Page 9 of The Unplanned Wedding

The intercom buzzes. "Hold on, Z." I place the phone down, head to the intercom and push the button.

"Delivery for Kelly Assistant?"

"Uh, there’s no one here by that name." I’m about to hang up, then pause. "Did you say Kelly Assistant?"

"Yes ma’am," the delivery man says. "And this is the right address."

Oh, he didn’t do that. A delivery addressed to Kelly Assistant? No way, am I going to accept it."Take it back," I snap.

There’s silence, then the delivery person clears his throat. "You mean, I should take back all the boxes?”

I frown. “How many boxes do you have?”

"Uh, there are three boxes to be delivered to you, ma’am."

I sigh.And now I’ve been ma’amed. Why did he send these boxes? What could be in them?I could turn them away and never know what’s in them, but let’s face it, I’m curious. And if I don’t accept them, he’ll probably be pissed at me, enough for me to lose my job. And if I do accept them, I can find out what’s in them. I can always return them later if I don’t like them. Right?

"Ma’am?" The man clears his throat. "Are you accepting the delivery?"

"Yes, fine, come on up." Lifting my finger from the button, I open the door to the apartment and hear the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. A man in a delivery uniform, which is not like that of any delivery service I recognize, appears. He’s dressed in dark green with a cap, and somehow, I know it’s the kind of courier company only the extraordinarily rich use. He’s carrying a large flat garment box, bearing the logo of a well-known fashion brand. I step aside and indicate for him to follow me, then gesture to him to set the boxes on the coffee table.

He’s followed by a second delivery guy dressed in a similar uniform and carrying two smaller boxes, one of which looks like a hat box. They place the boxes on the breakfast counter. The first guy has me sign his device, then both half-bow, turn and leave.

"Who is it? What’s happening? Did you get a delivery?" Zoey’s voice squawks from my phone. I head over to pick it up.

"It was a delivery."

"Who’s it from?"

"Umm…it’s from my boss."

"Are you going to open them?" She’s almost bouncing with excitement.

I glance at the boxes with doubt. I shouldn’t have accepted them. Damn it. Whatever it is, it’s going to complicate this situation further. Not that there is a situation. He’s my very rude boss. And I need this job. I blow out a breath. "Hold on." I prop the phone on the little counter that separates my living space from the tiny kitchenette, then reach for the first box. On the largest box is a note which says:

Wear this to the royal reception.

It’s inhishandwriting. I recognize it, even without a signature. It’s as ifhe heard me talking about what I’d wear to the reception and sent me a dress as an answer. I need to stop with the fanciful thinking. It’s a coincidence that it arrived as I was discussing my wardrobe issues, is all.

I tear open the seal—this one’s an Alexander McQueen.Whoa!And it’s genuine. It’s definitely not fake. And it must cost ... I have no idea how much, but I bet it’s more than the year’s rent I pay on this place.

My fingers tremble as I push aside the soft tissue paper and hold up a dress. Light catches the green sheath with lace detail that runs down the front. And sleeves that are made from material so sheer, I know the skin of my arms will show through it, and it will look both exquisite and tantalizing.

"He sent you a dress?" Zoe asks. "That's gorgeous!"

I nod as I place it carefully back in the box, then open the next box.No, no, no.It’s not any box it’s a shoe box with a Louboutin label.

"Oh my god!" I gasp.

"What is it?" Zoey cries. "I can't see! Is everything okay?"

No. Yes. I don’t know.

Without replying, I slide out a pair of three-inch heels with the characteristic lacquered red soles. I place them on the floor, then step out of my slippers and into the shoes. I fasten the ankle straps. I take a few steps, and it’s like I’m walking on air. Again. The feeling is not dissimilar to the sensation I felt when walking on the thick carpet in his office. Somehow, he’s right here with me with the ghost-touch of his fingers curling around my ankles.

"June, c'mon. You're killing me here!"

I cross back over to Zoe, who's straining to see what I have, grab the phone, and walk over to sink onto my settee with the faux leather covering. The shoes I’m wearing must easily cost as much as what I pay to cover a term of my sister’s university fees.

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