Arranged Addiction

Chapter 1

Casey

My spicy self-care package got delivered to the wrong office.

I don’t know how. The young mail delivery intern was too busy staring at TikTok to give me a straight answer. “Oh, yeah, I remember that. Big box? Stuff rattled around? Dunno where it ended up. Sorry, dude.” He didn’t even bother to make eye contact.

Now I’m in pure panic mode.

Maybe if I weren’t such a coward, this wouldn’t be happening. When I placed my order at Blush Boutique, I couldn’t bring myself to put my name on the order form. Instead, I opted for the generic Employee and used my office address instead. Which shouldn’t be a huge deal, right?

If the mail intern weren’t such a jerk, it would’ve been put on my desk, no harm, no problem.

Instead, there’s a box filled with lingerie and several adult toys waiting for some unsuspecting colleague.

This is my worst nightmare.

“You did what?!” Natalie covers her mouth, trying not to laugh as I wave at her to keep quiet. If Mr. Whelan hears, he’ll give me another lecture on what’s appropriate in the office, and I really don’t need my grumpy asshole boss giving me shit right now.

“I know, I know, okay? It was stupid!”

“Why didn’t you just get it delivered to your apartment?”

“I panicked, okay? I was afraid Sheila would see it somehow.”

“Casey, you’re twenty-five. I don’t think your aunt would care if you bought a box filled with enormous dildos.”

“They’re not enormous!”

“But the box is filled with them?” Natalie’s eyebrows raise. “Just what exactly did you order?”

“Would you stop it? I’m having a meltdown here.”

“Okay, okay, give me a second to think.” Natalie paces in front of my desk.

She’s the only person in the whole world who I’d ever trust with something so mortifying.

We met in college and lucked into working at the same office right after graduation.

Even though this job isn’t ideal, I’m the executive assistant to the CEO of Mainline Logistics, which isn’t exciting, but it’s good for my resume.

And besides, nobody else would hire me. Dozens and dozens of applications and not a single callback. At least, not until Mr. Whelan, the worst boss in the history of horrible assholes.

Honestly, despite this idiotic and terrible situation, I consider myself extremely lucky.

Things have a way of working out for me.

The big stuff, anyway. When my parents were killed in a freak mugging, my aunt Sheila stepped up and took me in.

She sent me to an amazing private school, paid for tutors, sports trainers, anything I wanted really, and I ended up going to NYU on a pretty good scholarship.

Everything else though?

I have a habit of screwing it up.

Men in particular act like I have some kind of repulsion field wrapped around me. Ever since high school, the second a guy’s gotten close and things look good, he suddenly ghosts in the most aggressive way possible.

Once, mid-date, a really nice guy looked me dead in the eye and said, “I have to go home and give my dog a bath. This isn’t working out.”

He didn’t even stick around long enough to cover his half of the bill.

This missing spicy self-care box is just one in a long line of stupid love-life mishaps.

It was supposed to boost my confidence and help me get back out there.

Instead, it’s going to ruin my (pathetic, floundering) career.

Natalie stops pacing and comes to a decision. “No other choice but to search all over,” she proclaims. “If we split up, I bet we can get through most of the desks pretty fast.”

“Offices are going to be a problem.”

“We’ll cross that bridge once we get there.” She glances over my shoulder and lowers her voice. “Is Boss Bastard going to be an issue?”

I shake my head. “He’s out for lunch right now.”

“Perfect. Then shall we?”

I hesitate, squirming in my seat. If Mr. Whelan comes back and finds me off wandering around the halls, he’s going to be pissed. And Boss Bastard isn’t some cute, fun nickname for a great guy.

He really is a nightmare.

I don’t know why I’ve put up with him for the last two years.

Probably because the pay is obscenely good for this position and he promised that he’d write me the best recommendation letter possible if I stuck it out for a while.

I still live at home with Sheila, which means my paychecks are getting dumped into savings, and soon I’ll have enough to buy my own house if I don’t give up.

That’s the dream. A place of my own. A little garden in the back, a reading nook with lots of colorful books on big shelves draped in crystals and Tarot cards. Two little yappy dogs running around my ankles. A sanctuary away from everything.

All I have to do is keep my head down and hope Boss Bastard doesn’t make my life too miserable.

“Let’s make this fast. I don’t know how much longer he’ll be out.”

We disperse. She takes the left and I go right.

Scanning the cube farm isn’t all that hard.

I walk along glancing over shoulders, pausing if I can’t get a good look, and only have to deal with the bare minimum of small talk.

Since I’m Mr. Whelan’s assistant, that means I get a little extra leeway.

People in this office are used to me doing weird shit for him.

Like that time he made me print out and collate an entire 200-page slide deck, only to make me reorder the entire thing like six times until it was good enough.

Or that time I had to test like ten different truck paints until we found one he thought “smelled right.”

I’ve never met a man more uptight than Declan Whelan.

He’s a perfectionist. It’s almost insane, actually.

He’s always in an expensive suit, not a single thread out of place, with brightly polished shoes (thanks to me) even on casual days.

I think I’ve seen him smile two times in the last couple years, and I’m pretty sure the first one was a mistake (he’d meant to frown but went the wrong way).

Most of my time is spent meeting his absurd standards.

The worst part is, he’s obscenely attractive.

Maybe that’s why I haven’t quit yet. It’s one thing to get bossed around by some random power-hungry psycho, but it’s another to obey the orders of a human who looks like a god.

Declan Whelan is perfectly built. He’s obsessive with his fitness regime.

I’d know, since I keep his schedule. He never misses a day, no matter what, and his body reflects that dedication.

He’s cut in places I didn’t know could be cut.

And it doesn’t help that he’s got the face of a model.

Square jaw, deliciously green eyes, and the stubble of a well-groomed movie star.

Even his thick, black hair is luxurious.

It’s honestly messed up. No human should be that attractive.

Especially not one so terrible as Declan Whelan.

So much beauty was wasted on such a bastard.

But because he’s a crazy person, nobody thinks twice when I go poking around. I can always tell them that I’m on an errand for Mr. Whelan, and that’ll get plenty of sympathy. Fortunately, it doesn’t even come up.

And I don’t find the box.

I manage to check a few of the empty offices. One shipping executive stops me to ask a bunch of questions about some project Mr. Whelan’s been running, but other than that, I’m not bothered by anyone. I head back to my desk, feeling defeated and terrified, and find Natalie already waiting for me.

“It’s got to be in here somewhere,” she says, looking frustrated.

“I swear, I looked absolutely everywhere. I even put up with Bob giving me the play-by-play of his grandkid’s cello recital.

I mean, the kid’s cute, but my god, she’s so bad.

Like really bad. It should be illegal to play that bad. Put the kid in jail.”

“Focus, Natalie.”

“Right, I’m just saying, I have no clue where this stupid sex box is hiding.”

“It’s not a sex box,” I say, rubbing my face and groaning. “It’s a Spicy Self-Care box.”

“Same thing.” She taps a manicured nail against her palm, eyes narrowing. “There is one place we haven’t looked yet.”

I follow her gaze. I’m about to say there’s absolutely no way when Mr. Whelan appears around the corner, striding toward his door.

Natalie gives me a panicked look. Sorry, she mouths, before scurrying away with her eyes on the floor. She murmurs a quick greeting to Mr. Whelan, which he ignores, and barely spares me a glance before storming in through his office door. “Message!” he barks out, making me jump.

The guy has a voicemail system. I’ve told him a dozen times that’s way more reliable than having me write them out by hand. But he keeps saying he doesn’t care, which means I do it his way or else. I gather up my notes, straighten my skirt out, and march myself into his office.

And freeze as cold horror spills down my spine.

Mr. Whelan’s frowning down at a plain brown box. His head’s tilted to the side curiously as he uses a knife to cut open the tape. “This was left for me,” he says, not looking over. “But it was addressed to Employee. Why do you think that might be, Ms. Brennan?”

“I don’t know,” I squeak and have to clear my throat. I’m going to cry. Or maybe I’m just going to throw up on the floor.

No, that’s good. If I puke, he’ll be distracted and maybe he won’t look at what’s inside that box.

Because now I solved the mystery of where my Spicy Self-Care package went.

Instead of ending up on the desk of Mr. Whelan’s assistant, it ended up with the boss himself.

This is the end of the world. It’s the worst possible outcome imaginable. Not only is Mr. Whelan going to lose his mind, but he’s going to murder me. He’s going to do it right here and right now.

I’m going to get killed by a beautiful God.

In slow motion, he pulls back the box flaps. I make a strange, squealing noise, sort of a cross between a moan and a scream. He doesn’t glance up because he’s staring down at something I can’t see, and apparently, he’s transfixed.

Slowly, he lifts out a set of slutty lingerie. It’s pink, frilly, and doesn’t cover much.