“I can hear parchment paper crinkling in your pocket and you smell like a chocolate croissant. If you didn’t nab one from Nanette’s before you came here, I’ll buy an underwire bra.”

Laughing, she flips the card back again and turns it sideways.

“JuJu,” I warn, “you smudge it, you buy it.”

Sighing, she snags an envelope along with the card and brings them to the front desk. She slaps both down, leans her elbows on the glass, and sweeps her fingers through the delicate chains hanging from a necklace display.

I swat her hand away. “Must you touch everything?”

“Says the most tactile person I know. Now, tell me”—she taps the card with one perfectly manicured finger—“what is this one?”

I don’t need a second look at the design. Once I conceptualize a piece, it’s in my head forever. “It’s a vulva.”

“No, it’s not!” She spins the card, trying to catch it at an angle that allows her to see the hidden design.

I’m used to this routine. It’s been a year and a half since I expanded my work as an erotic artist, selling private commissions, to my bread and butter: the Prurient Paper Collection. An extensive line of card stock, stationery, and other paper-based art, my Prurient Paper designs include everything from lush nature scenes to abstract geometric art that secretly contains a sensual image.

It started off as a joke when I got outlandishly drunk one movie night with Jules, Sula, and Margo. Sula, who owns the Edgy Envelope, fell in love with the idea of a stationery line that you could gift to your pearl-clutching relative who’d never know what they’d been gifted, as much as to the lover you wanted to know exactly what you were thinking. Now it’s the Edgy Envelope’s bestselling line.

“You’re so good,” Jules mutters. “Think you can work them into my wedding invitations?”

We’re already onto wedding invitations? She got engaged a week ago.

“No chance. Mom’s too quick at spotting them.”

“She doesn’t mind, though. In fact, I’m pretty sure she wishes she could brag about you over ladies’ card night. Even Daddy likes your art.”

“Because he’s hopeless at spotting what’s in it and remains blissfully ignorant.”

Jules smiles. “Exactly. So I won’t take no for an answer. My wedding invitations will be Beatrice Wilmot originals.”

I add her card to my tab on the store’s iPad, which we use for transactions, and charge it to my account. Slipping the card and envelope into one of our slim recycled-paper bags stamped with the Edgy Envelope’s logo, I peer up at Jules, who is indeed sneaking bites of chocolate croissant from her pocket.