I shoot her a warning look. “No, Mom. They’re going back to the store.”
“What?” Paige splutters. “Why? This is a gold mine! This could buy us a vacation. I could buy an airline ticket for Killian to visit.”
The hope and excitement in my daughter’s eyes makes me feel like a prize asshole, but I can’t accept these shirts. They were sent out of pity. Clearly, the guy took one look at the label and figured I have no money. He felt sorry for me.
Well, Mr. Rich, Annoyingly Handsome Stranger, I amnobody’scharity case. You can take your beautiful blouses and give them to your no-doubt many girlfriends.
I gather up the shirts and place them back inside the boxes. “I’m sorry Paige, I can’t accept them.”
She grips her cheeks, dramatically. “Why not? Who are they from?”
“I’ll bet I know,” Mom snickers on the sofa.
“It doesn’t matter who sent them.” I take my phone out of my purse. “We can’t accept something so ridiculously extravagant. You could buy a boat with all this.”
Mom wrinkles her nose in my periphery. “A small one.”
I shoot her a glare before dialing the number I’ve just pulled up on my phone’s browser.
Mom and Paige stare at me as I make the call.
A pleasant enough woman answers the phone.
“Yes, hi. My name’s Erin Applebaum. I have just received a package of shirts and I would like to send them back please.”
“Mom, please! They’re a gift. Just sell them. Take the money.”
I frown at Paige to be quiet, then walk out of the room into the kitchen. I give the woman my address for collection.
“Can I ask why you are returning them, ma’am?”
I loop an arm around my waist. “I didn’t order any shirts and I don’tneedany shirts. Can you tell me who sent them please?”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, ma’am. That information is confidential. Buyers usually send a note with the package.”
“There’s nothing.”
“Well, ma’am, whoever it was paid a premium to have them delivered by bike today.”
My chest swarms with conflicted feelings. On the one hand, this is an incredibly generous and thoughtful thing to do, but it makes me feel like something to be pitied, and I refuse to allow anyone to make me feel that way.
Not when I have myself to do it.
But I know exactly who sent these. A six foot something, marble-chested, salt and pepper speckled Adonis with more money than sense.
“Are you there, ma’am?”
The woman’s voice makes me startle. “Um, yes, sorry.”
“Do you still wish to return the items?”
I hug my arm a little tighter. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Then I will arrange collection first thing in the morning. Thank you for your time, ma’am.”
I stare at the phone long after I’ve hung up.
Will he be upset that I sent them back? Will I ruin him for any other selfless deed he might want to make in future? Will it cause him to lose faith in humankind?
