I freeze.
He's looking at one of the bags with a slight frown. Then he reaches in and pulls out a paperback book.
My stomach drops.
No.
No, no, no.
It's my book. The one I finished last night. The one with theveryexplicit cover of a shirtless man and a woman in a very compromising position. The one with "Daddy's Little Girl" written in big, bold letters across the top.
Heat floods my face. "Oh my God. That's mine. I'm so sorry. I must have knocked it in when I was getting the bags out."
He looks at the cover. Then at me.
I want to die.
"It's research," I blurt out, which is possibly the worst thing I could say because now it sounds like I'm lying. "I mean, not research. I just... I read. A lot. And sometimes I read romance novels, and this one was recommended by my book club, and I swear I'm not some weirdo who brings inappropriate books to deliveries?—"
"It's fine." His mouth quirks. Just barely. But I see it. "Everyone reads."
"Right. Yes. Of course." I snatch the book from his hand and shove it into my purse. "I'll just... I'll go now."
But he doesn't move out of my way.
Instead, he tilts his head slightly, studying me with an intensity that makes my pulse kick up. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure?"
"What are you doing for the rest of the week?"
I blink. "I'm sorry, what?"
"I have a problem," he says, and there's something almost rueful in his expression. "A big one. And I think you might be able to help me."
This is it. This is where he asks me to do something weird. I've heard horror stories from other shoppers. The creepy requests. The boundary violations. Does he think I’m a prostitute? Just because I deliver groceries does not mean I’ll deliver anything else. I am definitely not taking off my shoes… because feet are gross and he’s not about to lick my toes.
But he doesn't look creepy. He looks... stressed. Tired. Kind of desperate, actually. And I can’t believe what I say next.
"I'm listening," I say carefully.
"My mother and sister share a birthday, they have my sister’s entire life." He blinks slowly. "I mean, obviously. But, this Saturday, my mother is turning seventy, and my baby sister is turning forty. They're both incredibly important to me, and I want to do something special for them. Something unforgettable."
"That's sweet." It really is sweet. But, why is he telling me this? Does he need a date to the party? Does he think I’m an escort? I mean… I wouldn’t mind attending a party with someone as hot as this man, but there would have to be rules. Boundaries. And, he’s at least fifteen years older than me… Who am I kidding? I glance down at my oversized crew neck and leggings and realize he is most definitely not asking me to go as his date.
"The problem is, I'm terrible at shopping. I'm a doctor. I spend my days in an OR, not department stores. And every time I try to buy a gift, it's either too impersonal or completely wrong." He runs a hand through his hair, and I catch a glimpse of genuine frustration. "I need help. Professional help."
"Like... a personal shopper?"
"Exactly like a personal shopper."
I stare at him. "You want to hire me? To shop for your family?"
"Yes."
"I shop and deliver groceries for a living. I'm not a professional shopper."
"But you could be." He pulls out his phone, taps something, then shows me the screen.
