There’s a strange package on my front porch when I arrive home from the campus library after my day at Dirty After Dark. It’s a simple, shiny black box with a matte black bow contrasting the box, criss-crossing against the hardness of the box’s lines. It tempts me as I walk toward it. There’s also a thin stack of junk mail assembled next to it, and I bend down to grab everything with my free hand while unlocking my door.

I hitch the box under my arm and toss the mail on the kitchen counter when I get in, sending my keys onto the tile-topped counters with a clank. The sound fills the air of my small studio alcove apartment. There isn’t much room for the sound to travel.

I flip absent-mindedly through the stack of mail. I recently applied for additional student aid, and my eyes grow wide, my pulse quickening as I come across an envelope from my school. I poke the corner into my index finger, turning the envelope over in my hands. It doesn’t look like good news. It’s a small envelope, and I know from experience with these things that good news always comes in a large package, usually a manilla envelope with extra postage.

Still, I open the envelope and the plastic window displaying my name and address crunches as I take out the letter. They regret to tell me my application for additional student aid has been denied, but they want me to apply again should my financial situation change.

I draw in a deep breath and let it out, padding over to my refrigerator. I pull out a mini bottle of white wine and twist off the aluminum cap, not bothering to pour myself a glass. It’s just me, so I take a sip right from the bottle. When I told Ryan I’m not much of a drinking, this is what I meant - my poison is a mini bottle of white wine from the supermarket.

The box on my counter grabs my attention again. It’s like it doesn’t belong in my apartment - with the inexpensive formica furniture and small book shelf in the corner, the single bed that I attempted to make a little more luxe with light gray sheets and white pillow cases along with a navy blue duvet cover.

I stand over it and peer down, taking a sip of my wine. I certainly did not order anything, but I check the small bone-white card tucked inside the black ribbon and it has my name and address on it. Narrowing my eyes, I trace a finger along the edge, the color of the box a decadent, inky-black color like the blank space between the stars on a clear night.

Plucking an edge of the thick black ribbon carefully between two fingers, I give an easy tug and the bow comes undone, unwrapping the box from its sumptuous cage.

I open the box to peek inside, feeling my heart thrumming inside my chest, my pulse picking up. I lift the lid fully and place it aside, working my way through layers of white glossy tissue paper, finally coming to another white card inside.

Sara, it reads simply, I thought you might like something new to wear to the pool party. It’s signed by Ryan.

My face flushes with heat and I take another sip of my wine, placing the bottle down on the counter alongside the box and go deeper to get to its contents. Tucked beneath another layer of tissue paper is a classic, gorgeous black two-piece, not too skimpy, with a full, relatively modest brief and triangle top. I recognize the brand, so I know it wasn’t cheap, and it’s my size. The halter neck and sides of the briefs tie with slender black strips, and it would be exactly my taste if I wore anything but one-pieces.

I take the bikini out of its box and lay the pieces down flat on the countertop, the luxurious fabric silky and smooth in my hands. I didn’t realize they made bathing suits that felt like this one.

Shaking my head, I can’t help but let a little smile pull across my face as I imagine myself trotting into the pool party in some chic espadrilles, maybe with a sarong wrapped around my waist and sipping on mojitos with the beach bunnies and bombshells that frequent Ryan’s infamous pool parties.

Taking another sip of my wine, I push the bikini back into its box and sweep it into my bedroom.

I quickly strip out of my work clothes, tossing them in a heap on my bed. I consider leaving my underwear on in case I want to reject Ryan’s give - but I strip out of my underwear and bra and pull the bikini on fast.

I turn to regard my reflection in my mirror and pull my long brown hair out of the bun it’s been wrapped up in all day, shaking my head and letting my locks fall around my face and down my back.

A deep breath in and out, and I turn around to check myself out. I have to admit the swimsuit looks great - it looks and fits better than any bathing suit I’ve ever worn.

I told him I want to keep it professional, so I know I shouldn’t be loving this as much as I am, but I can’t help it. A knock at my door interrupts my fantasy of trotting around a billionaire’s mansion white nibbling on canapes.

I grab my bathrobe from the hook next to my mirror and make my way over to the front door.

“Who is it!”

“It’s me, now let me in.” Jess hits the door with her knuckles a few more times and pushes past me when I open the door, taking a straight line to my refrigerator.

“Sorry,” I say, wrapping the robe around me a little tighter and fastening the sash around my waist when she looks me up and down with an arched eyebrow. “I was just trying something on.”

“You go on a shopping spree without me?” Jess roots around in my fridge and takes out a mini bottle of wine of her own.

“Not exactly, but I did get something new.”

“What is it?”

“Ryan sent me something. He sent me...this.” I open my robe slightly and let Jess have a peek at what I’m hiding. “Do you think it would be totally crazy for me to wear it on Sunday?”

“You’re already going to one of his pool parties? I’m impressed. He must really like you.”

“He doesn’t like me. No more than he likes any of his interns.”

“But he doesn’t usually invite interns to the pool parties.”

“That’s fine, but it’s still for work. Strictly professional.”

“Sweetie, that bikini doesn’t look professional. I bet he bought that for you so he could get you all wet and peel it off.”

“Jess!” I close the robe and tighten it around me. “This is business. It’s part of the job. It’s just that the lines are kind of blurred, you know?”

I turn to the side and suck in my stomach, poking at bits of skin stretched over curves that are a little bit too curvy, flesh that’s a little bit too fleshy.

“Well, yeah. That’s because there are no lines.” Jess pulls a pair of sunglasses out of the top drawer of my dresser and trots over to me, putting them in my hand. “It’s his job to be slightly inappropriate at all times.”

“That’s what I thought too, but that’s not true. Not exactly.” I walk over to my dresser and root around in my underwear drawer, vaguely remembering that I might have a sarong in there. “He’s always got sex on his mind because he has to. But that’s all part of the job, you know?”

“Not just part of the job, it is the job. And like I said. It’s inappropriate.” She smiles and hops onto my bed.

“Yes, but for him, it’s his profession. So that makes it all business. Right?”

“Mmhm,” Jess says, “and is this pool party part of your official job duties?”

“No.” I hold the sarong up to my body, stretching it around my midsection. “He said I absolutely did not have to come if I didn’t want to.”

“Of course you want to. Free food, free drinks, a relaxing day in the sun. Your boss making you dripping wet. What is there not to want?”

“Yeah right, more like a bunch of girls throwing themselves at my boss while I sit around like a dork, shoving all the free food into my face. And by the way, I’m still not sure if I’ve forgiven you for getting me into this mess,” I say with a smile.

“Oh, you love it.”