Jana

I’m in my office working on some sketches, because yesterday was shopping and personal grooming and general mortification on an epic level. And if I don’t work on a Friday, I make it up on Saturday.

This work ethic might be why I don’t have much of a social life.

The kitten is sleeping under my drafting table, and she’s soft and warm against my toes. Or at least she is until the door buzzer goes off and she jumps like an air horn just sounded next to her ear. I make a shushing noise and promise her I’ll be right back.

Of course she doesn’t listen to me, because she’s a cat, and she darts under my feet as I head for the door.

“I’m going to call you Underfoot, baby girl,” I say as I jump to keep from tripping on her.

She just meows at me.

I tap on the intercom button. “Hello?”

“This is, uh, SwiftEx. I’ve got a delivery for you.”

I jump just like the cat did, because the way he says it, his voice a little deeper than normal—although what do I know about his normal?—and that little hitch as he stumbled over his words. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Maybe the fact I wasn’t expecting him makes this moment more intense. It definitely steals my voice.

He clears his throat, which I can hear in perfect detail because I’m still leaning on the button. “Hello?”

“Hi.” That’s the most ridiculous response. He’s not actually saying it like a greeting. “Right.” Which isn’t the correct response, either, so I hastily add, “Come up.”

I’m on the second floor. Two short flights of stairs. He’s got the world’s longest, strongest legs, and it takes him like ten seconds. Not that I’ve been counting on previous deliveries or anything.

It takes me seven seconds to get my flustered pulse under control. Another two to realize I rolled out of bed this morning, threw on yoga pants and twisted my hair into a messy bun, and totally did not prepare to be seen by a hot guy, because the whole “be cool, and project how sexy I am” plan was supposed to start on Monday or Tuesday.

Which leaves me with one second to panic about that before he knocks—which is why I’ve already swung the door open, totally surrendering to the fact I’m not at my best, before I remember that I didn’t put on a bra this morning.

Pants, yes.

Tight t-shirt, yes.

Bra? Nope.

Now, it’s not like I’ve got the worst boobs in the world. They’re round and give good cleavage when—if—I ask them to. But they just look better in a bra. That’s a science fact.

So I’m standing there looking at Delivery Guy, because I can’t call him Not Dane anymore in my head, and he, of course, looks amazing.

I feel naked.

He gives me this look, where his eyes are locked on mine, and then he smiles, and it grows into a grin, and the whole time he’s really looking at me.

And that’s when I remember that I don’t have any pubic hair anymore. Underneath this hot mess of an outfit, my pussy is bare and sexy—or something like that. She’s definitely bare, and definitely aware of Delivery Guy’s arrival in her proximity.

I consider slamming the door in his face, but that would be super weird because he has no idea what’s in my head right now. So I lift my chin and give him what is supposed to be a casual smile right back, because that look felt really good right up until I freaked out inside.

I probably look homicidal.

Nina can take a flying leap. I do not feel more confident right now. I feel exposed in the worst way. And I think my nipples are trying to stand at attention.

Stop it, nipples. Stop it, bare pussy. Stop it, entire traitorous body.

“You got mail again,” he says as he holds up a small cardboard box.

“I don’t remember ordering anything,” I say weakly, and he shrugs. God, he looks good. So I blurt out, “Did you have a good Thanksgiving?”

“Uh…” He shifts the box onto his right hip and leans his left forearm against the doorframe, relaxing a bit. His gaze is still on my face, which is good, because the nipples haven’t settled down at all. “It was okay. Bit chaotic with the travel and stuff.”

“Me, too. Where’d you have to go?”

“New York.”

A meow interrupts him and he glances down to where I feel a brush of fur against my bare feet.

“Hello, there.”

I scoop up the kitten. The other cats are so blasé about deliveries now, but she’s a little curious miss. “Sorry,” I say. “She’s new.”

Another panty-melting grin. “What’s her name?”

“She doesn’t have one yet. I just got her—she’s a foster kitten. I’m calling her Underfoot right now, for obvious reasons.”

“She’s a pretty girl.” The way his voice drops when he says it makes my insides tighten up. But before we can go any further in our surreal conversation about holidays and cats, he straightens up and gives me an apologetic look. “Hang on.” He pulls a phone out of a holster on his hip and glances at the lit-up screen. “I gotta take this.”

“No worries.” I hold out my free arm for the box, and he hands it over, then gives the kitten a little rub under her chin before he turns and jogs back down the stairs.

I stand there like a statue, holding a cat and a box, because as he turned I got a good whiff of whatever cologne or aftershave or magical man scent he has. Maybe that’s just what his skin smells like, like the ocean crashing into a field of…I dunno, tobacco flowers or something. It’s sweet but manly at the same time, with a peppery, salty edge that makes my mouth water.

Finally the kitten protests to the fact we’re still standing in the doorway. “I know,” I say with a sigh as I set her down. “I miss him, too.”

Which is a totally unhealthy thing to admit about your delivery guy, but he shouldn’t smell so good. It’s his own fault.

I shut the door and carry the package to the kitchen. I set it on the counter and grab a pair of scissors.

Inside, I find three packages. A box of catnip-filled mice for the cats. I don’t remember buying that, but maybe it was back-ordered. Sometimes that happens and I don’t notice.

But beside it is a small plastic sleeve. Hot pink lettering on the front, and suspicious black lace inside. I turn it over.

A thong.

No, that would be bad enough. It’s apparently a crotchless thong.

I definitely didn’t order this.

And wrapped in plastic at the bottom of the box is a bottle of champagne bubble bath.

I dig around in the bottom of the box, and there’s a gift receipt. Happy Thanksgiving! The message cheerily reads.

I narrow my eyes. Nina, almost certainly. But I can’t just call her up and accuse her. She’ll deny it, for sure.

And the cats will enjoy their presents.

I do like a bubble bath…

But as for the crotchless underwear? I shove them back in the box. I’ll worry about those tomorrow.

I go back to my office and stare at the sketch I’d been working on when he arrived. I shove it aside and grab a new pressed paper board. This time I sketch a superhero in a delivery uniform. He’s tall, with dark hair and a hint of stubble along his hard jaw. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, and his chest more than fills out the hero costume, busting out from the open vee of his delivery uniform. Like Henry Cavill, blue-collar style.

No, Delivery Guy doesn’t look like Henry. Henry could look like him, though. If he were so lucky.

I breathe in again, imagining I can still smell him. Then I grab another sheet and draw two more super heroes in ordinary clothes. A plumber, and a firefighter. I can see the rest of the line. I’ll have to search what the most common Dad jobs are, but these cards should be a hit for Father’s Day.

Then I draw one just for myself, of Delivery Guy peeling off his uniform. This time, there’s no superhero costume underneath, and I get to imagine what the hard planes of his chest look like. Hard and flat, warm to the touch. And lower, the start of a trail of hair… Heat swarms through me as I finish the sketch.

That doesn’t stop me from curling up on the thinking couch in the corner, though. Doesn’t stop me from touching myself as I look at him.

I don’t know what I’m going to do when I see him again. I’m definitely going to wear a bra, though. One of the good ones.