Personal Delivery: A Billionaire Secrets Story

by Ainsley Booth

  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.

  Chapter Five

  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 delivery 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 forehea
d. “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.

  She frowns and shakes it, then rolls her eyes when the kitten appears out of nowhere and tries to climb up Jana’s leg.

  I’m sure that’s annoying, but it gives me a reason to slide my gaze down her body. Her jeans are snug, dark and stretchy, and they curve around her hips and down her slim legs just right.

  I’d like to do the same.

  When was the last time I saw a woman in hot pink socks? With matching pink cheeks and an indulgent smile that makes me jealous of a cat, for God’s sake.

  I need to get her signature, but that can wait. “Is her name still Underfoot?”

  She laughs and shakes her head as she lifts the kitten into her arms. “No. Although today she got halfway up my curtains and I threatened to call her Miss Climbs-A-Lot. You can see why.”

  The kitten makes a squeaky sound, half purr, half chirp, and I get it. She’s adorable. I lean in and rub the soft white spot under her chin. “I can. What a little minx.”

  Jana inhales, and I realize I’m close to her—my hand is next to her arm, and our heads are close together, too.

  She’s not wearing any makeup, but there’s something on her lips, maybe a fruity lipgloss, and she’s just gorgeous. Bright eyes, soft mouth, and creamy skin.

  “Do you have pets?” she asks softly, and I’m close enough I can feel the faintest brush of her breath against my skin.

  I shake my head. “Travel too much, work too hard. My—” I cut myself off before saying that my housekeeper only comes in twice a week and I’m pretty sure cats need more attention than that. “Maybe one day.”

  She makes a little humming sound, and I want to kiss her. I want to haul her close and bite her bottom lip. Make her smile and kiss her again.

  Heat roars through my body, and I jerk back at the same time as she lifts the kitten up a bit more. Before she can offer the cat up for adoption, or before I kiss her—maybe both things, I don’t know.

  What the hell am I doing playing with Jana and her kitty?

  “I need your signature,” I say, and it comes out kind of harsh, but I do.

  That’s all I need. I don’t need some domestic fantasy. I don’t need pink socks or jean-clad legs. Pink socks on bare legs, the jeans discarded somewhere along the way to the nearest bed.

  She swallows hard and I feel like an ass, but then she puts the kitten down and takes the clipboard, scrawling her name quickly on the digital signature pad at the side. “Thanks for the delivery,” she says, and it’s sweet and kind and I feel even worse.

  So I gruffly try to make it right. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She jerks her head up. “Tomorrow?”

  “You usually get something on Tuesdays.” And even if she didn’t, I don’t think I could stay away.

  Her cheeks turn pink. “Right.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  She nods, her brows pulling together ever so slightly. “See you then.”

  The next day I’ve got her usual Tuesday delivery, as expected. It’s another that’s signature-required, and again, I think about waiting until the end of the day to deliver it.

  But it’s work stuff, and I’m not so driven by my dick that I’d hold back her delivery just so I can have more time with her.

  And then there’s the pesky reminder in the back of my mind that I don’t get time with her.

  I can’t do this. I can’t crush on a woman who thinks I’m a delivery driver, because I’m not, and the last thing Aston Corp needs is a scandal about the CEO slumming it incognito and hitting on customers.

  But all of that goes out the window when she answers the door.

  Today her socks are orange.

  And she starts talking before I get a chance to hand over the clipboard. “I feel like I should apologize for yesterday,” she says, and fuck, no, that’s not right at all.

  I can feel myself frowning at her. “Nothing to apologize for,” is what I should say. Instead, I open my mouth and the world’s dumbest question tumbles out. “Why?”

  Her lips part and her cheeks flush. “Well, because I asked you about your personal life, in a way. I wasn’t trying—”

  “You could try,” I say. What the hell? No trying! But I’m grinning at her now, like my mouth has been severed from my brain. And the rest of my body goes with it, apparently, because I lean against the doorframe. “Maybe I’m the one who should apologize to you, since I gave you the wrong impression.”

  Her eyes go wide. “Oh.”

  “This is a bit complicated for me,” I say. Understatement of the year.

  “Ah.” She shrugs. “I don’t do complicated. But that’s okay. No harm, no foul.”

  This is my out. This is my chance to shift us firmly back into the professional relationship category, where I don’t know what her lips look like up close.

  I don’t take it.

  “Not a bad kind of complicated,” I say. “I’m not married or anything shitty like that.”

  “So a non-shitty kind of complicated.” Her lips curl up in an almost-smile. “That’s rare.”

  “I’m rare.”

  “And modest?”

  “So modest.”

  She laughs. “Good to know. I was starting to think you were perfect. Now I know you’re full of yourself and cocky, too.”

  “Guilty on both counts.” I wink, and this feels good. She sees me for what I am—at least on a base level—and I’m being as clear as I can about what I’m not.

  “Is the complicated part about your job? Are you a temporary worker or something?”

  Fuck, this is dangerous territory, but I find myself nodding. “Just until Christmas.”

  “Right, that makes sense.” She holds up the box. “Increased number of deliveries and all that.”

  “People love shopping online.”

  “Mmm. Something like that.” She tips her head to the side. “Well, I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.”

  I laugh, and it surprises me, how good it feels to share this kind of easy conversation. When was the last time I talked about nothing with someone? And I don’t want to leave. Which is…damn it. “Listen, we don’t need to see each other just when…” I gesture to
the box in her hands. “Do you want—”

  From inside her apartment, a phone rings. She winces. “I think it’s my turn to say I’ve got to get that.”

  “Go. I’ll…hopefully see you tomorrow.”

  She beams at me and that’s it. I’m stopping here again tomorrow whether or not she’s got a package on the truck. We can talk some more about how I’m not nearly good enough for her, but maybe worthy of a scrap or two. A smile. A kiss. An afternoon spent exploring all the different places that blush could touch if she was teased just right.

  It's not how I expected our conversation to go, but fuck it. Sometimes life is too short to play it safe.

  Chapter Six

  Jana

  Seven days after Thanksgiving

  Most mornings I watch the news while I eat breakfast. Not because I’m a news junkie—I’m not—but because when I went to New York for my first editorial meeting, I kept getting lost in conversations that I should’ve understood as a grown-up, but I didn’t because I’m more Netflix than CNN.

  Not nearly enough conversations about Gilmore Girls, which I found weird for a greeting card company.

  Anyway, so now I have this little morning ritual, and I learn enough to skate through grown-up conversations. Some days I just watch the headlines. Today, I linger over my toast because one of the stories is about SwiftEx, and all the B-roll footage makes me think of Delivery Guy. The news reader promises more information about that story after the break, so I put on another piece of toast. Then I do some counter push-ups, because bonus toast needs to be burned off.

  When the program comes back on, they get into more detail. Apparently some of the computer infrastructure is really old, and last night there was a server crash and it accidentally tripped a cascade effect, and most of the Eastern seaboard system is in chaos.

  I don’t know what that means, but I can say it with some authority, and that’s all that matters. Well, I know what chaos means. It means I’m probably not getting any packages today.

  For the first time since Nina and Daisy started inundating me with cat toys, I’m disappointed to think I might not be getting another shipment.