by S. E. Hall
“Yes!” she practically squeals, downright salivating. “Went a couple rounds with FedEx. I can barely walk let alone sit down.”
Mabry’s been obsessed with the FedEx guy who delivers to the Admin wing, watching for him every day like clockwork for the past eight months. Admittedly, he’s as attractive a man as I’ve ever seen in real life, well over six feet tall with short dark hair and sinful crystalline blue eyes. His smile could blind, strikingly white against dark, tanned skin with a firm, muscled body always threatening to bust right through his uniform.
If I’m being honest, when I read my romance novels, I usually picture him. Even if the hero’s character is written with long, blond hair, I envision FedEx.
“Well, congrats! It’s about time.” I smile, jealous as hell and mentally debating whether or not to jab her with my pen. “So I assume somewhere in all those rounds, you got his actual name?”
“Shaw Bryant,” she croons, a dreamy look in her eyes. “Isn’t that a sexy name?”
“I guess so.” I shrug. Yes, yes it is.
“All right ladies, and gentleman.” Ashley regards our lone male team member, Wyatt—and no, he’s not Mr. Notewriter; 100% confessed and flamboyantly same-sex oriented—bringing the meeting to a start.
I keep my head down and write feverishly for the next forty-five minutes while Ashley drones on about goals, strategic planning and ten other ideas that were mine. But not notes on the meeting, I did that when I handed in my proposals, the words on her slides my own. No, I’m writing a reply to this morning’s intoxicatingly scented “Amelia.”
Dear I Wish I Knew Your Name,
I must begin by saying that while your attention is flattering, you’re scaring me. I’m not sure if that’s your intent, but I’d think frightening me would be the last thing you’d want to do if you ever planned for this to go somewhere. If you’re a normal, upstanding guy, why would you not drop by and say hello, maybe start up a casual conversation, rather than leave cryptic, inappropriate notes?
Chances are you have a sister, a female friend, and most definitely a mother. How would your approach make them feel? What would you think of them being waylaid in the same eerie manner? The last thing I want to do is frustrate you, or anger you in any way, but truly…
I’m asking you to stop. Again.
Sincerely,
Amelia
I re-read it three times; it has to be stern and amply clear, yet not provoke his possible insanity in any way.
When the meeting adjourns, I hurry back to my office, rip out the page, and trifold it, labeling it simply “You” and, making sure no one’s watching, slip it in my assigned mailbox.
By the time five o’clock sluggishly rolls around, I’m exhausted. I take a minute to drop my head in my hands and rub my temples before even attempting to stand. For some asinine reason, Ashley delegated non-medical personnel payroll to Mabry and the first half of today was spent training her, the second, redoing all her “work.” As badly as I want to turn a blind eye and let Mabry learn the hard way and fix it herself, if it’s not done properly, people don’t get paid on time. No groceries for their kids, no electricity…so I’ll be coming in early tomorrow morning to ensure all is well.
With my desk cleared, drawers locked, and purse in hand, I move to turn off the lights. Halfway there something odd and out of place, catches my eye. My feet fail me, frozen mid-step as my breath hitches and paralysis sets into my limbs. There, in my mail cubby, the edge of a stark-white envelope sticks out. My reply, which I expected to be received by tomorrow morning, was on yellow legal paper, which means…what the? Besides morning meeting, after which it wasn’t there, I’d left this room exactly two times today, once to buy a soda from the vending machine to drink with my lunch (eaten at my desk) and once more to go request PMI, our payroll database, access for Mabry from the tech team located on the first floor.
Two very random, out of normal routine, windows…and he’d capitalized, taking my letter and returning one of his own seamlessly, an unseen apparition I’ve come to regard him as.
Since it’s closing time for Admin, I hurriedly grab the envelope and leave with the five o’clock crowd. The last thing I want is to be alone in the office or parking lot with this guy so obviously watching my every move.
Paranoid can also be defined as “carefully smart”!
Almost every episode of SVU is based on a true story; I’d watched my fill until they moronically cut Detective Stabler’s fine-ass character.
“Hold it, please!” I yell, quickening my pace. A large hand shoots out to halt the closing elevator doors just as I squeeze my way inside. “Thank you,” I say absently, tugging my purse strap further up my arm.
“My pleasure.” A burly, masculine voice resonates from behind me, literally stealing every ounce of oxygen in the tiny box.
A quick peek over my shoulder at him and an even faster whip of my head so it’s back to facing forward, and it’s confirmed—FedEx.
I really shouldn’t yearn to take a second look to lock in a fresh image for tonight’s fantasies since my good friend’s sleeping with him, but damn, he’s just so unbelievably attractive. And when he flashes that smile with the discreet dimple on the left side it’s difficult as hell to think straight.
The ride down is insufferably gradual, my flesh simmering with the heat of “I wonder what it’d be like,” until we’re finally at the ground floor. The doors open and I probably look manic, unable to escape the smoldering confines fast enough.
“Pleasant evening, Amelia.” He’s wishing me well, I know he is. That or he’s aware of the delicious enticement carried in his voice and he’s begging me to spin and run back to him, throw myself at, on, and around him. I’m perilously close; he’s unstoppably tempting.
Clearly I’m creating scenarios in my head, because he far from asked to be accosted. Good thing I’ve never been one to act on impulse, nor am I the type you’d call daring, or this could get embarrassing…and the hospital sued for sexual harassment. So very much like myself, and legal, I keep walking, pitifully convincing my inner devil of how great a night of quiet, alone time to enjoy comfortable pajamas, a good book, and glass of wine sounds.
Yep, absolutely divine.
I mean it, dammit!
Once in my car and on the road, the letter buried in my purse finds its way to the front of my mind, beckoning me to pull the car over and read it. What if this is the one where he snaps? Or confesses he’s simply a shy guy and apologizes? My willful interest is unhealthy and I’m well aware of it. The intelligent part of my brain duels against the others—sex deprived and lonely— the entire drive, which I continue, without pulling over for a peek.
I shake my head, not wanting to overthink it anymore, just as I arrive at my local bookstore. There’s no place better, in my opinion. The smell of paper and ink alone is worth the visit. Speaking of scents, if Mr. Cologne-laced Letters really wants to stalk me, he’d be wise to follow me here, maybe offer to buy me a new release. That would get him a lot more action than his current bi-polar approach.
After I’ve triple-locked my apartment door, I change into my favorite black cotton shorts and white cami, eager to dig into the overflowing bag from my impromptu shopping trip and decide which book I’ll start first. It may not be a typical night for a single girl my age, but it works for me.
Once I’ve fed Lucy, I get settled out on my balcony with glass of wine beside me, blanket over my legs and book in hand, at the exact same moment my pain in the ass upstairs neighbor starts what sounds like a one hundred attendees party.
All of which love death metal. But only if it’s loud enough to actually induce death. Heart attack or brain bleed both optional and acceptable forms of impending demise.
I’ve never seen the jerk in person, or I’d have chewed him a new one and possibly “accidentally” poked him straight in the eye, but I’ve reported him to the super more times than I can count.
Clearly it did wonders.
&nb
sp; Luckily he seems to be gone for days at a time throughout the week. I’m not sure what he does for a living, but I hope he keeps doing it. I relish those nights of silence, tonight clearly not being one of them. Slamming down my book, I peel off the blanket and grumble the entire way to the kitchen, digging my phone out of my purse.
The letter. It stares me straight in the face and I find it hard to believe I had managed to forget about it. I’ll consider that progress.
First things first. I dial the super. He knows precisely why I’m calling, which is exactly why I’m immediately sent to voicemail.
“Mr. Wallace, this is Amelia Hill, remember me? Just in case, I’m in 804A, RettaSuite Apartments, and yes, I’m calling about my upstairs neighbor…again. The lease agreement I signed had a specific noise ordinance clause, and I can only assume the polite patron above me signed the same one. Why you still haven’t fixed the issue, I’m not sure, but my next complaint will be to the authorities. Please let me know with a return call when you’ve finally done your job and taken care of the problem. Anytime within this week is acceptable. Thank you.”
That should do it. Now he knows just how serious I am. I’m not usually so harsh, but enough is enough. It should help that the head-banging monstrosity of noise was blaring in the background for the entire call. Irrefutable evidence.
Basically numb (well, my eardrums are anyway) to the racket, I refocus on the letter, which is still leering at me from the counter.
Even if I don’t open it and turn a blind eye, only acknowledging it long enough to add it to the collection, he doesn’t know that and will keep them coming. I suck in a seething breath and open it.
Amelia,
Always so forthright, sensible, and diplomatic, my Beauty. I do, in fact, have a mother and two sisters, all of which would give you a high-five for your excellent points, made so prudently. If these letters make you uncomfortable, I will stop, disappointed not to speak, even distantly, but content to return to admiring you, unknown and from afar, as I did for so many months before putting a pen to my thoughts.
And one day, I’ll take you up on that drop by conversation proposal. Perhaps you’ll feel the sparks and know it’s me. Perhaps not, in which case I’ll find another way, for I must have you. Completely.
And have you I shall.
When I think you’re ready, I’ll ask once. Listen to your body before you answer with what society’s taught you.
No escape, Beauty
-Yours
Was that supposed to make me feel better or worse?
And for God’s sake, enough with the rave, it’s a work night! I go grab my broom, climb on a kitchen chair, and bang the tip of the handle against the ceiling as hard and loud as I can. Pieces of plaster rain down in my hair, getting caught in my eyelashes, but I just keep whaling away, until finally, the music stops.
As over today as one can possibly get, I drop the broom, step off the chair, and drag myself to bed. No book, no preamble…sheer mental exhaustion takes over the minute my head hits the pillow.
The bags under my eyes are so sunken in and heavy, I could have packed my lunch and purse in them. I got two—two!—hours of uninterrupted sleep last night without the music and partying. That must have been when they all went out on a beer run, or had the orgy…anybody’s guess. Surely I can’t be the only neighbor complaining. On a weekend, I’d probably try to “be cool” about it, but not a work night ‘til three am.
Sleep-deprived delirium steering, I enter the file room first, too slowly realizing this is not my office.
“I believe you’re that way.” A guy chuckles, his hand on my shoulder turning me back on track. “You all right?”
“Of course,” I spit tersely, again blaming my lack of sleep. One quick glance his way confirms it’s FedEx, but I’m in no mood to appreciate his hotness as I storm down the hall. Can’t deny I’m still definitely feeling that innocent but searing touch, though.
“Amelia?”
With an exasperated huff, which isn’t a promising sign at 8 am for a tolerable nine-hour day, I turn back to face him. “Yeah?”
“You’ve been expecting this.” He offers me a FedEx box with that dimple gleaming at me.
“Probably. Come on.” I wave him to follow me to my actual office, where I sink down in my chair. “Just set it anywhere,” I mumble, letting my head fall back and eyes close. “Thank you, FedEx.”
“FedEx?” He laughs. “Really? I know your name. Would it surprise you to learn I have one too?”
My eyes shoot open as my face contorts into a shamed grimace. He’s absolutely right, and my mother would be mortified at my lack of common courtesy. I lift my head, cheeks heated and rueful eyes meeting his directly. “I’m so sorry. No excuse is valid, but I didn’t sleep much last night. I have this neighbor. He may be Marilyn Manson and he—” I clamp down on my lip to halt the uninteresting blather; like he needs a rain cloud over his morning too. “Never mind.” I wave a dismissive hand. “But I do know your name. It’s Shaw, right?” I smile, hoping he doesn’t ask how I know it.
“That’s it. Shaw Bryant, to be exact.” He bends forward over the desk with his hand out. “Nice to officially meet you.”
“My pleasure.” I blush, placing my hand, which never felt dainty until now, into his.
There’s a hint of anxious nausea from touching him, but ten times over there’s the tinge of dormant sexuality spinning to life. His hand is warm but not sweaty, strong and firm but not intimidating. I’m wide awake now, able to see what’s coming. Forbidding myself to do anything to stop it, I remain entranced on the progression as he lifts our joined hands to his mouth and gently kisses my knuckles.
“All mine, I assure you,” he says, no, he growls.
“Well.” I fidget, face now on fire, slowly pulling my hand back. “Have a great day, Fed, uh, Shaw.”
“Don’t forget about this package.” He grins lasciviously as I gasp and lean way back in my chair, mouth agape. “On the desk.” He points to the box, his smile even wider, confident and pleased.
Mabry need never explain how he managed his way into her panties. Hell, mine might go up flames and singe right off my body this very second.
“Amelia?” Speak of the lucky one, Mabry barges through the door. “Oh, uh—” Her eyes fly awkwardly from one corner of my office to the other, then to the floor. “H-hi Shaw,” she stutters.
“Morning, Mabry.” His body, already tight as a drum, goes rigid and he clears his throat, backing out of the room. “Pleasant day, ladies,” he offers grimly and walks out.
Had my gaze not been fixated on her so studiously, I would’ve missed it; the fleeting, insecure flash of her eyes up at me then back down. “Time for morning meeting,” she says softly.
“Okay,” I enunciate, suspicious. “Mabry, what was that? I thought—”
“We just had a fight.” She dismisses it with a badly disguised laugh and shrug. “We’ll be fine. Come on, we’re gonna be late.”
I’ll be offered the Golden Gate Bridge for a dollar any second if she thinks I bought that canned line of bullshit.
Because my pulse is still racing.
Maybe it’s exhaustion, lunacy, or perhaps it’s the fact my heart’s still struggling to fight from my chest…but when Max saunters in later that afternoon, he’s well-received.
“Amelia, beautiful as ever,” he attempts, doing little to temper the concern on his face at my disheveled appearance.
“You lie so smoothly.” I snicker—insanity. Knew it. “What can I do for you, Dr. Treat?” No really, his last name is indeed Treat. Imagine the thoughts of every female patient he “treats!” Ha! The pun is definitively made for me by itself.
“You could have dinner with me.” He cocks his dark blond brow, already expecting my declination.
“Sounds lovely.” Not gonna overthink, just going with it.
“Well, think—wait, what?” He adjusts, his confusion morphing to a surprised smile. “So no boyfriend then?”
I nod with a blushing grin of admittance.
“Alright then, how about tonight?”
I’m all but beaming myself, feeling proud. Time to grab life by the balls and live a little. “How about tomorrow instead? Clearly, you see how tired I am, so that works better, if my neighbor’s stereo breaks and allows me some sleep tonight that is.”
“Tomorrow’s perfect. Should I pick you up, or…” He glances about my office nervously—it’s kind of cute actually—and then he’s back, eyes...guess where? And he was doing so well.
Still my smile doesn’t waiver. “We can just leave straight from here. I get off at five, works for you?” I talk to his forehead. “If,” I speak louder, now gaining his full attention, “you promise to keep your eyes right here,” I point to both my own, “at least through dinner?”
He chuckles and I have to admit it’s a nice sound. “Promise.” He blushes slightly and gives me a sheepish grin.
“All right then. See you tomorrow, Max.”
My neighbor apparently heard the prayers I sent up and took a hiatus last night, so Wednesday goes great; I get my desk cleared of pending issues with time to freshen up in my office lavatory to spare.
Waiting to meet Dr. Treat, I spot a pesky shimmer of white glaring from inside my mail cubby. Dammit. In fear of someone else opening it (very unlikely, I remind my paranoid self), I snatch the envelope and head back to my desk.
I’m not going to read it. Whatever perverse tidbit Mystery Man has to impart will have to wait, or so I tell myself, as I open the bottom drawer. Drop it in and go get ready for your date, I chant inwardly, yet it seems glued to my fingers. A heavy sigh rips from my lungs and grows into a frustrated groan. Shit. Stupid curiosity better not ruin my night.
Working quickly, I pull the letter from the envelope and find it’s a short note. Too short. I swallow hard as I read.
You’re mine and I don’t share.
No escape, Beauty
-Yours
As though the paper was suddenly doused with acid, I drop it in the drawer and jerk back. Was that a threat? My mind plays scenario after scenario of some macho freak stalking me on my date, ready to inflict actual bodily harm, but all that fear is quickly trampled by the flurry of anger that creeps in and lays claim. Screw him! I kick the damn drawer shut and grab a piece of paper.
