Forbidden Delivery

1. Paige

CHAPTER ONE

Paige

My fingers fidget in my lap as I watch my boss’ eyes trail the computer screen with impressive speed. Martha is a woman in her fifties, but you’d never guess by looking at her.

Her hair is freshly blown out, blonde highlights hiding any semblance of gray.

The dress she wears was on the runway just last week, and I don’t need a ruler to know her heels are over four inches tall.

A manicured, soft-pink stiletto nail presses the keyboard, scrolling down on my article.

Even a hundred units of Botox injected into the skin between her eyebrows can’t stop the frown from forming on her face.

A ball of nerves forms in my throat, so I try to focus on something else.

Her office is on the fiftieth floor of an office building in San Francisco, but apart from a glass desk with a sleek, thin iMac, a couple of blush suede chairs, and a few of the magazine’s more memorable covers adorning the walls, the room is bare.

Martha draws my attention with a soft clear of her throat. “This is… not good.”

My stomach drops. “I know it’s not really what you’re used to, but plants are in right now. There’s an entire section of the internet dedicated to memes about taking care of different plants.”

Her gaze lifts behind her glasses as she pinches the bridge of her nose. “It’s an article about Monstera plants. It’s not that it’s badly written—you’re too good for that—but The Last Paige should be a fun, sexy read. Not… this.” She motions to the screen, and I dip my head, knowing she’s right.

Girl Talk is a lifestyle magazine that caters to women in their twenties, with topics like fashion, beauty, and relationships.

My column—The Last Paige—has been my pride and joy for over three years now.

I started with Girl Talk by doing smaller pieces and editing gigs during grad school before working up to my very own column.

Lately, though, my inspiration has run dry.

The last few pieces were like pulling teeth, and even though I was proud of finally deciding on a topic, a part of me knows Martha is right.

There’s nothing sexy about propagating Monsteras.

“Look, Paige…” Martha takes off her glasses.

I often wonder if she even needs them or if she uses them solely to look more serious.

“You know I love you. You’re one of the most talented writers I’ve met.

But I feel like this magazine and you have grown apart in the last couple of months.

” She takes a big breath as if readying herself to say something I don’t want to hear, so I interject.

“You’re right, Martha. This is crap.” Her eyes widen at my outburst, but I know she loves hearing how right she is. “I just haven’t been able to get in the zone lately. But I can do it. You know I can. I’ll scrap this and write something new.”

She hesitates for a second before shaking her head.

“You have a week. A week to blow me away. I know you’re not dating at the moment, but self-love is a hot topic right now.

You don’t have to write about men to write about sex.

” The look she shoots me is pointed. “We’ll meet in a week and decide where to go from here.

And trust me, if it doesn’t work out, it’s going to hurt me more than it will hurt you. ”

I give her the best smile I can muster at the moment, heavily disagreeing with her statement. The sentiment is there, but I’m the one who can’t afford to lose this job.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make this right.” My voice reflects confidence I don’t feel. Her phone rings, and I scramble to get on my feet. “I’ll see you in a week.”

“Tell Amy to make you an appointment,” she responds, already pressing the phone to her cheek.

With two pints of ice cream, three bottles of wine, and eyes full of tears, I knock on my twin sister’s door. The car ride from the city was excruciating, my inner critic working overtime. I stare at the red door as it stares right back, before it finally opens.

Emma’s warm eyes land on me, her maroon-stained lips parting. She’s my sister-in-law, and my second favorite person in the world, right after her wife.

“Oh, honey,” she says, noticing my expression, and I let out a sniffle. She takes the things out of my hands, yelling toward the back of the house. “Jordan, Paige is here.” I follow Emma to their living room, where Jordan joins us.

“She hated the article.” I groan, dropping onto their coral couch, hugging a forest green velvet pillow close to my body. The contrast, though stark, goes perfectly, especially with their lush green accent wall.

“I could have told you that before the meeting,” Jordan responds, and Emma slaps her shoulder.

My sister and I are pretty much the same person in different fonts.

Our light blue eyes hold the same almond shape, with our cheekbones being the most visible feature.

Our lips are thin and wide, and our hair is dark.

Unlike the pale skin of my neck, patchwork tattoos cover hers, and while I sport a messy bob with curtain bangs, her short hair is styled on top of her head.

“Not helpful,” I say, my face falling into my hands.

“Babe, how about you go pour us some wine?” Emma suggests.

“She’s right, though,” I add. “I was an idiot to think my monstera article would be good enough.”

“Not an idiot,” Jordan’s voice returns. I lift my head, noticing she’s back with the wine glasses. “But that article was pathetic, yes.” She rubs her hands on her basketball shorts before opening the first wine bottle.

“I have a week to write a better one.” She hands me the glass, and I down half of it before continuing, “Or I get fired.”

Emma lets out a gasp, her hand landing on her chest. “Can she do that?”

“I’ve been underperforming for months now.” I sigh. “She could’ve done that a long time ago.”

“We’re going to need more wine,” Emma murmurs, and I couldn’t agree more.

Two and a half bottles of wine later, my problems don’t seem so big anymore. My body shakes and my eyes water not because I’m on the verge of crying, but because I’m laughing too hard. I’m sitting on the floor, my bare feet enjoying the plush carpet.

Another fit of laughter ends, and I inhale a deep breath. “But seriously, what am I going to do?”

“You can always come work for your father, like Jordan and I.” Emma’s attempt to cheer me up only sends me further down my spiral.

“No offense, Emma, but to quote one of my favorite characters, I’d rather sit naked on a hot grill.”

Emma is a graphic designer and Jordan a web developer.

They both work for Dad’s app holding company, which makes perfect sense for them.

While they enjoy turning unknown apps into profitable ones, an office job in his company is the last thing I’d want for myself.

They also handle being accused of nepotism way better than my insecure ass would.

“You’re going to write a column,” my sister says unhelpfully, her voice slurring on the last word.

Emma places her hand on my knee. “You know I love you, honey. But your life is too boring to have something to write about.”

A scoff escapes me, though I know she has a point.

“Maybe it’s time to start dating again.” Jordan shrugs as if it’s that simple.

My mind is hazy, but the idea makes my face scrunch. After suffering a devastating heartbreak a year and a half ago, I made a vow not to date. It has worked so far, and I have no intention of entering those shark-infested waters.

“Jordan,” Emma scolds, as if the sheer memory can hurt me. It can’t, not anymore, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready for a repeat.

“Martha said I don’t need to date.” A hiccup rushes out of me sooner than I’m able to press a hand to my mouth. I begin giggling uncontrollably. “Sh-she mentioned I could write about self-love.”

Somewhere in the blur of my eyes, I notice the look between Emma and Jordan, one that can’t be described with anything but conspiratorial.

Jordan lets out a deep laugh, as if Emma made a joke, and my eyes narrow. “Self-love is exactly what you need.”

Emma joins in, and my eyes dart from one to the other. “I don’t get it.”

“Your brilliant sister just came up with the theme for your article. For a series of them, if we’re being honest.” Emma’s laugh is sweet and melodic, even though she’s just as drunk as I am. Unfortunately, it doesn’t help my growing confusion.

“I know you have your weird telepathic thing going on, but care to fill me in?”

Jordan runs a hand through her hair, releasing a loud sigh. “Self-love, Paige. As in masturbating. Your boss wants you to write about masturbating.”

I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Emma jumps up to retrieve a laptop from her home office while I’m still stunned silent. They both work from home, so their laptops are never too far out of reach.

“Why would she want me to write about that?”

“Because heterosexual sex is dreadful. Masturbation is the only way you poor straight ladies get some pleasure.” Jordan stresses her words by lifting and lowering her eyebrows.

Another gulp of wine does nothing to clear my thoughts. “But what is there to write about? It’s pretty straightforward. You lie down, slip your fingers in. End of story.”

“Boy, do we have a world of fun waiting for you.” Emma giggles, setting her laptop in front of me. “We’re going to save your job, one sex toy at a time.”

My cheeks flush, the heat reaching my ears. “I’ve never tried…”

“Exactly,” Jordan lifts her finger. “You can review each toy while discovering self-love.”

“The story writes itself,” Emma adds.

It might be the alcohol wreaking havoc on my mind, but they’re right. A woman who gave up on dating, searching for the perfect sex toy to find pleasure on her own, is exactly what the magazine is about. It’s exactly what Martha wants from me.

“Now, here are some of our favorites.” Emma opens an unfamiliar website, and a plethora of mostly pink gadgets appears before us.

She clicks on a couple of them, and the two of them debate if it’s the right fit for me. The room starts spinning so I focus on a single dot in front of me, not fully seeing what they’re doing.

“She needs a penis-looking one, too.” Jordan’s words break through my fog.

“Ew,” Emma responds. “But you’re right. Here, they have a replica of a porn-star’s dick.

That should be fun, right?” I let out a vomiting sound, but she continues clicking.

“No strap-on, though.” Click-click-click.

“Shit, I need to change the address.” Another click, then she’s typing. “Same day delivery?”

“Of course. She’s on a deadline.”

Taking another sip of wine is the last thing I remember.