Chapter 1 #2
His eyebrows raise. He puts the lingerie away and lifts out another set. This one’s black and sheer. The website described it as sleek as sexy under the midnight sky, whatever that means.
“What is this?” he asks, sounding more bemused than angry.
More lingerie follows. Six full sets. And at the very bottom, he finds the most mortifying part of all.
He lifts it up and stares.
It’s sleek, around five inches, because I was afraid of anything bigger. It’s purple for some weird reason. The end is tapered and there’s a single button at the base. He taps it almost like he knew it was there and the whole dick-shaped thing begins to buzz.
Rechargeable battery. Obviously.
He stares at it. I stare at it. Neither of us moves.
“Ms. Brennan? I believe someone sent me a package of lingerie and sex toys.” His face tightens.
I nearly pass out at the words sex toys coming from his perfect lips.
He taps the vibrator and it turns off. “Who would be so stupid and crass? What insane idiot would have—” He reaches into the box one last time and takes out the receipt.
He stares at it, jaw working, and he slowly places the vibrator back into the box.
Then he looks at me.
I know. Right then, I know he knows. I’m not sure how he figured it out so fast, but there’s no doubt in my mind. Something on that receipt gave it away. Was it the name? The address? No, that can’t be it. Maybe—
The card I used.
He saw my payment information. I’ve used that card before for office supplies and had to submit receipts to get reimbursement. I’m betting Mr. Whelan knows the numbers of every single credit card in use by Mainline Logistics, and he probably recognizes the last four digits of mine.
The silence is horrifying.
“I only have one question,” he says, putting the receipt back into the box and slowly bending the flaps closed. But they won’t stay down and I can still see the purple vibrator staring out. I want to scream and light the whole thing on fire. “Was this some kind of sick joke, or was it an accident?”
“Accident,” I manage to say, which is a feat of pure self-control, because I’m right on the verge of gagging and dying.
“I see.” His lips press together. “And are you in the habit of buying adult items and having them delivered to your place of work?”
“No, I swear, Mr. Whelan. This was just a stupid misunderstanding. The mailroom intern—”
“Don’t blame someone else for your mistake, Ms. Brennan.” His tone is icy and sharp like a whip.
I grit my teeth, grimacing. If he doesn’t murder me on the spot, he’s at least definitely going to fire me.
Which is good because it means I won’t be subjected to his nightmarish whims anymore. But bad since there’s no way I’ll ever find an entry-level job that pays so much.
See ya later, house of my own. I can already picture it receding into the distant mists of time.
“You’re right. I apologize. I’m mortified, honestly.
I was too embarrassed to have that shipped to my house since I still live with my aunt.
She opens my mail sometimes, mostly because she’s not paying close attention, and I didn’t want her to find all that stuff.
I thought it would be safer coming here. ”
His expression somehow hardens. He goes from cold to straight-up polar iceberg. “Not the best judgment ever.”
“Please, Mr. Whelan. That box was a whim.” I don’t know why, but I suddenly feel the whole story spilling out of me in a torrent, and I can’t seem to shut myself up.
“I’ve been stood up ten times in the last six months.
I haven’t been on more than two dates with a man since high school.
It’s like I’m putting out some kind of repulsive pheromone or something.
I saw that Spicy Self-Care box was on sale and I thought maybe it would help make me feel more confident, and maybe that would help me feel less lonely, and now I’m saying it out loud and I realize how pathetic it is, and I’m sorry, Mr. Whelan.
You can fire me now. Actually, no, don’t worry, I’ll just pack my stuff. You don’t have to speak.”
I walk over to his desk, shaking, tears in my eyes, feeling miserable and terrible in a way I’ve never experienced before. It’s one thing for a guy to ditch me on a first date, but this is somehow more humiliating.
I’ve known Declan Whelan for two years now, but we’ve never shared anything private with each other. Our relationship has been strictly professional.
Now I feel exposed in a way I never wanted with him. Mr. Whelan’s not the kind of man I want to spill all my pathetic secrets to, but now that it’s too late to shut myself up, my only option is to quit with some little piece of my dignity intact.
A very, very little piece, but still.
I gather up my Spicy Self-Care box. The vibrator somehow turns on again and makes the whole thing buzz.
“Oh, shoot,” I say, fumbling it and dropping the whole mess on the floor.
“Oh my god. I’m sorry. This is so embarrassing.
I can’t believe this is happening. I’m so sorry.
” I gather all my stuff up, shut off the vibrator, and get to my feet.
Tears burn my eyes. My throat’s a lump. I want to run away, but Mr. Whelan’s standing right next to me now.
He smells good. I love the cologne he wears. I picked it out for him during Christmas last year, and he still puts it on every day. One of the very few things I like about him.
“Put the box at your desk, please, Ms. Brennan, and make sure you tape it shut.” He licks his lips and for a second, he’s staring at me like he’s picturing what I might look like in that first little outfit.
But that can’t be possible. Declan Whelan is cold-blooded. A beautiful specimen, but I’m pretty sure he’s more lizard than human.
“You don’t want that. I mean, I’m leaving, you don’t have to—”
“You are not leaving. If you’re putting in your resignation, it is not accepted.”
My eyes go wide. I’m having trouble understanding. “But, Mr. Whelan—”
“Call Dolce Vita, ask for a table tonight at eight.”
“Your—your usual, sir?”
He shakes his head. “A table for two. My driver will pick you up at exactly seven forty-five. You will dress appropriately for the venue, Ms. Brennan.”
I stare at him, mouth hanging open. “I don’t—you mean—I don’t understand.”
“You and I are going to have dinner.” He stares at me, completely deadpan. I have no idea if he’s kidding or if he just commanded me out on a date. “If there’s nothing else, please return to your desk and get back to work.”
I can’t move. I’m trapped in his office. I’m pretty sure I must’ve gotten my head chopped off and now I’m in hell. This is a sick joke. Mr. Whelan, my sexy-as-sin Boss Bastard, saw my Spicy Self-Care box and now he’s demanding that I go out to dinner with him?
This makes no sense.
“Yes, sir,” I murmur, mostly out of pure muscle memory, and walk stiffly back to my chair. I slump down as his door closes behind me with a soft click.
I stare at the vibrator. It’s sitting there like a sick joke.
When he opened the box, I assumed I’d be murdered and/or fired.
Instead, it sounds like I have dinner plans.