CHAPTER 1
The GPS embedded into my shopping business app assures me that I've arrived, but all I see is a gate.
Not just any gate. A massive wrought-iron thing that probably costs more than my car. Beyond it, a driveway winds through perfectly manicured hedges toward a house that looks like it was ripped straight out of Architectural Digest. I wouldn’t call it a house. It’s a mansion. A large, white, foreboding mansion.
I double-check the address on my phone. Yep. This is it.
"Okay, Lily," I mutter to myself. "Just another delivery." All I have to do is get out of the car, place the items I’ve meticulously shopped for on the porch, snap a quick picture and drive away. No big deal.
Except it is a big deal because I've never delivered to a place like this before. Most of my Instacart orders go to apartment complexes where I'm dodging potholes and praying the elevator works. This? This is a whole different tax bracket.
I press the call button on the intercom.
Static crackles, then a deep voice answers. "Yes?"
"Um, hi. Instacart delivery for... Cross?"
There's a pause. Then the gate begins to swing open with a smooth, expensive hum.
I pull through slowly, my beat-up Honda Civic looking painfully out of place against all this pristine elegance. The driveway curves past a fountain, like an actual fountain, and I park near the front entrance, trying not to feel like I'm about to be escorted off the property by security. God knows I do not belong here. My one bedroom apartment is smaller in entirety than the huge front porch in front of me.
The front door opens before I even get the groceries out of my backseat. I hate this part. Most of my customers know to wait until I’ve unloaded everything and taken a photo before coming out. Luckily, I am normally in my vehicle driving away before they open the door. I pick up one of the bags and head to the porch.
And oh.
Oh.
The man standing in the doorway is not what I expected.
I don't know what I expected, honestly. Maybe someone older, frazzled, wearing a bathrobe at three in the afternoon. A Hugh Hefner with a load of Playboy Bunnies in the backyard lounging by the pool or perhaps a maid wearing a black and white uniform.
What I was not expecting is this guy. He's tallish, maybe six-two, with dark hair that's going silver at the temples in a way that shouldn't be as attractive as it is. He looks like a perfect mix between Mc. Steamy and Mc. Dreamy. He's wearing charcoal slacks and a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms.
His forearms.
I'm staring at his forearms.
Get it together, Preston. Drop the groceries and get out of here.
"Hi," I manage, showing him the bag in my arms. "I've got your order."
He steps out onto the porch, and I catch the faintest hint of cologne. Something clean and woodsy and entirely too distracting. Masculine and delicious. The kind that makes me want to lean closer and take a whiff. But, of course, I don’t.
"Thank you," he says, and his voice is even better in person. He has a calm, controlled tone, the kind of voice that makes you want to listen. "I'll help you bring them in."
"Oh, you don't have to—" I start. "Actually, I need to leave them right here to?—"
But he's already moving past me toward my car, and I'm left standing there like an idiot with a bag of organic kale and artisan bread.
I follow him back to the Honda, hyper-aware of how close we are as we both reach into the backseat. I should explain to him that I need to take a photo, evidence of delivery. Somehow, I know it won’t matter. Oh well, I don’t think he’s the type to claim his groceries were stolen or worse, never delivered. I hesitantly follow him inside, at his command, to the enormous kitchen where I sit the bags on the counter. One more trip and we should be done.
I move to grab another bag as he bends in from the other side of the car for the last two, and I’m distracted again by his scent. He smells good. Really good. And his hands are... I don't know why I'm noticing his hands, but they're broad and capable-looking, and I'm having thoughts I definitely should not be having about a customer. It’s all the Daddy Dom Little Girl romance novels I read. And, I just finished another one last night. In fact, I stayed up entirely too late reading. That has tobe the reason I’m noticing entirely too many details about this client.
"I think that's everything," he says, straightening up with the last two bags.
"Great. Perfect." I step back, trying to create some professional distance. "If you could just confirm the delivery in the app, I'll get out of your?—"
"Wait."
