Page 6 of The Package
Ah, there it is. Those lips of hers turn up at the corners and soften the sadness on her face.
Her cheeks flush pink as she starts to pull her jacket off like claustrophobia has just hit. And, hell yes, I should be worried about her sudden moment of panic but I’m too busy noticing the roadmap of curves she just unearthed beneath the shapeless coat.
Wow.
One word. That’s all I have time to think as I take in the swell of her tits and the curve of her hips beneath the form fitting crazy Christmas sweater that makes me want to say ho-ho-ho.
Wow.
“Only because you’re forced to.” The hostility in her voice pulls me from staring too long and before I can ask what she means, the elevator car jerks.
We both jolt in reaction as she falls forward onto a package before grabbing onto the railing to catch her fall.
“Jesus,” she blurts as panic flickers through her eyes, her knuckles white as they grip tight.
“He is the reason for the season,” I say, trying to calm her some, but get a glare instead. And I hold it, so very curious about Jules Jilliland and her Docs. “Hey, if you’ve been fired, why are you still carrying packages?”
She grits her teeth and temper fires in her eyes. If you’d asked me five minutes ago if she was sexy, I would have told you she’s more the adorable type—button nose, full lips, innocent eyes—but that spark in her eyes and the set of her chin changes my opinion. She’s definitely sexy.
Who knew you had that in you, Jules?
“Because my boss told me even though I was fired for being late, if I deliver these packages, he’ll pay me through the rest of the week.”
“Ah.” I nod and purse my lips, already making a mental note to check with Barney in the mail room to see why he fired her. Jules pulls the hem of her sweater down on her hips and, of course, it makes the V of her cleavage that much deeper.
You’re just not someone who notices a girl like me
Her words ring though my mind and pull it back to what she said before the elevator moving interrupted us. “You said I’m forced to notice you. What’s that supposed to mean?”
She holds my gaze for a second before shaking her head and averting her eyes down only to notice that when she fell forward, her knee crushed a box and the contents have spilled out on the floor.
Lacy things. Thong underwear in an assorted array of colors. Bikini briefs made of lace. Boy shorts in sexy satin. Each piece with the Garters & Lace logo stitched on them. Every one of them I immediately imagine her wearing beneath that sweater of hers.
Can you blame me?
Her laugh fills the car for the first time but it’s not exactly warm. “Exactly,” she says with a nod. “Fifteenth floor.”
“C’mon, Jules. What in the hell does that mean?”
“It means that you’re from the fifteenth floor. One of the guys with the condescending smirks and the grabby hands that happen when no one is looking. You’re the executive who pays no more attention to the girl from the mail room than he does the shit he sells. Shit that only fits the eye-candy he wears on his arm instead of fitting the everyday woman who would kill to feel sexy like that for a single moment. That’s what I mean by the fifteenth floor.” She nods resolutely like I have a fucking clue what she’s talking about when I don’t before looking back down and gathering the scattered panties.
I fight the square of my shoulders at her words. At her observations. At everything I haven’t noticed over the past eight months since my grandfather unexpectedly died because I’ve been so busy taking the crash course in learning how to run this place.
Christmas bonuses not being paid to all our employees. Sexual harassment by the executives. Christ. More things I need to look into. More ways I need to bring Garters & Lace up to speed from my grandfather’s antiquated ways.
And at the same time though . . . I remember the chill of the mail room. The miserable hours and unappreciated work. The dismissive attitude of the top floors toward those who work the bottom floors. The crappy food that was months past its expiration in the vending machines.
I might be running things now, but Gramps made me learn this place from the ground up.
“So what floor are you on, huh?” Jules asks and pulls me from my thoughts.
“I don’t work here at Garters & Lace.” The lie rolls off my tongue and I don’t regret it one bit.
“Ha. Yes, you do. I’ve seen you strutting in here before.”
“Strutting?” I laugh. “I don’t strut.”
She just twists her lips as she stares at me, her eyes telling me I do, the ghost of a smile on her lips reinforcing it.
