Page 17 of Coming for Her Grumpy Boss

ESME: Evil genius. Which is why I just ordered you an emergency weekend kit. Check your doorstep tomorrow.

ME: If it’s lingerie, I’m sending it back.

ESME: Sure. Right after you model it for Ford “I Don’t Smile” McCall.

ME: I’m blocking you.

ESME: You love me. Almost as much as you love him.

ME:

ESME: Cheers to fake girlfriends and real orgasms.

I toss my phone onto the bedspread and groan into my pillow. Esme’s wrong, of course. Completely, totally wrong.

Probably.

The next morning, my doorbell rings at an hour that should be illegal. I shuffle out in pajamas and open the door to find a plain brown box on my doormat. There’s a neon pink Post-it stuck to the top.

You’re welcome. –E

Dread coils in my stomach. I drag the box inside like it might explode and set it on the kitchen table. With the caution of someone handling live dynamite, I peel back the tape.

Inside, nestled in tissue paper:

A bright red slip of lingerie that looks like it was stitched together by Satan himself.

A travel-sized bottle of “champagne-scented” massage oil.

A box of condoms. Extra-large. I choke.

An entire bag of mini candy canes.

A handwritten list titled Esme’s Holiday Survival Guide that reads:

1. Smile. It’ll drive him crazy.

2. Accidentally brush against him. Often.

3. Do not—under any circumstances—let Natasha win.

4. The bra is non-negotiable.

At the bottom of the box, taped to a candy cane, is another Post-it:

PS: Don’t forget you actually like him. Even if he glares. Especially if he glares.

I drop back into my chair, lingerie dangling from my hand like a scarlet flag of doom.

“Oh God,” I whisper to myself. “I’m going to die in that lake house. And I’ll be buried in lace handcrafted by Satan himself.”