Chapter 1 #2
The driver for the AAA-class premium priority order has deleted their account on the platform. We were unable to find a short-notice replacement. In accordance with the platform's terms and conditions, you must deliver the bouquet and collect your payment from the customer. Delivery address:...
Kind Regards
"Shit," I mutter.
"What is it?" Veronica asks. I point to the message on the screen.
"Well, let's get going then," Veronica replies. "Your car is in the underground garage, right?"
I nod. The car was a gift from my late father shortly before his death. I know I can't really afford it, because the parking spot costs a fortune and you don't really need a car in New York. But I couldn't bring myself to part with it, even if the car is nothing special.
"Where's the damn key?" I mutter, after searching my pockets, my handbag, and the shelves above the computer.
"Can you help me look, Veronica?" I ask, a little desperate, glancing at the clock and knowing this is going to be a damn close call.
The address is in one of the best areas of the city; from here, I'll need at least half an hour, and that's only if I'm very lucky.
Delivery is in forty minutes. That's going to be tight. Very tight.
I curse the online portal and make a mental note to do the same as the driver. Just delete my account and focus on regular customers. On the other hand, a lot of my income comes from exactly these kinds of orders and...
"Hey, there are more letters from the ARS Group here. But no key."
"You can toss those. I must have forgotten," I reply, glancing briefly at Veronica, who is truly searching frantically for the key, and feel a brief surge of deep gratitude before I continue searching myself.
After two long minutes, which are ticking away from my delivery time, I have one last idea. Maybe in the mailbox? Did I leave it in the lock?
I breathe a sigh of relief, because that's exactly where it is.
And all the other keys are on the ring too.
Finally! An envelope is peeking out of the mailbox.
This time, not a letter from the ARS Group, but one from the landlord.
I get a bad feeling, but I put the envelope aside, hurry over to Veronica, jiggle the key, and see her relief as well.
"Let's go, now," she says, while I take the flower arrangement in my free hand and Veronica attaches the greeting card to it for me.
******
"Almost there," I murmur, looking nervously at the clock, then at the bouquet next to me on the empty passenger seat, and then back at the traffic.
Veronica had wanted to come with me, but I told her she'd already done enough for me, and besides, she had to cover a night shift for a colleague who called in sick, so we just postponed my dinner invitation until tomorrow.
The traffic was better than expected, and I might actually make it just in time without having anything deducted from my payment.
The neighborhood has changed by now. I can't be far, because on my right and left are stately mansions with huge front yards and heavy iron gates.
Here and there, there are even gatehouses.
I don't think I've ever been in this area before.
The rent for one of those gatehouses probably costs more than what I'd get for selling my car.
In 1,000 feet, you will arrive at your destination, the voice of the navigation system chirps.
I glance in the mirror. My frizzy, curly hair is sticking out in all directions again.
Mop-head! Fat mop-head, I hear the voices of my old schoolmates in my head.
I hate my hair for being so wild, as if it's some kind of stress sensor so everyone around me can see my mood as clearly as possible.
I'd love to comb it again, as much as that's possible with curly hair.
Veronica always says it looks cute and has often heard men say they like my hairstyle. I think she was just being nice.
Whatever. There's no time for combing anyway, and I'm not here to meet anyone.
I'm just the delivery girl for a rich playboy's bouquet, who has some kind of penchant for nectar.
I park on the street, double-check that I'm at the right address, get out, and marvel at the estate, whose iron gates are open and whose gatehouse is unoccupied.
A taxi is coming toward me, but no one is inside except the driver.
He probably just dropped someone off. Maybe the lady the bouquet is for?
The front yard is decorated with garlands.
A few expensive cars are parked in front of the entrance, which is almost 300 feet away: Bentley, Porsche, Jaguar.
Those are just the brands I know. Music is booming from the house.
Apparently, there's a party going on, and maybe the gold leaf arrangement is a gift? But what's with the greeting card then?
Shaking my head, I walk on, glance at the clock, and tell myself that I'm not going to solve this mystery and that it shouldn't matter to me. I'm just here to get the $400 and then get out of here.
"Who are you?" I hear a harsh voice that makes me jump when I'm just two steps away from the grand staircase leading to the front door.
I look to the side and spot a burly, grim-faced guy with a boxer's nose.
The small name tag with "Security" on his lapel wasn't necessary.
You could tell that from ten feet away, as long as he wasn't hiding somewhere in the bushes.
"Delivery," I say, holding out the flowers to him.
"Anyone could say that," he grunts, unimpressed.
"Here's the order from..." I look at the printout with the address, which I thankfully have handy. "Alex Rodgers," I read aloud. "This is the right place, isn't it?"
"Mr. Rodgers lives here. But no one said anything about an order or flowers," the security guard snaps, whose job it must be to be unfriendly and intimidating.
Normally, that works on me, and I'd be the first to turn around and leave a club if a guy like that was standing in front of it.
But in this case, I have a $400 bouquet and no intention of taking a loss.
"I'm just a simple flower girl and I'd like to get paid for the bouquet. Here's the order I received," I hold out the printout to him. "Would you please ask your boss? That's all I'm asking," I say, putting on the friendliest smile I can muster.
"Mhm," the security guard grunts, then pulls out a walkie-talkie without taking the paper from my hand. Apparently, he has no interest in checking the order. "Dilara. There's a delivery here for Mr. Rodgers. Flowers with glittery stuff on them."
"That's gold leaf," I murmur, but he gives me a curt hand gesture to let me know he doesn't want to hear it. There's a crackle over the line. Then a voice comes through, apparently female. Maybe the recipient of the bouquet? Why is he radioing her and not this Mr. Rodgers?
"Send her away," I hear from the other end of the walkie-talkie.
"Please, I can't just..."
"You heard her," the security guard interrupts me.
"Please ask again. Please," I plead with him.
"The woman is pretty persistent. Maybe Mr. Rodgers did order the flowers?" he asks, and his expression softens a little. Maybe he just saw more of my hair frizzing up? Could this stress sensor actually be a good thing for once?
There's no answer. The security guard shrugs. I almost feel sorry for him, because he's probably just following his orders. Then the door opens. A blonde woman in a tight-fitting dress with a very low-cut neckline appears. I don't know who she is, but one thing is clear: it's not Mr. Rodgers.
I glance at the clock and see that the delivery is already a minute overdue. Ten dollars less. And the decisive moment is when Mr. Rodgers or someone else digitally signs for the delivery on the app on my phone.
"Is this another one of those jokes?" the woman asks, crossing her arms over her chest and sounding at least as grumpy as the security guard was before.
"What jokes?" I ask, not knowing what she's getting at.
But I don't really care about the answer.
What is definitely not a joke is that money is slipping through my fingers with every passing minute.
"Listen, these flowers were ordered online.
I just want to drop them off and get the amount I'm owed for them. .."
"I'm Mr. Rodgers' personal assistant, and I would know if he ordered flowers," she snaps, cutting me off. "There is no way I'm accepting this delivery for him."
"Listen," I say with a sigh. "I don't know what's going on here. But every minute I'm late with the delivery, the company cuts my fee, I'm just..."
"I didn't ask for your life story," says the assistant, on whose small, golden name tag on her lapel is written Dilara and below it in small italics, PA to Mr. Rodgers.
"Can't you just ask your boss? Maybe the flowers are for a lover, an affair, I don't know. But I..."
"Enough. Please leave the property," Dilara says, pointing to the driveway. "Or I will..."
"Your nectar tastes like the gold of the bouquet. I want to taste you!" I read from the card, and this time, I'm the one cutting her off. Anger rises in me. Anger at this rich playboy hiding behind a PA with huge breasts whom he probably fucks often and...
"Wait a minute, Dilara. I'm coming," a voice sounds from the walkie-talkie she's holding.
"You've done it now. Mr. Rodgers heard everything. He's coming and will surely tell you what he thinks of you and your cheap card," Dilara snaps, holding up the walkie-talkie. "He actually has better things to do tonight than deal with common laborers," she adds disapprovingly.
If this Mr. Rodgers is as pompous as his PA, then he's going to get a piece of my mind.
Even if I end up stuck with the costs for the order.
I'm not going to just let myself be put down, even if everything inside me is screaming for me to just leave and I'm on the verge of bursting into tears. How can this woman be so mean?
A moment later, a man appears next to this Dilara. He's also wearing a name tag that identifies him as Alex Rodgers. I can't tear my eyes away from him at first. I don't know why, but I feel like my jaw is hanging open and I'm going hot and cold all over.
Pull yourself together, Beth. Remember what's written on the card! He's a playboy! A womanizer!
"So you're the man who's into nectar," I say to him and hand him the bouquet. I can feel my hands trembling and hope it's not noticeable.
"Cute. Persistent and sassy, too," he says, grinning at me. His words sound like a velvety promise that awakens something in me that would have been better off left asleep. What is wrong with me? He's a typical playboy. And I'm standing here with my knees weak?
"How can I help you, Miss..."
"Peterson," I croak, wondering where my voice has gone.
"A pleasure, Miss Peterson," he says, coming toward me and kissing my hand, which only makes my knees feel weaker.
"Mr. Rodgers, I must remind you that there are some important people waiting for you inside and..." Dilara interrupts the moment.
"Then go to them and put them off," Mr. Rodgers says, making a gesture with his hand without even glancing at her.
"I'll take care of this matter here," he says, his ice-blue eyes piercing through me. I feel a tingle on the back of my neck that I quickly push aside.
"So, Miss Peterson. You can call me Alex. What brings you to me, and who wrote the silly text on the card?" his voice suddenly sounds serious, his gaze still piercing, but in a dangerous way.
What have I gotten myself into?