Page 11 of Seductive Scoundrel

“Dean who?” she demands, rolling her baby blues at me with her bright pink mouth pulled into a half-sneer.

My face heats up because I don’t know Mr. Big Dick’s last name – slight oversight.

But I do know his office number. “Dean in office 921 on the top floor.”

Her perfect eyebrows raise. “You mean Mr. McCormick?”

I have no idea if that’s right, but nod anyway. Doubt eats at me and I’m about a second away from taking my gift and getting the hell out of here.

She grabs the box out of my hands, turning it over and inspecting it like I’m dropping off a bomb. “This doesn’t say who it’s from.”

True, the tag on the outside merely says, “Dean” and his address.

“He’ll know,” I reply, trying to radiate confidence when I’m slowly unraveling. I look into her overly made-up eyes. “Mr. McCormick personally requested this package and will be very upset if it’s not delivered ASAP. Are you capable of ensuring he gets it?”

I’m blowing smoke up her ass, but don’t give a damn.

Her demeanor shifts and I intuitively know Mr. Big Dick will be holding this box within minutes.

“No problem. Thank you.” She picks up the phone, dismissing me.

Feelings of uncertainty and excitement mix as I make my way home. My apartment is three subway lines away from downtown Manhattan, so it made more sense to drop his present off after work rather than before. I’m not a morning person and the commute is already killing me. I miss driving.

When I was offered the job in NYC, I thought I’d hit gold. Better pay and benefits than my last employer – plus no Kyle or Veronica. I accepted on the spot.

And then I started to look for a place to live.

Apparently, apartments here are slightly more expensive than in Kansas. The rent I pay on my minuscule bachelor pad would get me a three-bedroom house with an attached garage back home. But I’d already quit my job and was committed to getting the hell out of dodge.

Note to self: next time look before you leap.

I trudge into my apartment, toss my bag on the floor, and then my body on the futon. It’s been a long freakin’ week and it’s only Tuesday.

I was expecting Mr. Big Dick to text me by now, but nothing. So he either hasn’t gotten my gift or is finished playing our little game.

Part of me hopes it’s the latter so I don’t have to sit through dinner with him. If he actually intends on taking me, I’d be a fool not to go. One of the best restaurants in Manhattan and a night that involves talking to a person rather than a plant – although Harry is an excellent listener – sounds beyond good right now.

I just begin to drift off when my phone dings. Again and again and again. Wondering if it’s my sister or Mr. Big Dick, I dump the contents of my purse onto the floor and rummage through the carnage.

Jane: Need the SI report for Jamieson stat.

I glance at the time. It’s 7:30 PM. WTF?

Mia: It’s not due until Friday.

Jane: Change of plans. Need it now.

Mia: It’s going to take at least three hours

to compile all the information.

Jane: Then I’ll expect it by 10:30.

“Fuck me!” I yell to no one. I’m already exhausted. Dropping off the gift for Mr. Big Dick added another forty-five minutes onto my day, and apparently was a waste of time and money. Velvet-covered handcuffs aren’t exactly cheap.

Obviously, he’s not into kink. Not that I indulge in it a lot, but the message behind my gifts matched the lingerie he sent.

Every guy I’ve ever dated would have texted within seconds of receiving it, butwhatever.

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