“I got a delivery here for a Miss Porter.”

“That’s me,” I say, popping my head up over my cubicle wall, wondering who might have sent me something. I never get flowers, not even when Chase and I had dated. Not even on my birthday or Valentine’s day.

I step out from behind my cubicle and hurry toward the man, excited to see what’s in the giant basket of goodies he’s holding. Delivery Guy’s brows shoot skyward, and he lets out a low whistle. Well that’s not creepy at all. I give him an unimpressed glare, but as I get closer and finally get a good look at the contents inside, I freeze. All of the blood in my body seems to have clawed up my neck to pool in my cheeks.

Oh. My. God. I’m going to murder him. Slowly. Maybe even before the wedding.

Delivery Guy shoves the basket toward me and I have no choice but to take it. “Tha . . . that’s not mine. There must be some kind of mistake.”

“Your name Poppy Porter?”

“Y-yes but I didn’t . . .” I trail off as I glance at Katherine, who I share a cubicle wall with. She eyes me suspiciously. Several of the other women from the office gather around. “I didn’t order these,” I whisper indignantly to the man, shoving the basket back at him. He volleys it right back as if we’re in a game of hot potato. The cellophane wrapping crinkles, and then one of the toys—a sparkly pink rabbit vibrator begins whirring. Heat claws at my neck. My eyes go wide, and I may just pass out right here.

“Lady, I don’t care who ordered it. I’m paid to deliver, and that’s what I’m doing . . . delivering. Just sign here.” He thrusts an electronic hand-held scribble pad toward me. I sign my name while shame stings my cheeks. Delivery Guy turns and stalks away and I’m left clutching a giant basket of sex toys in the middle of my office while my dignity goes up in smoke.

Once back at my desk, I tear into the package to stop the rabbit, but when I pull it out, it’s no longer moving—the one beside it is. It’s a sleek, U-shaped vibrator that doesn’t look phallic so much as it looks to be a carefully crafted silicone potholder. I pick it up. It stops vibrating. I glance up from the sex toy. Everyone is staring at me. Katherine, Dale—our receptionist—and even the new temp Amber seems to be delighting in my mortification. Praise be to baby Jesus that Jacinta is in her office on a conference call or I’m sure she’d be rifling through the contents of my Hamper of Humiliation.

“Practical joke from a . . .” He’s certainly not a friend but what the hell else would I call him?

“I didn’t know you were dating anyone,” Katherine says in her accusatory British accent, as if we were besties and she’s hurt I haven’t confided in her.

“I’m not.” Men cannot be trusted. Men are big hairy balls worth of suck.

“Oh my god, who would send you such an intimate gift then?”

“Just some asshole,” I say, and instantly regret it because Katherine looks mortified. God, she’s so annoyingly perfect. Does she not realize that it’s the 21^st century and women can cuss and still be professional? Sort of. I set the vibrator back in the basket and then I pull the card from the cellophane.

Pop Tart,

Now you can schtüp ’til your heart’s content. No luck finding replicas of Sam or Dean Winchester, but I did find a little Lucifer vibe to brighten your day. It’s sparkles too, because Old Nick’s dick was just begging for some glitter.

You should also know I’ve hand-selected every piece. You’re welcome.

L.

I screw my nose up at the card and throw the basket in the trash. It doesn’t fit. Of course it doesn’t, because it’s a giant basket full of sex toys. In my office. Sitting there for all of my co-workers to see. He is so going to die. I pull my cell phone from my drawer and shoot off a text.

Me: I hate you.

Leo: LOL, come on, Pop Tart. Lighten up. I’m just trying to remove the stick from up your ass. You’ll find I’ve included my favorite kind of lube for that.

Me: Your mother drank excessive amounts of alcohol when she was pregnant with you, didn’t she?

Leo: It’s highly possible. Admit it, you’re clutching your pearl right now, aren’t you?

I frown. The one and only time I’ve ever worn pearls was at cotillion, and only because my mother forced me to.

Me: I don’t wear pearls.

Leo: I didn’t say pearls. I said pearl. Singular. It was a euphemism for that pretty little button between your legs, but that’s okay. I know exploring your princess parts must be a new thing for you, so I’ll give you a minute to find it and see what it does. You can thank me later.

Oh, he did not.

Me: My clitoris and I are on very friendly terms, thank you.

Leo: Really? What’s her name? Ariel? Belle? No. I know, Sleeping Beauty, because you’re just dying for Prince Charming to come and kiss it, and wake it up. You’ll have to introduce me sometime.

Me: Never going to happen. She’s unimpressed by your pin dick.

Leo: Such a mouth for a well-bred woman. I know just what we should do with it. And you know I don’t have a pin dick. After all, wasn’t it you getting off this Sunday past when I rubbed it up against your sweet little pussy and your eyes rolled back in your head?

Me: My eyes only rolled because I grew tired of waiting to feel something. When did you say your penis implant surgery was?

Leo: Oh, I’ll make you feel something.

As if on cue, the vibrator starts humming again. I glare at it and kick the basket with the toe of my nude Louboutin pumps. The vibrating intensifies. I pick up said vibrator and consider hurling it over the cubical wall into Kathrine’s tea, but instead I wind up stuffing it into my purse, and then I shove it to the very back of my desk drawer. I feel a stab of disappointment when I return to my phone and see that I have no more texts from Leo, and then I want to stab myself because it’s Nass the Ass, and I shouldn’t be looking forward to texts from him.

Instead of causing myself bodily harm, I flick my mouse and my screen hums to life. I check my emails again from Jacinta and set about completing the rest of the tasks on her to-do list, which I then cross reference with my own to-do lists.

Katherine and I essentially do the same job. When we complete a task off Jacinta’s to-do list, we’re supposed to mark our name alongside it. Thanks to my little surprise delivery and the angry texting that followed, Katherine has already completed a good portion of the list, which means I’m stuck calling vendors for the rest of the afternoon. All courtesy of Nass the Ass. He sure knows how to ruin a girl’s day.

***

I wait until almost everyone has cleared out of the office before I switch off my computer and ready myself to leave. There’s more than one reason for this. One, that stupid vibrator has been buzzing on and off all day, and I spent a good twenty minutes in the bathroom when I should have been working trying to get the damn thing apart and remove the batteries. I couldn’t locate the batteries, or a way in, and I needed the extra time to get everything squared away before I left.

The second reason was because I couldn’t handle the humiliation of carting my basket of goodies through the office while everyone stared. I would leave it here for the cleaners to take, but truth be told, as much as I hate the man who gifted me said basket, I’ll admit, I actually want to try some of the things in there. It's not like he’ll ever know, and I’m not sure the cleaners would get rid of it anyway. Knowing my luck, it would still be here in the morning.

I cover the basket in question with my coat and head for the elevator. Only when the doors open and I step inside, my boss comes careening down the hall shouting for me to hold the lift for her. For a split second, I weigh up my humiliation at her seeing my cargo, and the horrific idea of disappointing her, but then I lunge for the button and hold the door.

“Thank you,” she pants as she leans against the mirrored wall.

I give her a tight smile. “You’re welcome.”

“What do you have there?” she asks, and by her tone, I’m pretty sure she already knows. Nothing gets by Jacinta. If something happens in her office, she’s one hundred percent aware of it.

“Oh nothing, just some things a . . . friend sent me.”

“Poppy, why is your purse vibrating?”

“Um . . . it’s a surprise.”

She raises one perfectly sculpted brow, and smiles. “So, who’s the lucky man?”

“No one,” I spit out disdainfully.

She lifts the corner of my jacket covering the basket and peeks inside. “That’s an awful lot of money to drop on sex toys for a complete stranger, wouldn’t you say?”

“Fine, it’s from a guy I know, but it’s not what you think. He’s Chase’s best man. In fact, he’s the man who convinced Chase to break up with me over some brewskies and a—how did he put it? Oh, yes, a handful of stripper dollars.”

“And he’s sending you sex toys?”

“He’s a pervert. It’s not unusual behavior for him.”

“Has he sent you sex toys in the past?”

“No.”

“Then why now?”

“I don’t know, because he’s a jackass? He might have maybe saved my life this past weekend and pulled me from the path of a wayward cab, but then he rifled through my underwear drawer and found my vibrator. He broke it.”

“Oh my god, what an ass.”

“Right?”

“He’s one hundred percent into you.”

“No.” I laugh. “It’s not like that at all.”

“Really?”

“I would not sleep with him for all the money in Manhattan.”

“And he’s the best man in the Vanderbilt wedding?”

“Yes, but—”

“Careful, Poppy. If he’s responsible for talking Chase into breaking up with you like you say he is, that man may have ulterior motives.”

“No,” I shake my head. “The only reason he talked Chase into breaking up with me is so that he’d have his wingman back. He’s a total man whore.”

“A smitten man whore by the sounds of things,” she says, exiting the elevator when it dings open.

“No. He . . . we . . . we loathe one another.”

“If you say so.” She glances surreptitiously at my basket and grins. “Enjoy your night.”

“You too,” I say, waving with my free hand. The security guard glances at me and I grimace before adjusting my coat over the basket and exiting the building. It takes far too long to hail a cab—when does it not in this city? If I had the use of both of my arms I could just call up an Uber, but I don’t love the idea of setting this thing down on the ground for even a second. New York streets are a hotbed of bacteria, and there isn’t enough Lysol in the world to destroy it.

When I finally do make it home I set the basket on my dining table and feed the cats. Then I shower, throw a microwave meal in for myself, and settle into my couch, switching on the TV for some time alone with the Winchesters. I glance over at Dean on the dining table and roll my eyes. There’s no keeping these cats off my furniture. Ever. I ignore him and go back to my show, then he must decide the basket Leo gave me is new and shiny, and therefore he must destroy it, so he shoves at my jacket until it falls to the floor. He sniffs. I sigh and turn away. What the hell do I care if my cat wants to make a bed in a basket of dildos? Except . . .

No. I am not using anything from that basket. I’m not even going to look at what’s in there. Not properly, anyway. I get up and shoo Dean away, and then I glance around my apartment as if I might get caught. Which is ridiculous.

Finally, I grow a pair of lady balls and yank off the rest of the cellophane. This has Dean’s attention, and he jumps on the discarded wrapping on the floor and begins attacking it. Sam and Cas decide they want in too, and all three partake in the pouncing frenzy. I peer into the basket. There are all kinds of toys and paraphernalia in here. Everything from anal beads to various kinds of lubricants, big dildos, small dildos, hand-held clitoral stimulators, a flogger, nipple clamps, a rabbit, bullet vibrators, three different kinds of LELO vibrators, and what looks to be an opened box belonging to the vibrator that’s currently occupying my purse. I pull out the box and study it. It’s rechargeable. Of course, that’s why I couldn’t find a damn battery compartment.

Cas has grown tired of Sam and Dean’s games, but he pounces on my purse when it begins buzzing again. I yank the offending object free. “Oh my god, why won’t you stop?”

Holding the charging station, cord, and vibrator, I march into my bedroom and plug the damn thing in, then I slam the vibrator into the cradle and wait for it to do something. It stops vibrating, so that’s something, I guess. I stomp back to the living room, sweep all of the toys into the basket, and return to my bedroom, throwing them into my closet, never to be seen again. At least not until tomorrow when I’m choosing an outfit for work. That can be Tomorrow Poppy’s problem. Mid-week Poppy just wants to spend the night with the Winchesters. Alone.