Special Delivery (Always Satisfied Book 5)

by Lauren Blakely

  Someone raps on my door. Opening it, I find Josh wearing his I’m going to ask you for a favor face.

  I point at his grin. “Good thing you’re not that transparent when negotiating. Are you going to ask me to pony up for an office pizza? Go halfsies on an espresso machine? Or maybe ask me to head up the Miami office we’re opening in a few months?”

  He wiggles his eyebrows. “Already got you on that one.”

  I grin broadly. “I know, and I’m psyched to head back to the beach. But what do you want me to do today?”

  “Now why on earth would you think I’m about to hit you up?” He has the good sense to act surprised.

  “You’re easier to read than the Dallas D-line was back in my day.”

  He winces dramatically. “That hurts, man. Those guys were Swiss cheese.”

  “Don’t I know it. It was awesome playing against them.” I wave off the fond memories, then rub my palms together, ready to help my partner and friend. I’m always ready—that’s my mantra. “Anyway, lay it on me. What do you need?”

  “You know the holiday party we talked about having?”

  “Of course.”

  “The good news is this: my sister Quinn says she’ll plan it for us, and she has a couple of places she thinks we can still snag.”

  I park myself on the edge of my desk. “Does she not remember that you were a complete dick to her growing up?”

  He scoffs. “I certainly was not. Also, how do you know how I was to my sisters when we were kids?”

  “Let’s see . . .” I scratch my head. “You’re their older brother. Call it a lucky guess.”

  “I was an absolute angel as a child,” he says with great dignity, then switches back to normal. “Anyway, I offered to pay her full rate, but she says it’s her Christmas present to us, and even though I am the reigning king of negotiations, the one person I can’t argue with is Quinn.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “She’s relentless. Wiped the floor with us in Risk and Battleship. She could starve out your army in a siege of attrition, all with a smile to melt an ice-cold heart. Anyway, I was hoping you could join us for dinner tonight to chat about the party? Just to get the ball rolling.”

  “So she can wear me down too? I’m not a pushover like you, Summers.”

  “I wanted to include you because I thought it’d be right in your wheelhouse.” He clears his throat, shifting into full-on flattery mode. “Since you’re the most people-y of all of us.”

  I arch a brow. “People-y? One, not a word. Two, not sure it’s flattering.”

  “It should be a word, and it’s totally a compliment. It’s your special skill.”

  “Since you suck at socializing?” I tease.

  At least he owns it. “If it were up to me, I’d never go to a party again. But you’re a social beast master.”

  “Again, not sure how to take that.”

  He places his hand flat over his heart. “With my most sincere admiration.”

  “Really? ‘Beast’ is a compliment?”

  With an aggrieved sigh, he says, “Don’t make me be nice.”

  “Do it,” I goad, motioning with curling fingers for him to bring it on. “C’mon. I’m dying to see your nice routine. I’ve heard so much about it.”

  He huffs. “You’re affable. You’re easygoing. And I hate parties, so I need you, man. Besides, it’s just one dinner. That’s all.”

  “Aww. So sweet. That’s all you had to say.” I raise a finger, reconsidering. “Wait, let me amend that. Say, ‘Vaughn, you rock at being the public face of this agency because you’re so goddamn friendly and easy on the eyes.’”

  He flips me the bird.

  “Now that I’ll take as a compliment.”

  That evening, we head to a nearby restaurant. Once inside, my gaze drifts to a woman with flaming-red hair at a booth in the back. Just as I think Nice, she waves to Josh, a picture-perfect smile lighting up her face.

  Her pretty face. It seems Josh failed to mention that his sister is beautiful.

  He was right about her smile though. It’s melting something ice-cold in me . . . Not my heart.

  My resolve.

  Seriously?

  I’d curse Father Christmas if that weren’t blasphemy. Because are you kidding me? Why does my business partner’s sister have to be a gorgeous redhead?

  I have a thing for redheads. Especially fun, kind, witty, and flirty redheads.

  What are the chances that she’s going to hit the mark on each count?

  No way. Not possible.

  She probably hates kids and sports and laughter and snow and caroling, and hell, even puppies, making it that much easier for me to stick to my diet through this dinner. Yep.

  With that pep talk, I follow my partner to the booth, ready to resist temptation.

  When we reach the table, Josh makes quick introductions. “Vaughn, meet Quinn, my favorite sister, and I’m not just saying that because she worshiped me in high school and cheered the loudest at my games.”

  I groan inside. She loves sports. Dammit.

  Quinn rises, punching Josh’s arm. “You revisionist historian. I cheered the loudest because I was the head cheerleader.”

  Double groan. That probably means she’s outgoing.

  She meets my gaze, flashing a megawatt smile that belongs on the red carpet and in private corners of darkened rooms, and hell, do I ever love that smile already.

  I offer a hand, and we shake. Friendly, Vaughn. Just keep it friendly.

  “Great to meet you, Quinn. Funny thing. On the way over, Josh mentioned he lost a five-hundred-dollar bet to you recently and forgot to pay up—” My eyes go wide, swinging from Josh to Quinn. “Oh, my bad. That wasn’t a secret, was it, man?”

  Josh rolls his eyes then claps my shoulder. “And this is Vaughn. He loves to get my goat.”

  Quinn laughs. “What do you know, Vaughn? We have that in common. Also,” she says to me with an approving glint in her green eyes, “when I finagle that five hundred bucks from him, we’ll split it on VIP tickets to the amusement park. Maybe add in Skee-Ball and mini-golf too. Deal?”

  “That sounds more than fair,” I say, and I don’t give away that I’m freaking out inside.

  Fun. Check.

  More fun than mini-golf, Skee-Ball, and amusement parks.

  Which means I’m pretty much screwed.

  2

  Vaughn

  At least Josh is here as a buffer.

  Maybe with my business partner at the table, I’ll think about what’s at stake rather than his sister’s pretty pink lips, the constellation of freckles dotting the bridge of her nose, or the mesmerizing curtain of her silky red hair.

  Since I’m already liking her personality, I could use the willpower boost. With all I need to do before I leave town in less than two months, I don’t need the distraction of a romance before I jet. Especially a no-go romance.

  Josh’s phone pings, and he checks out the screen. “I need to deal with this. Hope you two don’t mind, but I’ll be right back.”

  And so much for that strategy.

  Josh leaves as Quinn sits. I slide into the booth across from her, careful not to smack my head on the low-hanging lamp over the table.

  “I take it that’s not your first encounter with a lighting fixture that’s out to get you?” she asks with a quirk of her lips.

  “More like my ten-thousandth. And after countless run-ins over the years with vicious chandeliers, I learned to hone my ducking reflexes.”

  “Hazards of being as tall as a redwood tree, I suppose. But do the benefits outweigh the dangers?” She gives a sassy little lift of her eyebrow, and my pulse speeds up.

  “Definitely. I’m in the supermarket helping little old ladies reach tall shelves all the time.” There. Elderly shoppers who can’t reach the prune juice. That image will settle things down.

  “It’s practically your superpower.”

  “All I need is a spandex shirt with a T for Tall
logo, and I’m good to go.”

  She taps her chin, humming. “Maybe that’s what I’ll get you for Christmas.”

  “I’m on the present list already? That is excellent news. And if you ever need someone to reach the pickles on the highest shelf in the store, just dial T on your phone.” I pat myself on the back. Look at me being friendly. This is hardly flirting at all.

  “Actually, can I borrow you when I decorate my tree? Maybe you could do all the highest branches and I can finally have a tree that reaches the ceiling. That’s a fantasy come true.”

  And she likes Christmas. Man down. Man officially down.

  It’s not like I can step away now, so I say, “Count me in. I love tree trimming. I love Christmas.”

  “You do?” she asks, musing.

  “Yes. Everything from the mistletoe to the carols.”

  “I love carols,” she agrees. “‘The Christmas Song’ is my favorite.”

  One more thing we have in common. I like that.

  I like her. That’s the trouble. Our dinner is speeding into feels-like-a-date territory.

  “So, tell me more about your party-planning business,” I say, valiantly steering the ship away from flirtier shores. “I’m coming into this blind and don’t know much about it.”

  She drops her jaw, exaggerating outrage. “No! You’re a pantser!”

  Laughing, I ask, “What does that mean?”

  “As in, fly-by-the-seat-of-your.” Inching closer, she says, “I’m the opposite. A total researcher. A look-everything-up-er.”

  “That’s a way to put it, I guess.” Amused, I consider the word. It’s a fair assessment. “You might be right. I do my homework, it’s just that improvising doesn’t scare me. Throw me into the fray, and I’ll see what comes of it.”

  She shudders melodramatically. “I have no idea what that’s like.”

  “Try it sometime. Maybe you’ll like it.” Yeah, I’m no good at being all business with Quinn.

  “Not if I can help it,” she says, shaking her head emphatically.

  “So how far does this planning fascination of yours extend?”

  “Far and wide.” She points at me, leans closer, and drops to a whisper. “Confession: I looked you up online before dinner.”

  That doesn’t help my resolve, that sexy little feather of a voice she’s put on. “And you still showed up. You’re a brave woman,” I say. Maybe some self-deprecation will slow this train for me.

  “Please. Your team photos are great. You don’t look that different from your Renegades pictures at all.”

  “Thanks.” I run a hand through my hair. “It was only three years ago, and I haven’t gained too much gray since.”

  “Yeah, but the wrinkles. All those wrinkles. Such a bummer,” she says, deadpan.

  I laugh. “It’s hard being almost thirty.”

  She groans. “Then I should tell you that you have a great smile in photos, and in person too.”

  “Thank you. The same goes for you.” I take a beat. “Well, I can only vouch for your in-person smile, since I’m not a stalker like someone else at this table.” I shift my eyes back and forth, then land on her, giving her a knowing look. “But I’m not naming names.”

  She laughs, then brings her finger to her lips. “Thanks for keeping my dirty little secret.”

  This is going to be one hell of a battle. The woman is sweet and ridiculously friendly, as well as deliciously flirty.

  But I’m determined to stick to my diet, so I focus on the reason we’re here tonight. I drum my palms on the table to mark the topic shift. “So . . . Christmas parties, holiday fiestas, I’m your man. Christmas and I go way back. I’m a bit of an aficionado, I must admit.”

  “Is that so? Do you have a collection of reindeer sweaters I should know about? A secret penchant for baking Christmas cookies late at night?”

  “Who said it was a secret? Maybe I’m completely out in the open about my Christmas baking.”

  She laughs like the chime of bells, and it’s so damn adorable. “Do you have those little cookie cutouts and a cute Christmas apron?”

  “Yes, and I wear a red sweater with a Rudolph nose on it while I make spiced fruitcake.”

  Her nose crinkles. “You didn’t just say that.”

  I wink at her. “Just making sure you’re paying attention. I don’t hate anyone enough to give them fruitcakes. But I do make a most excellent gingerbread house.” I preen a little, then lean closer to let her in on a secret. “In fact, I don’t share this with just everyone, but I did win a gingerbread house contest when I was twelve.”

  “Shut the front door. We are definitely going to feature your gingerbread skills at the party, then. In fact, I would pay good money to see you making gingerbread houses in that sweater.”

  “Please. I don’t accept monetary compensation. However, you’re welcome to join me in putting the gumdrops on my culinary creation.”

  She clasps her hand to her chest. “I’m invited to the baking fiesta? Lucky me.”

  “As long as you bring the spiked hot chocolate.”

  “As if I’d bring any beverages that weren’t spiked,” she says, a wicked look in her eyes.

  “So you’re a naughty Christmas elf?”

  “Hmm. Considering my childhood antics, I’d have to say yes.”

  “You can’t drop a little nugget like that and not tell me more.” I wiggle my fingers, beckoning her to give it up. “Childhood antics—what were they?”

  She shakes her head and zips her lips. “Nope. Another time.”

  “Not fair. I told you about my ugly Christmas sweaters, as well as my gingerbread house skills.”

  She arches a skeptical brow. “You don’t really have an ugly Christmas sweater collection, do you?”

  “Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. Maybe you need to tell me why you deserved coal in your stocking.”

  She scans the restaurant for spies, then cups her mouth and whispers, “I used to peek at my presents.”

  My jaw drops. “That’s an affront to all that is good in the holiday season. You definitely belong on the naughty list.”

  Her lips curve up in the tantalizing start of a grin. “Yeah, I kind of do.”

  I’m about ready to wave the white flag.

  I’m this close to breaking my diet.

  To asking her out on a date.

  But Josh’s return saves me.

  “Sorry about that. Had to put out a fire. Everything good here?”

  Quinn looks at me, still with that sliver of a smile. “Everything’s great.”

  “Excellent. Glad to see you’re getting along,” he says.

  “We’re definitely getting along,” I add, trying to take my eyes off Quinn.

  But that’s no easy feat, and it’s a damn good thing Josh returned when he did.

  We order our food, and as we eat and bat around ideas for the party, in the back of my mind, I cringe at how self-congratulatory I was when I walked into the office this morning. That was before Quinn Summers, who is shaping up to be the toughest temptation I’ve faced since I started my fast.

  Good thing this is only one dinner.

  3

  Quinn

  It’s not that I want my brother to leave.

  It’s that I really want my brother to leave.

  And I love Josh madly.

  But after the waitress pours the wine, his phone bleats for the twenty millionth time, and I honestly could kick him out of the booth just then.

  Happily.

  “You’re in demand tonight,” I say. “You can take the call. I won’t be upset.” He knows I’m not a phone person during meals. I’m not afraid to use the “do not disturb” setting, and I use it liberally.

  But that’s not why I want him to go.

  “Sorry, guys. It’s Enrique again. He’s stressing out over something the Dodgers’ GM said,” Josh explains, waving the phone.

  “Go. Take care of our guy,” Vaughn says. I love the affectionate way he talks about t
heir clients.

  “Thanks. I’ll be back after I triage this sitch.” He takes off, weaving through the tables and out the door to chat on the street.

  Good.

  I’m alone with Vaughn again, and he is better than his pictures. His dark eyes twinkle, and his smile is magnetic, inviting, and . . .

  Stop!

  None of this is a surprise.

  I thought I’d prepared for the onslaught of hotness with my immersion therapy—checking out all his pictures before dinner should have made me immune, or at least resistant, to him.

  But just to be safe, I also didn’t shave my legs tonight, and that guarantees that nothing can happen.

  Not that anything would happen.

  I doubt he’s into me, plus my brother’s here, plus this is business.

  But even so, I need all the help I can get. The man is funny and friendly and so easy to talk to. Now that Josh is gone again, I need to focus on the holiday party so I don’t stray toward temptation.

  “So, you’ve drawn the short straw,” I say. “They’ve roped you into Christmas party planning.”

  He smiles, a crooked grin that makes my chest zip and zing. “Is it the short straw though?” he asks, lifting his glass of wine and taking a drink.

  “Considering how deeply my brother despises parties, I assume you two had a bet and you lost, and that’s why you’re here.”

  “Why would you think I’d lose? Maybe I’m excellent at wagers.”

  “Are you?”

  He reaches into his wallet, fishes out a ten, and spreads it flat on the table. “I’m betting no one can convince me to serve eggnog at this party.”

  My eyes pop. “Why not? Eggnog is a staple at holiday parties.”

  “It is. And I need to know why, what we can do to avoid it, and if it can be stopped.”

  I laugh, taking a sip of my own wine. “I didn’t realize there were eggnog haters.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m not an eggnog hater. I’m not a hater, period. I’m a lover.”

  Oh God, the way he says that word, like it tastes good on his tongue, sends a wave of inappropriate lust rolling over me. And now I’m wondering what kind of lover he is. Slow and tender? Rough and hungry? Devoted and attentive?