The Package Read online

  “Nope. Worked here for ten months.”

  “No shit.”

  “Not surprising really.”

  “Why do I feel like you’re constantly talking in riddles?”

  “What floor were you heading to?” I ask, needing to jolt myself back to reality and stop this school girl crush that is blossoming.

  “Fifteen.”

  I snort. “Exactly.”

  Mail girls don’t mix with executives here at Garters & Lace. That’s the first rule you learn when you start working here.

  He squats down on his haunches so that he’s eye level with me. That gaze causing my pulse to race and the space around us to feel like it’s shrinking. “There’s those riddles again, Jules.”

  2

  Archer

  “You have the most peculiar eyes?” I murmur and earn a startled shake of her head.

  And they are peculiar as they narrow and look at me. Dark blue outlines her irises while a light gray fills their center. They are loaded with about as much distrust as there is curiosity.

  She snorts.

  It’s fucking adorable.

  Almost as adorable as her in her black Doc Martens and sparkly tights beneath her peacoat. Not someone I would look twice at on a normal day—call me a dick for the admission—but there is something about her, something about the look in her eyes and the sarcasm in her voice that has me taking a second look.

  Other than her reindeer antlers now thrown to the ground beside her packages.

  Like the chocolate colored hair that is pulled up in a top knot. The full lips painted a pale pink and her eyes . . . they’re almost too big for her face but they are so stunning framed with thick, dark lashes that they pull you in.

  “I’m not talking in riddles, you’re just not someone who notices a girl like me.”

  I open my mouth to refute her but know damn well she’s right . . . and for the first time I hate it. But more than that, I hate hearing her opinion about Garters & Lace. About working here.

  “I beg to differ,” I assert. “I know quite a lot about you. Prick. Asshole. Shitty ice. Fucking boss. Twizzlers. See? I know a lot more about you than you think I do.”

  Don’t smile, Jules.

  I dare you not to.

  Ah, there it is. Those lips of hers turn up at the corners and soften the sadness on her face.

  Her cheeks flush pink as she starts to pull her jacket off like claustrophobia has just hit. And, hell yes, I should be worried about her sudden moment of panic but I’m too busy noticing the roadmap of curves she just unearthed beneath the shapeless coat.

  Wow.

  One word. That’s all I have time to think as I take in the swell of her tits and the curve of her hips beneath the form fitting crazy Christmas sweater that makes me want to say ho-ho-ho.

  Wow.

  “Only because you’re forced to.” The hostility in her voice pulls me from staring too long and before I can ask what she means, the elevator car jerks.

  We both jolt in reaction as she falls forward onto a package before grabbing onto the railing to catch her fall.

  “Jesus,” she blurts as panic flickers through her eyes, her knuckles white as they grip tight.

  “He is the reason for the season,” I say, trying to calm her some, but get a glare instead. And I hold it, so very curious about Jules Jilliland and her Docs. “Hey, if you’ve been fired, why are you still carrying packages?”

  She grits her teeth and temper fires in her eyes. If you’d asked me five minutes ago if she was sexy, I would have told you she’s more the adorable type—button nose, full lips, innocent eyes—but that spark in her eyes and the set of her chin changes my opinion. She’s definitely sexy.

  Who knew you had that in you, Jules?

  “Because my boss told me even though I was fired for being late, if I deliver these packages, he’ll pay me through the rest of the week.”

  “Ah.” I nod and purse my lips, already making a mental note to check with Barney in the mail room to see why he fired her. Jules pulls the hem of her sweater down on her hips and, of course, it makes the V of her cleavage that much deeper.

  You’re just not someone who notices a girl like me

  Her words ring though my mind and pull it back to what she said before the elevator moving interrupted us. “You said I’m forced to notice you. What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She holds my gaze for a second before shaking her head and averting her eyes down only to notice that when she fell forward, her knee crushed a box and the contents have spilled out on the floor.

  Lacy things. Thong underwear in an assorted array of colors. Bikini briefs made of lace. Boy shorts in sexy satin. Each piece with the Garters & Lace logo stitched on them. Every one of them I immediately imagine her wearing beneath that sweater of hers.

  Can you blame me?

  Her laugh fills the car for the first time but it’s not exactly warm. “Exactly,” she says with a nod. “Fifteenth floor.”

  “C’mon, Jules. What in the hell does that mean?”

  “It means that you’re from the fifteenth floor. One of the guys with the condescending smirks and the grabby hands that happen when no one is looking. You’re the executive who pays no more attention to the girl from the mail room than he does the shit he sells. Shit that only fits the eye-candy he wears on his arm instead of fitting the everyday woman who would kill to feel sexy like that for a single moment. That’s what I mean by the fifteenth floor.” She nods resolutely like I have a fucking clue what she’s talking about when I don’t before looking back down and gathering the scattered panties.

  I fight the square of my shoulders at her words. At her observations. At everything I haven’t noticed over the past eight months since my grandfather unexpectedly died because I’ve been so busy taking the crash course in learning how to run this place.

  Christmas bonuses not being paid to all our employees. Sexual harassment by the executives. Christ. More things I need to look into. More ways I need to bring Garters & Lace up to speed from my grandfather’s antiquated ways.

  And at the same time though . . . I remember the chill of the mail room. The miserable hours and unappreciated work. The dismissive attitude of the top floors toward those who work the bottom floors. The crappy food that was months past its expiration in the vending machines.

  I might be running things now, but Gramps made me learn this place from the ground up.

  “So what floor are you on, huh?” Jules asks and pulls me from my thoughts.

  “I don’t work here at Garters & Lace.” The lie rolls off my tongue and I don’t regret it one bit.

  “Ha. Yes, you do. I’ve seen you strutting in here before.”

  “Strutting?” I laugh. “I don’t strut.”

  She just twists her lips as she stares at me, her eyes telling me I do, the ghost of a smile on her lips reinforcing it.

  “Yes, you do. I bet you strut right up to the top floor.” She raises her eyebrows and sighs before looking back down to the package in her hand.

  “No, seriously.” I grasp for an excuse, anything to have her look at me again. “Just dropping off a marketing plan.”

  “For what?”

  “The new fall line.” She looks at me, those eyes electrifying, and I can see the moment she buys it. “What did you mean about the shit they sell?”

  Another snort. “See? I told you, you were the problem.”

  This woman. She’s confusing as fuck and I need a damn roadmap to follow her but hell if I don’t want to take the ride while we’re stuck here in the elevator.

  “Come again?” I ask.

  “Yes. You.” She shakes her head. “You may not work here but you push the shit they—Garters & Lace—sells. What about selling something to women that makes them feel good? These”—she shoves the handful of panties toward me—“only fit size zeros. They’re sexy and pretty and dainty. Do you actually think they’d fit a body like mine?”

  I take one from her and
hold the red lace thong from the tip of my forefinger. Our eyes meet over the top of it and I can’t help the smirk that plays with the corner of my lips. “We’ve got time. You could always try it on?” I lift an eyebrow and get a scowl from her.

  Brilliant, Archer. You worry about sexual harassment of employees and then you just up and say that.

  Ah, but she’s not an employee anymore.

  At least there’s that.

  That and the image of her in these sexy panties.

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. These fit models and teenagers. The ones you sell to everyday women—the norm of America that’s a size fourteen to sixteen—are ridiculous. Pussy cats on underwear. Donuts on panties. Drab colors. Ill fitting.” She sucks in a deep breath. “And we know what day of the week it is. We don’t need to wear them on our panties as a reminder. I bet you the size zeros don’t have the days of the week on them.”

  My laugh reverberates around the tight space. Days of the week? Donuts on fabric. “So because I’m going to the fifteenth floor, I’m the reason your panties have pussy cats on them?

  “Of course, you would focus on that.” She huffs and puts her hands on her hips from where she kneels on the floor.

  “Well”—I move my head from side to side as my eyes trace her hands on the swell of her hips—"that word does catch a man’s attention.”

  “So do the words equal opportunity lingerie,” she asserts. “Sexy comes in all sizes.” She rises to her feet and I hold my hand out to help her, surprised when she takes it. “The jerk who runs this place seems to forget that. Curves are sexy.”

  “They sure are,” I murmur, her hand still in mine as my eyes run over hers before meeting her eyes. Her lips part, her eyes flutter . . . and fuck if I don’t want to kiss her right now. Step back. Step the hell back. “I’ll make sure to relay your thoughts in my marketing meetings from here on out.”

  I half expect her to snort at the comment, but she doesn’t. Instead, our eyes hold as the tension thickens around us. As my mind already has us stripped bare and lying atop these packages.

  “Jules?” I ask the question but it’s for so many things and I’m not sure which one to pick.

  Have lunch with me.

  Come work for me.

  Spend the night with me.

  You’re simply amazing.

  3

  Jules

  The elevator jolts and our hands pull away and before I can think—before I even realize I just want him, the executive from the upper floors, to kiss me—the doors ding open.

  I gulp in the cool air of the lobby as I turn my back to him momentarily and brace my hands on the railing to catch my breath. To find some sense of sanity that I seem to have lost from the lack of oxygen in the elevator car.

  There is shuffling at my back as voices near us.

  “Sorry about that, Mr.—”

  “Jules,” Mr. Flannel Shirt says, interrupting the maintenance worker I sense standing there. I shrug into my jacket and turn to face him. “Here are your packages.” He places them in my arms.

  “Thanks.”

  “The least I can do is help you deliver them.”

  “No. I’m fine.” I shake my head suddenly unsteady and on unsure footing. I grab the packages tighter as if they’ll ground me. “I’ve got them.”

  “You sure? I know I’m Floor Fifteen, but I have no problem helping.” He smiles softly at his joke but it’s almost as if with the doors open and the real world back around us, the gap between us is that much greater.

  “I’m sure.” The sooner I’m away from this—from him, from this building, from this damn day—the better. “Thanks. Thank you.” I start to walk and he steps in front of me.

  “Wait.” He reaches out and puts my reindeer antlers on my head, his fingers lingering as he tucks an errant strand of hair behind my ear. “There. Now, you’re ready to go.”

  The lopsided smile he gives me has things stirring in me that shouldn’t stir. Has parts aching in me that shouldn’t be aching.

  I struggle with the need to go and the want to stay. “Um—packages. You’ve got yours?”

  “Right here,” he says and tucks his package under his arm before reaching out and placing a hand on my biceps. “Jules—”

  “Thanks for trying to make me laugh,” I say startled by his touch and the sudden want for more of it. “For trying to make me feel better. I . . .”

  “After all that, you still hate Red Vines though. It’s a pity.”

  His line works. I smile softly. “And you won’t try Twizzlers.” I take a step back to gain some distance. “Merry Christmas.” I give a nod before walking off the elevator and away from him.

  “Merry Christmas, Jules.”

  His voice carries after me and it takes every ounce of restraint I possess not to turn back and look at him.

  4

  Jules

  “Jesus Christ, Julia. I asked you for one damn thing,” Barney sneers and for a moment I think of being stuck in the elevator yesterday. The He is the reason for the season comment and for some reason, it makes me fight back a smile despite my current situation—standing before my ex-boss asking for my final paycheck. “I asked you to deliver those packages for me and you messed that up. You were my best girl and . . . “

  “You fired me, Barney. If I was your best girl, you would have given me a second chance,” I huff out and look around the stacks of mail sorted but sitting idle. The mail room is empty. Barney must have let everyone work a half day for the holiday so they could all get home for Christmas Eve before the snow starts.

  “Jules.” My name sounds like regret and it gives me hope that I might still have a job here.

  “I’m not here to cause problems. I just want my check.” I shrug.

  “And I just want the mistake fixed. You do realize that you delivered the wrong package to the owner of the company, right?”

  “No, I didn’t. I didn’t have any packages to a McMasters.” I know I didn’t. I’ve never even been to the floor his office is on.

  “You say that and yet I got a call from Archer McMasters himself asking why he received a package for someone else and not the very important package he was waiting for. You think that makes me look like I run a tight ship? You think—”

  “What’s your point, Barney?” I ask. “You want me to switch it out? Fine. Give me my job back and I’ll fix the problem. Although, I know for a fact I didn’t mess anything up yesterday.”

  My words stop his rant and for the first time since stepping foot in here, I notice the bags under his eyes are darker, his hair a little bit messier, but there is a ghost of a smile on his lips that makes me feel like I’ve been played. “What?” he barks out a laugh.

  “It’s Christmas Eve. I’m sure you have a family to get home to when I don’t have any plans . . . so go ahead and give it to me. I’ll make it right.”

  “I was ready to bribe you to fix the problem and you just up and offer to?”

  “Shit. Can I take the offer back then so I can hear the bribe?” I laugh, suddenly having the feeling that things might just work out. Suddenly wanting them to.

  “No. You can’t . . . but, you’ll have my undying appreciation . . . and a little more understanding next time.”

  “Next time?” Hope bubbles up.

  “Yes. Next time.” His smile is soft and sincere. “You called and let me know about the accident and that you were going to be late. . . . I took my stress out on you.”

  “You did.”

  Our eyes hold as regret flashes through his. “I’m sorry, Jules. I overreacted.”

  “Thank you. Do you have the package so I can run it upstairs?” I ask.

  He reaches out and hands a parcel to me. “Not upstairs. Mr. McMasters is gone for rest of the week. Let’s see where it needs to go . . .” He looks down to his clipboard scribbled with a bunch of notes. “This needs to go to Tavern on the Green.”

  “Of course it does.” I laugh because it’s all
I can do. The one place I wanted Alex to take me on Christmas Eve, and I’m going to end up going there simply as a mail girl delivering a package. Perfect.

  “Your check, Jules.” Barney places my check on top of the package as he slides it across the counter. “And we’ll see you back here next week, same hours, same schedule.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Merry Christmas, Jules.”

  “Merry Christmas, Barney.”

  The subway uptown is a nightmare. Last minute shoppers pack into the car and the buzz of excitement is as prevalent in the air as the crisp coldness that owns it.

  Pulling my coat tightly around me, I take my time walking through Central Park. I listen to the noises of the city at my back and watch the first few flakes of snow flit down as the door to the restaurant is opened for me.

  It’s just like I imagined it would look like inside—like an explosion of Christmas decorations. Trees decorated to the hilt and décor strewn about all mixed with the rich scent of food and the low hum of talking.

  The host smiles at me despite the fact that I’m nowhere near dressed nicely enough to be eating here on tonight of all nights.

  “Welcome to Tavern on the Green. How may I help you?”

  “Hi.” I pull the package out from beneath my coat where I was protecting it from the weather. “I have to deliver a package to a guest, Archer McMasters.”

  “Ah, yes. Ms. Jilliland? He did tell me you’d be coming. Right this way.”

  I nod and follow behind him, my eyes taking in everything around me. Hoping to catch a glimpse of a famous face because I’ve convinced myself that celebrities come here, but don’t see any.

  The host turns a corner to a small room where a table sits by itself near a crackling fireplace. A small Christmas tree is in the corner, the silver bulbs reflecting the flames. Two chairs sit at the table. One empty. One occupied, the back of a man to me.

  “Mr. McMasters?”

  “Hmm?”