchase “Personal Shopper” and other great fiction in the “Naughty” anthology at Torquere Press!!

It was a myth, Hayne decided, that working a boring job made days blend into one long monotonous blur. Quite the opposite, it caused an acute awareness of the time. Because of the lack of anything better to do, he worked out the hours, the minutes, the seconds till the end of the day. Knew exactly when his next day off was, how long he had to endure till he was free.

So it was precisely three twenty-six on a quiet Monday afternoon when he came sauntering in, acting as if he owned the place.

Which he did, in a way.

Ardleigh Jordache Sheckler the third, next in line to inherit the luxury Sheckler’s department store empire.

Of course Hayne didn't know that at the time. If he had, he'd have sent someone else to deal with it. But working here, it became difficult to distinguish one obnoxious c-list celebrity from another. He'd just assumed the latest bratty loudmouth was another wannabe actor, or maybe some manufactured boy-band fop.

Pasting on the insincere `Hi! I work for Sheckler's, how may I rid you of thousands of dollars today?` smile, he crossed the richly carpeted floor towards the man.

"Good afternoon sir, may I be of any assistance?"

He'd had a dozen different responses to that question. Most of them involved the esteemed customer either proclaiming that yes, he was a lesser mortal, born to bow and scrape before them. Or, customers scowling, swearing and saying they didn't need help shopping, what the fuck did he think they were, morons?

But he'd never had kohl-rimmed violet eyes smile at him flirtatiously, never had pink glittery fingernails rake down the front of his shirt and tap his name badge.

"Oh, I'm sure you can…" Heavy lidded eyes flickered down to the name badge, back up to his eyes, and breathed out his name like a sigh. "Hayne."

He would have taken a step back if it wouldn’t have seemed so obvious. There weren't many people around -- Sheckler's wasn't the sort of place one went to browse and poke around -- but it would still no doubt have caused a commotion. Staff just didn’t treat their customers that way. How could he object when it was an unwritten clause of the contract that attentive services of the perfect, attractive staff were as much on sale as the perfect, attractive luxury goods.

Instead, he cleared his throat, pretended not to notice, looking off into middle distance somewhere over the unusual customer's left shoulder. A shoulder decorated with the black swirls of a tattoo, just visible through the sheer shimmery mesh shirt.

I'm not staring…I'm not…