Page 16 of Handy

“Thanks, but I should… get home.”

“Oh.” Don’t pout. Don’t pout. Don’t pout. “Of course. But you’ll be back tomorrow?” That doesn’t sound desperate, does it?

“Yeah.” He sits up and I force myself not to move, not to throw myself at him and offer him another long massage. I watch as he grabs a shirt out of my hamper to wipe my cum off his belly then gets dressed in silence.

He slips on his boots then lingers by my bedroom door, like maybe part of him doesn’t want to rush right out either?It’s okay, big bear, I can play the long game. I have a surprising amount of patience.

“Okay. Well, thanks again and good night.” I smile so he knows there’s no hard feelings, and he nods.

“Night.”

Chapter 7

GRIFF

I jolt awake fromthe deepest sleep I’ve had in ages. The kind of sleep where you’re so disoriented you don’t even recognize your own bedroom for a few seconds and your whole body feels too heavy to move right away. I grumble and fling my arm across my face to block out the sun streaming in from between the slats in my blinds. I can’t remember the last time I slept all the way through the night without waking up to toss and turn and grapple with my thoughts for long hours. Maybe the extra work hours wore me out enough to sleep soundly…

Or maybe it was thanks to the relaxing massage and bone-shattering orgasm.

My already stiff cock throbs at the memory of Ledger’s warm skin against mine, his hot breath on my lips, and all those achingly sweet words he purred the whole time he was touching me. I groan and slip my hand under the covers to grip my erection.

A rapid, impatient sounding knock has me immediately pulling my hand back and growling in frustration. Who the fuckis pounding at my door on a Sunday morning? Maybe if I ignore it, whoever it is will go away. The knock comes again, and I grit my teeth, flinging my blankets aside and clambering out of bed in a huff.

I snag a pair of sweatpants off the floor next to my bed and shove them on one leg at a time, grumbling under my breath as I do it. I stomp through the house towards the front door and fling it open with another growl right on the tip of my tongue.

“What?” I bark before I even pause to take in who’s been knocking.

The kid who makes deliveries in this neighborhood flinches back, his hands tightening on the package he’s holding. Ugh, fuck. Clearly, I need to rein it in. I try to pull back on my irritation, settling for a resting scowl. I eye the delivery guy for a few seconds, thinking about Stone’s theory that he could have been the one to send me the flowers. There’s no way though. He can’t be a day over eighteen, and if there weren’t an age limit on this job, I would guess younger. He’s gangly and terrified, with acne scars and a bad haircut.

“This delivery requires a signature,” he says, averting his eyes and thrusting the digital signature pad towards me.

“I didn’t order anything.” I eye the package suspiciously. It’s not flowers this time. As irritated as I am at being interrupted and left with blue balls, curiosity flutters in my chest. It couldn’t be from the same person, could it?

“If you don’t want it, I can mark it as return to sender.”

I perk up a little and snatch the signature pad from him.

“You have the sender listed?” I grunt, nodding towards the package.

He glances down at it and squints at the label.

“Uh, yeah, it says here ‘Fruitful Arrangements, Canton, Ohio.’”

I grumble again. That’s not fucking helpful. I toss the pad back at him and grab the package with a muttered “thanks” before slamming the door. I know he’s just doing his job, but I’m too annoyed to care right this second. I’m sure I’ll feel a little bad about acting like such a dick after I’ve had my coffee. I tear into the package and find a plastic container filled with chocolate covered fruit, along with a note.

Roses are red

Violets are blue

Please eat me slowly

And I’ll lick you too

—Your Secret Admirer

I furrow my brow and chuckle, flipping the card over to check for a name, any name. But just like with the flowers, there’s nothing but the short, funny message. I tighten my grip on the container and a strange feeling pulses in my chest—happy and confused at the same time. Who in their right mind could possibly likemeenough to do all this? It doesn’t make any sense.

I shuffle through the house into the kitchen, setting the fruit down on the counter and going through the motions of making coffee on autopilot. There’s still the possibility that the whole thing is a mistake, someone has the wrong address, and whoever these presents are intended for isn’t getting them. I haven’t completely ruled out the idea that it’s a prank, but the way all the guys got so excited to play detective makes me think it’s unlikely. Unless it’s just one of them and the rest are in the dark, but that doesn’t seem likely either. All the suggestions they came up with were laughable. There’s no barista, no cougar, no one who could possibly be harboring a secret crush on me.

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