The Package

by K. Bromberg

  The Package

  K. Bromberg

  Contents

  1. Julia

  2. Archer

  3. Jules

  4. Jules

  Also by K. Bromberg

  About the Author

  1

  Julia

  “Argh!” The groan rumbles through the elevator seconds after the car jolts to a stop midway between floors three and four. The man who just breezed in like he owns the damn place slams his palm against the brushed metal walls, then clenches his fist on the package in his one hand while he jams repeatedly at the door open button and then the fifteen button with the other.

  Nothing happens.

  “Don’t bother telling management. It’s not like they’re going to do anything about it,” I mutter from my place in the opposing corner, packages in my hands stacked from my waist up to beneath my chin in the most precarious of balancing acts, and the tracks on my cheeks from the tears I was shedding moments ago hidden by their bulk.

  He turns to eye me for the first time, almost as if he didn’t even know I was there—not that I‘m surprised. I’ve seen him before. Him and his perfectly styled dark hair and his rough-cut jaw as he breezes in and out of this place day after day like he owns it. I have no clue what floor he works on in this expanse of a building, but I know it’s not mine and I know it’s the upper half. The executives’ half. The half where mail girls are nonexistent—good for nothing other than to make crude comments at or completely ignore.

  Never anything in the middle of the two.

  Ice blue eyes pin mine behind his black framed glasses and a lone eyebrow quirks up. “Come again?” His voice rumbles through the small car, annoyance painting its edges.

  And of course his voice is just as sexy as he is. Just my luck.

  “The elevators are just the tip of the iceberg in this place, if you ask me. Ever since ole McMasters Senior kicked the bucket, this place hasn’t been the same. The big wigs on the top floor walk around in their thousand dollar suits and wear watches that cost more than cars. They rule the world from their three hundred and sixty degree view offices while those of us down in the mailroom have to try and sort letters while wearing gloves because the heat is broken and they don’t care to fix it. Then there are the bathrooms that rarely work, the budget cuts that have left the cafeteria food not fit for a dog, and the Christmas bonuses? Ha!” I laugh out as the tears threaten again. “Bonuses are only given to the men of this company who pretend to make decisions while everyone around them busts their asses doing the real work.”

  “Subtlety is your strong suit, I take it?” he asks, turning now to face me. There’s something in his voice, a faint lilt in a word I don’t quite catch, but the thought fades from my mind when his eyes hold mine. “And what exactly do you mean about Christmas bonuses?”

  Unnerved by the intensity of his stare, I glance anywhere but at him. I take in his flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. The breadth of his shoulders. The rich yet subtle scent of his cologne. What else he’s wearing I have no idea because I can’t see below my stack of packages.

  When I look back up to his eyes as the silence dominates the space, I recall his finger was pushing the fifteen button on the panel.

  “Never mind. You’re on one of the floors that actually gets a bonus. Forget I said that.” I blow out a breath to force my bangs off my face as my heavy coat, this tight space, and my freely running mouth have me getting hot all of a sudden.

  Or maybe it’s him—hot in all the right ways and I hate that the thought even crosses my mind.

  “No.” He takes a step closer and my packages wobble in my arms. But he doesn’t seem to notice because he’s too focused on me. “What did you mean by that?”

  The rush of today’s events fills my head and hurts my heart so that all the fucks I’d like to give seem to dissipate in that single word, no.

  I look at him. He’s part of the problem. The man who walks into an elevator without a glance backward to the quirky girl from the mailroom whose arms are full. Always too busy trying to save what he seems is the world, one pair of panties at a time.

  Jerk.

  Take a step back, Jules. Keep your mouth shut. Burning a bridge is never a good thing. Even if some prick like him is the reason you were just fired.

  If you finish your deliveries and don’t make a scene, Jules, you’ll get paid through the end of the week.

  The nasally voice of my boss, Barney, and his comment runs through my mind quickly followed by the list of mounting bills I have whose balances I know by heart.

  And almost like fate needs to reinforce my luck and lot in life during probably the shittiest of holiday seasons in my life, the elevator harshly jolts up. Yep. You guessed it. That precariously stacked bunch of packages tumbles out of my hands and scatters to the floor accompanied by my strangled cry as I try to steady myself.

  Mr. Flannel Shirt emits a noise that’s way more sophisticated sounding than mine in reaction.

  And just like in those old ’80s movies I love, nerves have us rattled so that we both bend over at the same time—a “Let me help you with that,” falling from his mouth in that deep rumble—seconds before our heads bonk against one another’s.

  “Ow!” we both say in unison as we jolt back, but when I step and slip on one of the packages, I fall forward. And before I can faceplant perfectly square into what I’m looking at—the crotch of his dark denim jeans—strong hands grab my shoulders and prevent me from doing just that.

  “That package isn’t part of your delivery,“ he murmurs but I can hear the amusement in his tone. “Eyes up here.”

  Out of breath and more than startled by the bonk to the head and his comment, I look up to see his face mere inches away from mine. Lips. Nose. Eyes.

  All of them assault my senses and has me shrugging out of his grasp just as quickly as I pretend not to notice.

  “I’m fine. This is fine. We’re fine.” Each word is a stilted syllable out of my mouth as I silently chastise myself over why I’m so flustered.

  “Okay.” He draws the word out and narrows his eyes at me with a part-smirk, part-she’s-crazy expression on his face. “Your antlers are crooked.”

  “Antlers?” I ask.

  He points to my head. “The ones on your head.”

  “Oh. Oh!” I immediately reach up for my headband with antler ears and rip them off, feeling more like a kindergartner dressed for the Christmas program while he’s the one heading off to the Nutcracker.

  “Why’d you take them off? They’re cute.”

  “Cute?” I cough the word out and shake my head. Did he just really say I’m cute?

  No. He said the antlers are cute.

  Not you.

  “Yeah. They look cute on you. You should keep them on.”

  I stare at him blinking more than I probably should, as if I’m trying to process what he just said when I know I heard him just fine. Instead of saying anything, I lower myself as gracefully as I can to the floor so I can start cleaning up the packages.

  I have to do something with my hands.

  Anything.

  Because I’m spending way too much time focusing on him when I don’t like guys like him—probably stable. Most likely successful. And definitely thinks he’s too good for someone like me.

  “Let me help you.”

  “No!” I all but shout and hold my hand up without looking at him. “I’ve got it.”

  “Apparently,” he murmurs but leans forward anyway to assist me.

  “Just no—I don’t—just leave me alone,” I snap at him and practically slap his hand away. “You’ve done enough today.”

  But when I look up at him and he has a smile on his lips that lights up the freaking elevator in a way a
n elevator shouldn’t light up, I hate him.

  On the spot.

  For being everything I’m not. For being everything I’ll never have. For being the have when I’m the have-not. He’s all perfect with what I can assume are his skinny models decorating his side while I’m far from it with reindeer antlers and curves and extra padding that doesn’t go away when I shimmy out of the coat I have on.

  That’s my assumption anyway.

  Because men as perfect as him should be illegal.

  “Me?” He coughs the word out.

  “Yeah. You,” I accuse as I rub the top of my head in the same fashion that he is.

  “What did I do?”

  “You’re just”—I point my finger at him and wave it back and forth but verbally fumble over what to say next.

  “A shit day?” he asks as if he cares.

  “A shit day? A shit day?” I screech. “Try going to the bank to pull out cash only to find out that your boyfriend not only decimated your account but then sent you a Dear John letter via text. Oh and the cherry on top of that? My rent is due by the first of the month and now the money to pay it is in his pocket and not mine.”

  He hisses in mock sympathy. “You sound more angry than upset.”

  I shake my head feeling more relieved than anything. “The break-up has been coming. The stealing my rent money, not so much.”

  “Brightside? The prick’s no longer in your life.”

  I glare at him and the cute little smirk he has on his lips. “From the bank, I drove to the train station only to be rear-ended by some asshole on the Expressway.” I suck in a deep breath of air and know that he doesn’t deserve a single bit of this ire I feel or have a clue of the role he’s playing in my catharsis, but I continue anyway. “Then . . . I slip outside on a patch of ice—freaking go down for the count—and I swear to god I still have ice in my panties.”

  “There are so many comments I can make on that one—frigid, Ice Queen, cold kitty—but I’ll keep mum so I can be on my best behavior,” he says and I hate the way the playful tone of his voice and the boylike angle to his head makes my body react in the most visceral of ways.

  It’s the close quarters.

  It has to be.

  “See? I told you it was your fault,” I accuse just to break my own fascination with the whole of him— the curve of his lips, the strength in his hands, the blue of his eyes, the sexiness of his glasses, the line of his jaw.

  His chuckle is low and even. “Your shit day is definitely my fault. I told the prick to empty your accounts and dump you. I told the asshole to rear-end you. And I for sure made that patch of snow freeze to ice just so you’d slip on it.” His expression is serious as he fights his grin to try and make me smile. “Whew. Not even a crack of a smile. There must be more then.”

  “Not only did I get dumped by the asshole—”

  “The asshole was the driver, the ex is the prick,” he corrects in a professional voice followed with a nod for me to continue.

  “Thank you.” I roll my eyes. “So not only did I get dumped by the prick, crashed into by the asshole, and have ice in my pants, but when I showed up to work downstairs—mind you I called three times to tell them about my accident—I got a Merry Fucking Christmas, you’re fired.”

  “No!” he gasps playfully but only after my eyes fill with tears and my bottom lip starts to quiver he realizes I’m dead serious. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s nothing.” I sniff, trying to fight them back but lose the battle as one slips down my cheek. “It’s just . . .” I throw my hands up in defeat. “It’s Christmas in two days. All I wanted from Alex—”

  “Alex?”

  “The prick,” I hiccup over the word, fighting back the downpour of emotions that are threatening to spill out. “All I wanted was to feel special. My only wish was for dinner at Tavern on the Green so I could pretend to feel like I belonged here in this city. Like I was one of those who work on the fifteenth floor . . . and—and—never mind. Just . . . oh my god.” I bury my face in my hands as embarrassment hits me squarely in the solar plexus.

  “What?” he asks, concern in his voice although I’m certain he’s more worried about being trapped for much longer in an elevator with Crazy-Emotional-Mail-Room-Girl.

  “I’m sorry.” I shake my head and pretend like I don’t have tear tracks on my cheeks. “Here I am trapped in an elevator spilling my heart out to some guy who doesn’t care in the least like some idiot. I’ll just collect my packages and be on my merry way.”

  I scramble to swipe a tear away with one hand while picking up a small box and stack it with another. Swipe. Stack. Swipe. Stack.

  “There’s one problem,” he says after a few moments and has my attention pulling back up to him.

  “What’s that?”

  “There’s no merry way for you to go on. We’re trapped in an elevator. We’re not going anywhere for a while.”

  “Then we should stop talking. Right? We should conserve the air.” Panic hits me out of the blue. Why didn’t I think of that before I just went and sucked up all the oxygen with my blabber-fest. “Oh crap.”

  But he just stands there and stares down at me with the slightest bit of amusement etched in the lines of his face. “What’s your name?”

  “Jules.”

  “Jules?”

  “Julia Jilliland.”

  “Wow,” he laughs the word out. “That’s a mouthful. Nice to meet you, Jules Jilliland of the mail room”—he sticks his hand out to shake mine and when our hands touch, his voice falters for a second—“I’m—uh—I’m—”

  We both jump to our feet as the phone on the panel beside him rings harshly. His laugh is what resonates though—that and the warmth in my hand where his was moments before—when he brings the receiver to his ear.

  “Should we be concerned that it took you this long to call? Cell service is shit in here so we’re depending on you to save our asses,” he says to whoever it is on the other end of the line with a laugh.

  And I smile.

  I hate that I do.

  His nonchalance is as sexy as it is irritating. And of course now that he’s turned to face the panel, I get a more than ample look at his backside. A backside, I might add, that is complimented by a very fine ass.

  It’s not like I expected any less. He’s got the glasses that are sexy as hell. The rolled up cuffs that show strong forearms. Eyes that question and suggest and are hotter than hell. A sense of humor that I pretend I don’t find funny. The nice ass . . . I mean, of course I get trapped in an elevator with perfection like him.

  “Thank you. Yes, we’re fine. There could be worse ways to pass the time days before Christmas,” he jokes. “Can I assume we’ll be out before then? Christmas, that is? Because if not, Jules and I should probably start panicking more.” He nods when the person on the other end of the line says something and laughs. “That and we’d definitely need some Red Vines dropped down through the hatch.” Another chuckle. Another nod. “Thank you.”

  When he hangs up the phone, he turns so that his shoulders lean against the wall, his hands are on the rail that lines the car, one ankle is crossed over the other, and his eyes right on me. “They’re working on it. They said it shouldn’t take much longer.”

  “Red Vines?”

  “Sustenance,” he says with a wink.

  “Then you should have asked for Twizzlers.”

  “Seriously? I’m trapped in an elevator with someone who loves Twizzlers? Just means more for me then. Hey, are you sure that wasn’t why you were fired because loving Twizzlers is one of those things that is hard to overlook.”

  “Hardy-har-har,” I say with a shake of my head.

  “Did you actually just say hardy-har-har?” He laughs.

  “Yes. It’s been a shit day. I’m allowed to say whatever the hell I want.” But I smile and it feels so damn good after the day I’ve had.

  I squat back down as gracefully as I can in my skirt to continue picking up the
vomit of brown parcels that pretty much look identical at my feet. The packages that are supposed to be my ticket to making a difference in this place. My first step in working my way up the corporate ladder that apparently ends at the first rung for me.

  “You know I could help you, right? It doesn’t make you any less capable if I do.”

  “Mmm.” It’s all I say knowing I’m mad at him for not helping me and at the same time acknowledging I don’t want his help.

  Or rather, maybe it’s that I don’t want his help because the more he talks, the more he makes me laugh, the more I’m forgetting he’s one of those who work here I’m not supposed to like.

  The more I can pretend that he’s not as attractive as he really is.

  “Mmm?” He repeats the sound I made back at me. “Is that a yes, you’ll accept my help now, or a no, you think I’m a bastard simply because I have a dick, type of sound?”

  My eyes flash up to meet his from where he stands and amusement lights up his eyes, but his face remains completely impassive all but for the muscle feathering in his jaw.

  And of course, now my mind is fixated on his dick.

  “Cute.” I force the word out, just like I force myself to stop thinking of his particular package.

  He shrugs. “You’re the one who was going to chew me out for helping. I’d rather keep my hands firmly attached than risk one being ripped off.” He holds his hands out and wiggles his fingers. “They do come in handy.”

  “I’ve got it,” I huff out, mad at myself for not letting him help before the words are even out. “Thank you for offering though,” I add, more than willing to admit my bad mood isn’t his fault.

  “You’re welcome.”

  The silence returns followed by a clank somewhere above us that has me looking up at the ceiling and catching his eye.

  “You can stop staring at me now,” I mutter as I grab another package and place it in the pile.

  “I haven’t seen you around. Are you new to the company?”