Page 1 of The Package
1
Julia
“Argh!” The groan rumbles through the elevator seconds after the car jolts to a stop midway between floors three and four. The man who just breezed in like he owns the damn place slams his palm against the brushed metal walls, then clenches his fist on the package in his one hand while he jams repeatedly at the door open button and then the fifteen button with the other.
Nothing happens.
“Don’t bother telling management. It’s not like they’re going to do anything about it,” I mutter from my place in the opposing corner, packages in my hands stacked from my waist up to beneath my chin in the most precarious of balancing acts, and the tracks on my cheeks from the tears I was shedding moments ago hidden by their bulk.
He turns to eye me for the first time, almost as if he didn’t even know I was there—not that I‘m surprised. I’ve seen him before. Him and his perfectly styled dark hair and his rough-cut jaw as he breezes in and out of this place day after day like he owns it. I have no clue what floor he works on in this expanse of a building, but I know it’s not mine and I know it’s the upper half. The executives’ half. The half where mail girls are nonexistent—good for nothing other than to make crude comments at or completely ignore.
Never anything in the middle of the two.
Ice blue eyes pin mine behind his black framed glasses and a lone eyebrow quirks up. “Come again?” His voice rumbles through the small car, annoyance painting its edges.
And of course his voice is just as sexy as he is. Just my luck.
“The elevators are just the tip of the iceberg in this place, if you ask me. Ever since ole McMasters Senior kicked the bucket, this place hasn’t been the same. The big wigs on the top floor walk around in their thousand dollar suits and wear watches that cost more than cars. They rule the world from their three hundred and sixty degree view offices while those of us down in the mailroom have to try and sort letters while wearing gloves because the heat is broken and they don’t care to fix it. Then there are the bathrooms that rarely work, the budget cuts that have left the cafeteria food not fit for a dog, and the Christmas bonuses? Ha!” I laugh out as the tears threaten again. “Bonuses are only given to the men of this company who pretend to make decisions while everyone around them busts their asses doing the real work.”
“Subtlety is your strong suit, I take it?” he asks, turning now to face me. There’s something in his voice, a faint lilt in a word I don’t quite catch, but the thought fades from my mind when his eyes hold mine. “And what exactly do you mean about Christmas bonuses?”
Unnerved by the intensity of his stare, I glance anywhere but at him. I take in his flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. The breadth of his shoulders. The rich yet subtle scent of his cologne. What else he’s wearing I have no idea because I can’t see below my stack of packages.
When I look back up to his eyes as the silence dominates the space, I recall his finger was pushing the fifteen button on the panel.
“Never mind. You’re on one of the floors that actually gets a bonus. Forget I said that.” I blow out a breath to force my bangs off my face as my heavy coat, this tight space, and my freely running mouth have me getting hot all of a sudden.
Or maybe it’s him—hot in all the right ways and I hate that the thought even crosses my mind.
“No.” He takes a step closer and my packages wobble in my arms. But he doesn’t seem to notice because he’s too focused on me. “What did you mean by that?”
The rush of today’s events fills my head and hurts my heart so that all the fucks I’d like to give seem to dissipate in that single word, no.
I look at him. He’s part of the problem. The man who walks into an elevator without a glance backward to the quirky girl from the mailroom whose arms are full. Always too busy trying to save what he seems is the world, one pair of panties at a time.
Jerk.
Take a step back, Jules. Keep your mouth shut. Burning a bridge is never a good thing. Even if some prick like him is the reason you were just fired.
If you finish your deliveries and don’t make a scene, Jules, you’ll get paid through the end of the week.
