Billion Dollar Bad Boy (Big City Billionaires #1)(3)

“Wait,” Betty said, locking a dubious stare onto me. “How do you know the sender was a guy if there's no name or anything on here?”

Red, molten shame burrowed into my guts. “Uh.” Fuck. Now she starts paying attention, great. “Well, okay, so the thing is... because there was no name on it, I opened it, thinking maybe it was meant for me.”

Betty's mouth curled into a deeper frown.

Perspiration blossomed on my chest. “I mean, easy mistake to make. It was in my mail! But inside, there was a note, which I read—and it obviously was sent from a man and meant for someone else and... and...”

Firmly, Betty put her hand on the box. “You opened it.”

I swallowed. “Yeah.”

“You do know that's a crime, ma'am?”

Every inch of my face was glowing. “But—well.”

“And you expect me to take it back and magically figure out who it was meant for?”

I was at a loss. Tense as a fishing line, I clenched my hands at my hips. “...Yes?”

Deflating, the postal worker gave me a tired once-over. Then, she pushed the box back to me. “Honey, I don't know what to tell you. I don't have time to play cop or investigator. There's no name on here, it was in your mail, you opened it. Just keep the darn thing.”

My mouth was slack. On reflex, I retrieved the package. Betty spared me one more look, then waved over my shoulder. “Next in line.”

In a fog, I walked away from the counter. This wasn't how I'd expected things to go. What was I supposed to do with these earrings? Keeping them felt wrong, trashing them—jeez, they probably cost more than six months of my rent.

Amazingly, I found myself in front of my locker again. Peeking at Betty, I was tempted to set the box on the floor. Would this 'Pet' person see it, and know it was meant for her? I didn't know if this was the first gift or the millionth, a box was a box.

Shaking my head, I resolved to think of a new plan. I didn't have one yet, but in time, something would click.

It just had to.

Soothed by my rationalization, I slid my key into my mailbox. I was on autopilot, I checked my mail every morning if work wasn't in the way.

Yes. A new plan. Okay.

The tiny door swung open, hanging on its hinges and revealing the inside of my locker. My lungs hitched, ribs freezing. Everything became a far away dream.

No. Not again.

In front of me sat another box.



The gifts continued to arrive over the next two weeks.

Nothing I did could get them to stop; not talking to the postal workers, not asking for information on the deliveries, and not waiting around a whole day in my car to try and catch the mysterious S.

I'm not proud of that last one, but it's not like I wasted my whole day.

Besides, I had something else to feel guilty over.

I'd opened all of the boxes.

Not at first, no. I'd waited a few days before I cracked, the packages sitting on my kitchen counter. They were like nagging, loose threads on a fancy shirt, just waiting to be yanked.

I looked for ways to justify it, digging deep to wave away the wrongness of opening someone else's mail. I'd asked myself, What can I do? Hadn't I tried to make it right?

Gradually, I started looking forward to them. It wasn't even the gifts that excited me, it was those damn letters! They came in every box, always meticulously written and soaking with erotic tension.

He'd say things like, “I'm imagining how you'll gasp when I smell this perfume on your throat,” or, “This color will match perfectly with your lips, once they're red and swollen with desire.”

S knew how to keep my attention.

Progressively, the gifts began to get more personal. The earrings were almost innocent when held up against the Jimmy Choo pumps (how did Pet and I wear the same size?) or the Sferra Milos sheets.

Then the lingerie appeared.

As I sat on my couch and lifted the creamy, decadently over-priced bustier, panties, and garter belt—something I'd never even seen in person before—into the air, I was stunned. The matching lace-topped hosiery completed the set.

Quickly, I peeled open the letter he'd sent to me—I mean, to Pet.

I had to remind myself of that.

Dear Pet,

I saw this outfit on a mannequin. I knew it would look far better on you.

I'm tempted to give you my phone number, just so you can send me a photo of you wearing the lingerie.

Another time, maybe.

For now, wear it for me, and when you do, I want you to imagine me standing there, watching. Close your eyes and think how wonderful my fingers will feel as they graze across the smooth silk.

How sensitive it will make your skin.

How hard your nipples will become.

It'd take so very little to tempt you further. You'd moan and squirm while I brought you so close to coming. In time, you'd be begging me to get you off.