Page 7 of The Package
“Yes, you do. I bet you strut right up to the top floor.” She raises her eyebrows and sighs before looking back down to the package in her hand.
“No, seriously.” I grasp for an excuse, anything to have her look at me again. “Just dropping off a marketing plan.”
“For what?”
“The new fall line.” She looks at me, those eyes electrifying, and I can see the moment she buys it. “What did you mean about the shit they sell?”
Another snort. “See? I told you, you were the problem.”
This woman. She’s confusing as fuck and I need a damn roadmap to follow her but hell if I don’t want to take the ride while we’re stuck here in the elevator.
“Come again?” I ask.
“Yes. You.” She shakes her head. “You may not work here but you push the shit they—Garters & Lace—sells. What about selling something to women that makes them feel good? These”—she shoves the handful of panties toward me—“only fit size zeros. They’re sexy and pretty and dainty. Do you actually
think they’d fit a body like mine?”
I take one from her and hold the red lace thong from the tip of my forefinger. Our eyes meet over the top of it and I can’t help the smirk that plays with the corner of my lips. “We’ve got time. You could always try it on?” I lift an eyebrow and get a scowl from her.
Brilliant, Archer. You worry about sexual harassment of employees and then you just up and say that.
Ah, but she’s not an employee anymore.
At least there’s that.
That and the image of her in these sexy panties.
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. These fit models and teenagers. The ones you sell to everyday women—the norm of America that’s a size fourteen to sixteen—are ridiculous. Pussy cats on underwear. Donuts on panties. Drab colors. Ill fitting.” She sucks in a deep breath. “And we know what day of the week it is. We don’t need to wear them on our panties as a reminder. I bet you the size zeros don’t have the days of the week on them.”
My laugh reverberates around the tight space. Days of the week? Donuts on fabric. “So because I’m going to the fifteenth floor, I’m the reason your panties have pussy cats on them?
“Of course, you would focus on that.” She huffs and puts her hands on her hips from where she kneels on the floor.
“Well”—I move my head from side to side as my eyes trace her hands on the swell of her hips—"that word does catch a man’s attention.”
“So do the words equal opportunity lingerie,” she asserts. “Sexy comes in all sizes.” She rises to her feet and I hold my hand out to help her, surprised when she takes it. “The jerk who runs this place seems to forget that. Curves are sexy.”
“They sure are,” I murmur, her hand still in mine as my eyes run over hers before meeting her eyes. Her lips part, her eyes flutter . . . and fuck if I don’t want to kiss her right now. Step back. Step the hell back. “I’ll make sure to relay your thoughts in my marketing meetings from here on out.”
I half expect her to snort at the comment, but she doesn’t. Instead, our eyes hold as the tension thickens around us. As my mind already has us stripped bare and lying atop these packages.
“Jules?” I ask the question but it’s for so many things and I’m not sure which one to pick.
Have lunch with me.
Come work for me.
Spend the night with me.
You’re simply amazing.
3
Jules
The elevator jolts and our hands pull away and before I can think—before I even realize I just want him, the executive from the upper floors, to kiss me—the doors ding open.
I gulp in the cool air of the lobby as I turn my back to him momentarily and brace my hands on the railing to catch my breath. To find some sense of sanity that I seem to have lost from the lack of oxygen in the elevator car.
