Jake

On Monday, as I’m loading up the truck at the depot and reviewing my route—which includes Jana’s apartment, so I don’t need to be a total creeper to see her again—one of the regulars stops and asks how it’s going.

“Pretty good,” I say, standing up. I tap my clipboard. “A lot of repeat addresses on here.”

“Yep.” He nods. “That’s probably the way of it. Sixty, seventy percent of our deliveries are to a small chunk of addresses I bet.”

I make a mental note to review those numbers with the executive team. Find out if he’s right, and I’m sure he is.

“Some of them have entry codes in the delivery notes,” he says.

“Yeah, I heard that in my training, but honestly, most people don’t seem to add it.”

He laughs and taps his forehead. “Pays to memorize stuff, then. Can I?” He points to my clipboard, and I hand it over. He pulls a pen from his front pocket and scribbles numbers on a few spots on the page. “There. Those’ll save you a couple of minutes, anyway.”

“Thanks.” I hold my hand out and we shake on it.

It’s a good thing for colleagues to help each other out—and a great sign that the culture at least at this depot is friendly enough to foster that kindness. But it’s not great business practice that I happened to luck in to this information this morning. Another mental note, but I only need to hang on to them until I get in the truck. As I’m heading for the first address on my list, I use my portable bluetooth voice-activated speaker—an Aston Corp product—and call my assistant. I ask her to find me someone at SwiftEx who knows the percentages of repeat delivery recipients, and then she sends me an email with the question about integrating building access information into the system in a smarter way.

That email vibrates my phone on my hip as we hang up. The speaker reads the subject line to me, then it’s quiet in my truck again. I have a GPS device because I don’t know Baltimore like the back of my hand, but a lot of these streets have quickly become familiar.

Like Jana’s, for example.

The temptation to leave her delivery for last is strong.

I don’t give in to it.

She answers the door slightly out of breath. She’s wearing jeans today, with hot pink socks, and a t-shirt that says I’d Rather Be Reading right across her breasts.

It’s a feat of epic proportions that I manage not to stare.

I’d rather be reading, indeed. I’d read those words over and over again, with my eyes, then my fingers. Trace the letters and see how she likes to be touched.

“This one is signature required,” I say, handing over the small cardboard box.

She frowns and shakes it, then rolls her eyes when the kitten appears out of nowhere and tries to climb up Jana’s leg.

I’m sure that’s annoying, but it gives me a reason to slide my gaze down her body. Her jeans are snug, dark and stretchy, and they curve around her hips and down her slim legs just right.

I’d like to do the same.

When was the last time I saw a woman in hot pink socks? With matching pink cheeks and an indulgent smile that makes me jealous of a cat, for God’s sake.

I need to get her signature, but that can wait. “Is her name still Underfoot?”

She laughs and shakes her head as she lifts the kitten into her arms. “No. Although today she got halfway up my curtains and I threatened to call her Miss Climbs-A-Lot. You can see why.”

The kitten makes a squeaky sound, half purr, half chirp, and I get it. She’s adorable. I lean in and rub the soft white spot under her chin. “I can. What a little minx.”

Jana inhales, and I realize I’m close to her—my hand is next to her arm, and our heads are close together, too.

She’s not wearing any makeup, but there’s something on her lips, maybe a fruity lipgloss, and she’s just gorgeous. Bright eyes, soft mouth, and creamy skin.

“Do you have pets?” she asks softly, and I’m close enough I can feel the faintest brush of her breath against my skin.

I shake my head. “Travel too much, work too hard. My—” I cut myself off before saying that my housekeeper only comes in twice a week and I’m pretty sure cats need more attention than that. “Maybe one day.”

She makes a little humming sound, and I want to kiss her. I want to haul her close and bite her bottom lip. Make her smile and kiss her again.

Heat roars through my body, and I jerk back at the same time as she lifts the kitten up a bit more. Before she can offer the cat up for adoption, or before I kiss her—maybe both things, I don’t know.

What the hell am I doing playing with Jana and her kitty?

“I need your signature,” I say, and it comes out kind of harsh, but I do.

That’s all I need. I don’t need some domestic fantasy. I don’t need pink socks or jean-clad legs. Pink socks on bare legs, the jeans discarded somewhere along the way to the nearest bed.

She swallows hard and I feel like an ass, but then she puts the kitten down and takes the clipboard, scrawling her name quickly on the digital signature pad at the side. “Thanks for the delivery,” she says, and it’s sweet and kind and I feel even worse.

So I gruffly try to make it right. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She jerks her head up. “Tomorrow?”

“You usually get something on Tuesdays.” And even if she didn’t, I don’t think I could stay away.

Her cheeks turn pink. “Right.”

“I’ll see you then.”

She nods, her brows pulling together ever so slightly. “See you then.”

The next day I’ve got her usual Tuesday delivery, as expected. It’s another that’s signature-required, and again, I think about waiting until the end of the day to deliver it.

But it’s work stuff, and I’m not so driven by my dick that I’d hold back her delivery just so I can have more time with her.

And then there’s the pesky reminder in the back of my mind that I don’t get time with her.

I can’t do this. I can’t crush on a woman who thinks I’m a delivery driver, because I’m not, and the last thing Aston Corp needs is a scandal about the CEO slumming it incognito and hitting on customers.

But all of that goes out the window when she answers the door.

Today her socks are orange.

And she starts talking before I get a chance to hand over the clipboard. “I feel like I should apologize for yesterday,” she says, and fuck, no, that’s not right at all.

I can feel myself frowning at her. “Nothing to apologize for,” is what I should say. Instead, I open my mouth and the world’s dumbest question tumbles out. “Why?”

Her lips part and her cheeks flush. “Well, because I asked you about your personal life, in a way. I wasn’t trying—”

“You could try,” I say. What the hell? No trying! But I’m grinning at her now, like my mouth has been severed from my brain. And the rest of my body goes with it, apparently, because I lean against the doorframe. “Maybe I’m the one who should apologize to you, since I gave you the wrong impression.”

Her eyes go wide. “Oh.”

“This is a bit complicated for me,” I say. Understatement of the year.

“Ah.” She shrugs. “I don’t do complicated. But that’s okay. No harm, no foul.”

This is my out. This is my chance to shift us firmly back into the professional relationship category, where I don’t know what her lips look like up close.

I don’t take it.

“Not a bad kind of complicated,” I say. “I’m not married or anything shitty like that.”

“So a non-shitty kind of complicated.” Her lips curl up in an almost-smile. “That’s rare.”

“I’m rare.”

“And modest?”

“So modest.”

She laughs. “Good to know. I was starting to think you were perfect. Now I know you’re full of yourself and cocky, too.”

“Guilty on both counts.” I wink, and this feels good. She sees me for what I am—at least on a base level—and I’m being as clear as I can about what I’m not.

“Is the complicated part about your job? Are you a temporary worker or something?”

Fuck, this is dangerous territory, but I find myself nodding. “Just until Christmas.”

“Right, that makes sense.” She holds up the box. “Increased number of deliveries and all that.”

“People love shopping online.”

“Mmm. Something like that.” She tips her head to the side. “Well, I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.”

I laugh, and it surprises me, how good it feels to share this kind of easy conversation. When was the last time I talked about nothing with someone? And I don’t want to leave. Which is…damn it. “Listen, we don’t need to see each other just when…” I gesture to the box in her hands. “Do you want—”

From inside her apartment, a phone rings. She winces. “I think it’s my turn to say I’ve got to get that.”

“Go. I’ll…hopefully see you tomorrow.”

She beams at me and that’s it. I’m stopping here again tomorrow whether or not she’s got a package on the truck. We can talk some more about how I’m not nearly good enough for her, but maybe worthy of a scrap or two. A smile. A kiss. An afternoon spent exploring all the different places that blush could touch if she was teased just right.

It's not how I expected our conversation to go, but fuck it. Sometimes life is too short to play it safe.