Kind to pets.
None of this is insane. Or if it is, well, then fuck the male population of Maryland, Virginia, and D.C., because I don’t want to settle for anything less than this list.
Daisy, who had been watching us volley back and forth, puts up her hand. “So you are dating, and it’s going badly? Or you’re not dating?”
“You know I’m not.” I blush, though, because I’m hopeless, and she latches on to it.
“Who is he?”
“Nobody.”
“Jana’s got a crush on someone…” Nina grabs the wine bottle. It’s empty. This doesn’t bode well for my ability to keep this secret. “Who is he?”
“You guys can keep asking me that. I’m not going to tell you anything, because there’s nothing to tell.”
“Uh huh.” Daisy crosses her arms.
Nina goes to the kitchen and fetches another bottle of wine.
The seconds tick by, and I hold out for a long time. Twenty-three, maybe even twenty-five seconds. Then I fold like a house of cards. “The delivery guy is…hot.”
They stare at me, then burst into laughter. “How long have you been pining after the UPS guy?” Nina asks through gasps for air as she wipes her eyes.
“It’s not a UPS guy,” I mutter. Then I take a big swallow of wine. “It’s SwiftEx.”
Daisy nods. “I can see. Their uniforms are hot.”
It’s more than just the uniform. He’s got the best smile. It starts as a friendly curve of the mouth as he hands over the clipboard, but it grows as he watches me. Just thinking about it makes me squirm. “Anyway, he’s new. He just started a week ago, so I’m not pining for anyone. And I’m pretty sure he’s just filling in for the regular guy, so I might not even see him again.”
“We can make that happen.” Nina waves at Daisy’s computer. “Let’s get started on your Christmas shopping.”
“No.”
She snorts. “You’re no fun.”
“I’m tons of fun.”
“Prove it. Let’s go to the spa tomorrow before you head back.”
I wrinkle my nose, and she howls.
“See? No. Fun.”
Daisy wiggles her feet. “I could do with a pedicure.”
Nina shakes her head. “No, pedicures don’t win the attention of sexy delivery drivers. Black Friday Bush Removal. It’s a new tradition.”
I squeak, and then realize she’s dead serious. I shake my head. “This is crazy. And also…I don’t think that a bikini wax wins attention either.”
“Bikini? Try Brazilian, babe. And he’ll know. He’ll be able to look at you and see your new, sexy confidence that you want him to see you naked. Because you’ve got a sexy surprise.”
“Oh my God.”
“Stop saying that, like you’re all shocked. You’re not, you’re just embarrassed, and that’s deeply rooted in the secret that you think this is a good plan.”
She’s not wrong, but I can’t admit that yet.
She keeps going, like the weird mind reader that she is. “Build it and they will come. Or in this case, groom it and he will come. When he sees it. After delivering your…package.”
“Stop.” But I’m grinning. It’s never going to happen like that, but a girl can dream.
3
Jake
The day after Thanksgiving
For the first time in two weeks, I’m not doing my delivery route in Baltimore. I guess I didn’t do it yesterday, either, but it was a holiday.
I’ll be back on the job tomorrow, but since I was going to be back in New York for the holiday, I scheduled as many meetings as I possibly could into today as well.
“Is that everything?” I ask the VPs sitting across from me. I don’t bother to hide my frustration with how long this report has taken—both in being compiled, and now in their presentation of it. I don’t need to look at my watch to know my next meeting is scheduled to start in three minutes, and that’s going to happen, whether or not they’ve finished.
I like punctuality. Maybe that’s why I’ve recently acquired a courier company.
“People are asking where you are,” my communications VP says reluctantly.
I raise one eyebrow. “And it took you an entire hour to work up the courage to tell me that?”
He shrugs. “I wouldn’t say courage. We understand what you’re doing with this undercover boss thing, but it needs to come to an end.”
No, it doesn’t. “We’ve just acquired SwiftEx, Matt. Aston Corp is a well-oiled machine. SwiftEx is a disaster, and I come from tech, not operations. I can improve their backend with my eyes closed, but I don’t know the first thing about what it’s like on the front lines—for my new employees, or my customers.”
I think immediately of Jana Pritchard. I interrupt her workday a couple of times a week, for example. That’s gotta be annoying. She’s always sweet about it, but she’s exactly the type of regular customer I want to get feedback from.
Feedback. Yeah.
That’s all I want from her, because she’s a customer. And I have like six jobs to do.
“Mr. Aston, your ten o’clock appointment is here,” my assistant says smoothly through the intercom and I stand up.
“I’ll be in Baltimore as long as I need to,” I repeat, gesturing for the door. “I can cut back to four days a week so I’m here on Mondays or Fridays if need be. Make do without me.”
The executives leave and I make a mental note to bring this shit up at the next team meeting. They need to trust me. I know what I’m doing.
Unbidden, Jana pops back into my mind. The way she glanced up at me when she was signing my clipboard on Wednesday. How she’d said, “Happy Thanksgiving,” with a breathy half-smile, her thick eyelashes framing the prettiest brown eyes I’ve ever seen.
What are the chances Bronze Heart Cards will have a package for her tomorrow? Not good. She seems to have a regular Tuesday package from them, and she got two larger boxes on random days as well, but it’s all work stuff.
Work stuff isn’t delivered on a Saturday.
I probably won’t see her until Tuesday, and for reasons I don’t want to explore, that makes me fucking grumpy as hell.
I push that down, squishing it hard until it’s a chunk of coal in my gut. It’ll fuel me through the rest of the day until I fly back to Baltimore and put on Some Guy Named Dane’s uniform.
When Jana asked me if that was my real name, I’d almost said yes. But I didn’t want to show up at her house again and have her give me that sweet, shy smile and say, “Hi Dane.”
No.
I want to hear my name on her lips. “Jake.” Or, “Yes, Jake.” Even better would be, “Oh, God, Jake,” but that might be wishful thinking.
On the other hand, I’m a fucking billionaire. If I can’t use that to my advantage with the prettiest girl in Maryland, then what good is it?
4
Jana
Two days after Thanksgiving
I’m in my office working on some sketches, because yesterday was shopping and personal grooming and general mortification on an epic level. And if I don’t work on a Friday, I make it up on Saturday.
This work ethic might be why I don’t have much of a social life.
The kitten is sleeping under my drafting table, and she’s soft and warm against my toes. Or at least she is until the door buzzer goes off and she jumps like an air horn just sounded next to her ear. I make a shushing noise and promise her I’ll be right back.
Of course she doesn’t listen to me, because she’s a cat, and she darts under my feet as I head for the door.
“I’m going to call you Underfoot, baby girl,” I say as I jump to keep from tripping on her.
She just meows at me.
I tap on the intercom button. “Hello?”
“This is, uh, SwiftEx. I’ve got a delivery for you.”
I jump just like the cat did, because the way he says it, his voice a little deeper than normal—although what do I know about his normal?—and
that little hitch as he stumbled over his words. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Maybe the fact I wasn’t expecting him makes this moment more intense. It definitely steals my voice.
He clears his throat, which I can hear in perfect detail because I’m still leaning on the button. “Hello?”
“Hi.” That’s the most ridiculous response. He’s not actually saying it like a greeting. “Right.” Which isn’t the correct response, either, so I hastily add, “Come up.”
I’m on the second floor. Two short flights of stairs. He’s got the world’s longest, strongest legs, and it takes him like ten seconds. Not that I’ve been counting on previous deliveries or anything.
It takes me seven seconds to get my flustered pulse under control. Another two to realize I rolled out of bed this morning, threw on yoga pants and twisted my hair into a messy bun, and totally did not prepare to be seen by a hot guy, because the whole “be cool, and project how sexy I am” plan was supposed to start on Monday or Tuesday.
Which leaves me with one second to panic about that before he knocks—which is why I’ve already swung the door open, totally surrendering to the fact I’m not at my best, before I remember that I didn’t put on a bra this morning.
Pants, yes.
Tight t-shirt, yes.
Bra? Nope.
Now, it’s not like I’ve got the worst boobs in the world. They’re round and give good cleavage when—if—I ask them to. But they just look better in a bra. That’s a science fact.
So I’m standing there looking at Delivery Guy, because I can’t call him Not Dane anymore in my head, and he, of course, looks amazing.
I feel naked.
He gives me this look, where his eyes are locked on mine, and then he smiles, and it grows into a grin, and the whole time he’s really looking at me.
And that’s when I remember that I don’t have any pubic hair anymore. Underneath this hot mess of an outfit, my pussy is bare and sexy—or something like that. She’s definitely bare, and definitely aware of Delivery Guy’s arrival in her proximity.
I consider slamming the door in his face, but that would be super weird because he has no idea what’s in my head right now. So I lift my chin and give him what is supposed to be a casual smile right back, because that look felt really good right up until I freaked out inside.
I probably look homicidal.
Nina can take a flying leap. I do not feel more confident right now. I feel exposed in the worst way. And I think my nipples are trying to stand at attention.
Stop it, nipples. Stop it, bare pussy. Stop it, entire traitorous body.
“You got mail again,” he says as he holds up a small cardboard box.
“I don’t remember ordering anything,” I say weakly, and he shrugs. God, he looks good. So I blurt out, “Did you have a good Thanksgiving?”
“Uh…” He shifts the box onto his right hip and leans his left forearm against the doorframe, relaxing a bit. His gaze is still on my face, which is good, because the nipples haven’t settled down at all. “It was okay. Bit chaotic with the travel and stuff.”
“Me, too. Where’d you have to go?”
“New York.”
A meow interrupts him and he glances down to where I feel a brush of fur against my bare feet.
“Hello, there.”
I scoop up the kitten. The other cats are so blasé about deliveries now, but she’s a little curious miss. “Sorry,” I say. “She’s new.”
Another panty-melting grin. “What’s her name?”
“She doesn’t have one yet. I just got her—she’s a foster kitten. I’m calling her Underfoot right now, for obvious reasons.”
“She’s a pretty girl.” The way his voice drops when he says it makes my insides tighten up. But before we can go any further in our surreal conversation about holidays and cats, he straightens up and gives me an apologetic look. “Hang on.” He pulls a phone out of a holster on his hip and glances at the lit-up screen. “I gotta take this.”
“No worries.” I hold out my free arm for the box, and he hands it over, then gives the kitten a little rub under her chin before he turns and jogs back down the stairs.
I stand there like a statue, holding a cat and a box, because as he turned I got a good whiff of whatever cologne or aftershave or magical man scent he has. Maybe that’s just what his skin smells like, like the ocean crashing into a field of…I dunno, tobacco flowers or something. It’s sweet but manly at the same time, with a peppery, salty edge that makes my mouth water.
Finally the kitten protests to the fact we’re still standing in the doorway. “I know,” I say with a sigh as I set her down. “I miss him, too.”
Which is a totally unhealthy thing to admit about your delivery guy, but he shouldn’t smell so good. It’s his own fault.
I shut the door and carry the package to the kitchen. I set it on the counter and grab a pair of scissors.
Inside, I find three packages. A box of catnip-filled mice for the cats. I don’t remember buying that, but maybe it was back-ordered. Sometimes that happens and I don’t notice.
But beside it is a small plastic sleeve. Hot pink lettering on the front, and suspicious black lace inside. I turn it over.
A thong.
No, that would be bad enough. It’s apparently a crotchless thong.
I definitely didn’t order this.
And wrapped in plastic at the bottom of the box is a bottle of champagne bubble bath.
I dig around in the bottom of the box, and there’s a gift receipt. Happy Thanksgiving! The message cheerily reads.
I narrow my eyes. Nina, almost certainly. But I can’t just call her up and accuse her. She’ll deny it, for sure.
And the cats will enjoy their presents.
I do like a bubble bath…
But as for the crotchless underwear? I shove them back in the box. I’ll worry about those tomorrow.
I go back to my office and stare at the sketch I’d been working on when he arrived. I shove it aside and grab a new pressed paper board. This time I sketch a superhero in a delivery uniform. He’s tall, with dark hair and a hint of stubble along his hard jaw. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, and his chest more than fills out the hero costume, busting out from the open vee of his delivery uniform. Like Henry Cavill, blue-collar style.
No, Delivery Guy doesn’t look like Henry. Henry could look like him, though. If he were so lucky.
I breathe in again, imagining I can still smell him. Then I grab another sheet and draw two more super heroes in ordinary clothes. A plumber, and a firefighter. I can see the rest of the line. I’ll have to search what the most common Dad jobs are, but these cards should be a hit for Father’s Day.
Then I draw one just for myself, of Delivery Guy peeling off his uniform. This time, there’s no superhero costume underneath, and I get to imagine what the hard planes of his chest look like. Hard and flat, warm to the touch. And lower, the start of a trail of hair… Heat swarms through me as I finish the sketch.
That doesn’t stop me from curling up on the thinking couch in the corner, though. Doesn’t stop me from touching myself as I look at him.
I don’t know what I’m going to do when I see him again. I’m definitely going to wear a bra, though. One of the good ones.
5
Jake
Four days after Thanksgiving
On Monday, as I’m loading up the truck at the depot and reviewing my route—which includes Jana’s apartment, so I don’t need to be a total creeper to see her again—one of the regulars stops and asks how it’s going.
“Pretty good,” I say, standing up. I tap my clipboard. “A lot of repeat addresses on here.”
“Yep.” He nods. “That’s probably the way of it. Sixty, seventy percent of our deliveries are to a small chunk of addresses I bet.”
I make a mental note to review those numbers with the executive team. Find out if he’s right, and I’m sure he is.
“Some of them have entry codes in the deliver
y notes,” he says.
“Yeah, I heard that in my training, but honestly, most people don’t seem to add it.”
He laughs and taps his forehead. “Pays to memorize stuff, then. Can I?” He points to my clipboard, and I hand it over. He pulls a pen from his front pocket and scribbles numbers on a few spots on the page. “There. Those’ll save you a couple of minutes, anyway.”
“Thanks.” I hold my hand out and we shake on it.
It’s a good thing for colleagues to help each other out—and a great sign that the culture at least at this depot is friendly enough to foster that kindness. But it’s not great business practice that I happened to luck in to this information this morning. Another mental note, but I only need to hang on to them until I get in the truck. As I’m heading for the first address on my list, I use my portable bluetooth voice-activated speaker—an Aston Corp product—and call my assistant. I ask her to find me someone at SwiftEx who knows the percentages of repeat delivery recipients, and then she sends me an email with the question about integrating building access information into the system in a smarter way.
That email vibrates my phone on my hip as we hang up. The speaker reads the subject line to me, then it’s quiet in my truck again. I have a GPS device because I don’t know Baltimore like the back of my hand, but a lot of these streets have quickly become familiar.
Like Jana’s, for example.
The temptation to leave her delivery for last is strong.
I don’t give in to it.
She answers the door slightly out of breath. She’s wearing jeans today, with hot pink socks, and a t-shirt that says I’d Rather Be Reading right across her breasts.
It’s a feat of epic proportions that I manage not to stare.
I’d rather be reading, indeed. I’d read those words over and over again, with my eyes, then my fingers. Trace the letters and see how she likes to be touched.
“This one is signature required,” I say, handing over the small cardboard box.
Take Me to Bed: A Collection of Naughty Bedtime Stories Page 49
