I probably should have guessed it wouldn’t be some elaborate scheme to humiliate me—Jazz wouldn’t set something like that up unless he could be there to witness it.
I grab my phone and take it off speaker. “How far away is it?”
“The end of your street,” he informs me. “Oh, and you should know—I might haveaccidentallyforgotten to request discreet packaging.”
“WHAT?”I race to the door of my suite and fling it open, finding myself on the small landing that has the staircase on one side and the elevator on the other. “What the hell did you send me?” I demand as I press the button for the elevator over and over.
“That would spoil the surprise, wouldn’t it?” he taunts.
“Jazz!”
“Okay, why don’t I give you some clues? These things arethick, andgirthy.And really, reallytasty,”he taunts, prompting my face to flame with mortification as I continue madly trying to call up the elevator. “All I want to do when I get my hands on one is wrap my lips around it and suck until I get that cream.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,are you kidding me?” I growl, giving up on the elevator racing down the stairs. “Why would you get me…something like that?”
“Because I think you’ll enjoy it,” Jazz says. “And, yes, I know it’s a little naughty but we both know how much you enjoy beingbad.”
“Fuck…”I mutter. “Maybe, but I’d prefer it if the entire house didn’t know.” I swing around another landing—there are too many fucking floors in this house. “Did you seriously have to send it to the house?”
“Well, I didn’t think it would be appropriate to give a gift like this at work,” he drawls. “But if you don’t want it I’m sure someone else will. Maybe your brother and his husband will enjoy it together?”
“What?”
“Ooh was that the doorbell?”
“Fuck.”The gleeful anticipation in his voice has me practically vaulting down the last set of stairs, determined to get to the front door before anyone else.
Unfortunately, I’m a fraction too late, arriving at the landing in the front foyer just as Owen is swinging the door open to accept the delivery.
“It’s a joke,” I gasp out, taking a few staggered steps toward the door.
“Oh, no. Did someone else get there first?” Jazz asks. “That has to be awkward.”
“Shut up,” I hiss.
Owen dismisses the delivery person and turns back toward me, a large white paper bag clutched in one hand.
I breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of the nondescript bag, but it vanishes almost instantly as Owen closes the door and opens the bag, peeking inside.
What the hell?Why is he peeking?And why is hesmiling?
“It’s a joke!” I proclaim once again, more emphatically this time. “Ignore it—it’s just a really stupid, not funny joke.”
Owen glances up, his brow furrowing in obvious bewilderment. “You bought pastries as a joke?”
The hand holding my phone drops to my side and I stare at Owen for a long moment, blinking slowly as I try to make sense of what he just said. “Huh?”
Frowning, Owen reaches into the bag and produces a blue and white box I recognize as coming from a bakery in the West Village Blake really loves. “I figured you got them as a treat for the twins. Why? Is there something wrong with them?”
Feeling completely dazed, I move closer to examine the box. Through the plastic window in the top, I see six large chocolate eclairs.
Fucking hell.Thick. Girthy. Full of cream. Naughty.
I bring the phone back to my ear. “You’re such a fucking asshole.”
On the other end of the line, Jazz makes no attempt to hold back his laughter. “That was fun.”
“I hate you,” I grumble.
