Page 2 of The Package
The nasally voice of my boss, Barney, and his comment runs through my mind quickly followed by the list of mounting bills I have whose balances I know by heart.
And almost like fate needs to reinforce my luck and lot in life during probably the shittiest of holiday seasons in my life, the elevator harshly jolts up. Yep. You guessed it. That precariously stacked bunch of packages tumbles out of my hands and scatters to the floor accompanied by my strangled cry as I try to steady myself.
Mr. Flannel Shirt emits a noise that’s way more sophisticated sounding than mine in reaction.
And just like in those old ’80s movies I love, nerves have us rattled so that we both bend over at the same time—a “Let me help you with that,” falling from his mouth in that deep rumble—seconds before our heads bonk against one another’s.
“Ow!” we both say in unison as we jolt back, but when I step and slip on one of the packages, I fall forward. And before I can faceplant perfectly square into what I’m looking at—the crotch of his dark denim jeans—strong hands grab my shoulders and prevent me from doing just that.
“That package isn’t part of your delivery,“ he murmurs but I can hear the amusement in his tone. “Eyes up here.”
Out of breath and more than startled by the bonk to the head and his comment, I look up to see his face mere inches away from mine. Lips. Nose. Eyes.
All of them assault my senses and has me shrugging out of his grasp just as quickly as I pretend not to notice.
“I’m fine. This is fine. We’re fine.” Each word is a stilted syllable out of my mouth as I silently chastise myself over why I’m so flustered.
“Okay.” He draws the word out and narrows his eyes at me with a part-smirk, part-she’s-crazy expression on his face. “Your antlers are crooked.”
“Antlers?” I ask.
He points to my head. “The ones on your head.”
“Oh. Oh!” I immediately reach up for my headband with antler ears and rip them off, feeling more like a kindergartner dressed for the Christmas program while he’s the one heading off to the Nutcracker.
“Why’d you take them off? They’re cute.”
“Cute?” I cough the word out and shake my head. Did he just really say I’m cute?
No. He said the antlers are cute.
Not you.
“Yeah. They look cute on you. You should keep them on.”
I stare at him blinking more than I probably should, as if I’m trying to process what he just said when I know I heard him just fine. Instead of saying anything, I lower myself as gracefully as I can to the floor so I can start cleaning up the packages.
I have to do something with my hands.
Anything.
Because I’m spending way too much time focusing on him when I don’t like guys like him—probably stable. Most likely successful. And definitely thinks he’s too good for someone like me.
“Let me help you.”
“No!” I all but shout and hold my hand up without looking at him. “I’ve got it.”
“Apparently,” he murmurs but leans forward anyway to assist me.
“Just no—I don’t—just leave me alone,” I snap at him and practically slap his hand away. “You’ve done enough today.”
But when I look up at him
and he has a smile on his lips that lights up the freaking elevator in a way an elevator shouldn’t light up, I hate him.
On the spot.
For being everything I’m not. For being everything I’ll never have. For being the have when I’m the have-not. He’s all perfect with what I can assume are his skinny models decorating his side while I’m far from it with reindeer antlers and curves and extra padding that doesn’t go away when I shimmy out of the coat I have on.
