Chapter 16 Seventeen Terrible Life Choices and Counting #2
Then, because the universe has a sick sense of humor, my phone pings.
CHAD
It’s sweet that your friends are so worried about you.
I stare at the screen, my brain taking a second to process what I’m reading.
How do you know that?
I have my ways.
You were listening?? To a private conversation??
So, you have a gun, huh?
Yes, Chad. A pink one.
That could be fun.
Fun how?
A little game. Hide-and-seek in a warehouse. You, in nothing but stilettos, trying to find me before I pin you to the ground and fuck you senseless. I’ll even let you use real bullets.
I make an actual choking sound that probably carries down the hallway.
PLEASE, CHAD, I AM AT WORK.
And?
And I cannot be sexting you during business hours! There are policies about this sort of thing!
Oh, but doesn’t that make it even more fun?
No, it does NOT.
You sure? I know you, Amanda. I know you crave excitement. I know you feel restless, bored with the routine. I know that’s exactly why you’re not running from me. Because I’m the most thrilling thing that’s happened to you in years.
Bold of you to assume I’m not living a deeply fulfilling and exciting life.
You were staring at a spreadsheet five minutes ago, starving for my touch.
I glare at my screen like that’s somehow going to stop the heat pooling between my thighs or make my heart stop racing.
Don’t you have a job??
Baby doll, you are my job.
Chad.
Relax. Let me lead you. Let me make you come at work.
No.
Why not?
Because I’m at work, Chad. Like, physically at my place of employment. And I have a VIP shopper in ten minutes who’s probably going to max out her Amex and I want the commission.
Bet I can make you come in two.
That is not the impressive brag you think it is.
The faster it happens, the more times we can do it in all sorts of creative ways.
STOP. I NEED TO WORK AND BE A FUNCTIONING ADULT.
I love how you think turning me down is actually going to work.
Going away now. Phones off. Very busy. Much professional.
We’ll see how long that lasts.
Absolutely not. I am not playing this game during work hours.
I am a professional. A responsible, business-minded, successful woman who definitely does not think about faceless masked men making her come in warehouses. I have standards. I wear designer blazers and carry business cards with my name embossed in gold foil.
I push back from my desk with renewed determination, smooth my dress, and head down to the personal shopping suite like a woman totally in control of her life. On my way there, I spot Daniel, my fellow personal shopper and general beacon of fabulousness in this retail wasteland.
He turns toward me with that appraising look he gets when he’s about to read someone for filth.
Daniel and I have a friendship built on mutual roasting and zero filter.
We don’t do gentle encouragement or polite small talk.
We go straight for the jugular with surgical precision and somehow call it affection.
It works because we’re both equally vicious and equally invested in each other’s well-being, which means when one of us is acting weird, the other one will absolutely call it out.
“Huh. You look… different today.”
I cross my arms, leaning into our usual dynamic. “Different how?”
“Like you’ve recently experienced something either highly illegal or deeply orgasmic. Your entire aura has shifted.”
“Jesus, Daniel.”
He flourishes a hand at me. “Your energy is completely off. We’ll discuss this later when you’re ready to spill all the tea.
Anyway, rich lady in dressing room five is currently trying to shove herself into a dress that’s three sizes too small and having what I can only describe as a full breakdown about it. Do with that what you will.”
“Great. My absolute favorite kind of client.”
Daniel smirks. “Nothing humbles the one percent quite like a zipper that refuses to cooperate with their delusions.”
I sigh, straighten my shoulders, and go do what I’m actually paid for.
Thirty minutes later, after successfully convincing a woman that no, it is absolutely not the dress’s fault that it doesn’t fit, and no, she does not need to fire her personal trainer, nutritionist, or life coach, I’m finally free to escape back to my office.
But before I can make it there safely, a delivery guy approaches me with a brown paper bag that immediately sets off every alarm bell in my head.
“Delivery for Amanda Bennett.”
I stare down at the innocuous-looking bag in his hands like it might explode.
“From who?”
He shrugs with the indifference of someone who’s paid not to ask questions. “Dunno. Just told to bring it to you, specifically.”
I hesitate for exactly two seconds before taking the bag, and immediately Daniel materializes at my side. “Ooh, what’d you get?” He eyes the bag with barely contained curiosity. “Lunch? A secret admirer? A sugar daddy finally come to rescue you from this retail hellscape?”
I open the bag and peek inside and nearly choke on my own saliva.
Not lunch. Definitely not a romantic gesture in the traditional sense.
It’s a vibrator. A sleek, ridiculously expensive, obviously high-end vibrator. I slam the bag shut so fast I probably give myself whiplash.
“Nope. Not lunch. Darn. Meeting. Gotta go. Very important business to attend to.”
I speed-walk away, hoping to outrun Daniel’s thought process about what might have just happened.
“Wait—what? What was it?”
“Nothing! So busy! Important executive-level tasks that require immediate attention!”
“Amanda, you’re literally running.”
“AM I? CAN’T HEAR YOU, WORKING WOMAN MODE ACTIVATED, SO MANY PRESSING MATTERS TO ATTEND TO.”
I basically sprint into the employee-only hallway, heart racing, clutching the bag to my chest. Because I already know exactly who sent it. And I already know what’s going to be waiting on my phone when I finally work up the courage to check it.
This man is going to be the death of me.