“Oh,” I say, having not considered that. But while the advice is sound, it raises an obvious problem. “But I know virtually nothing about her personal preferences. Her shopping history isn’t exactly public information.”
“Then learn,” Celeste says simply as she reaches for her drink. “To start off, just get something basic but thoughtful. Then once she delivers it, strike up a conversation and actually get to know her.”
“You’re right,” I say, the gears in my head already turning.
With a sigh, Celeste gets up. “All right. Back to business. What am I shipping out today?”
Shortly after, Celeste is leaving with this week’s completed textile orders: tapestries, silk scarves, and luxury bedding bound for clients who pay a premium for my work.
Alone once again, I settle at my laptop with a fresh cup of coffee and a growing sense of determination.
I must order a gift for June. Something worthy of her kindness and acceptance of me.
The cursor blinks expectantly on the search page.
I can only hope that I’ll find something that pleases her even a fraction as much as she has already pleased me.
Chapter 5
The Itsy Bitsy Distraction
June
The silk underwear is drivingme absolutely insane.
I’m standing in the warehouse behind our house at 6 AM, mechanically loading packages into my truck while trying to pretend I can’t feel the whisper-soft fabric against my skin.
Every step is a reminder of last night, of strong hands and cunning mandibles and the way Riven’s voice dropped to that rumbling purr when he called me his “intended.”
His intended.
I fumble a package and nearly drop it on the concrete floor.
God, I need to get it together.
But every time I move, the silk shifts against me like a caress, and I’m right back to being trapped in that web, completely at his mercy and loving every second of it.
The memory makes my cheeks burn and my pulse spike in ways that are absolutely not appropriate for professional package handling.
I grab the manifest from my clipboard with more force than necessary. Focus on the routes. Focus on efficiency. Focus on literally anything besides the fact that you let a twelve-foot spider tie you up and—
“Morning, Junebug.”
Dad’s voice from the office doorway makes me jump like I’ve been caught stealing. I spin around, clutching the clipboard to my chest like armor, certain that somehow he’ll take one look at me and know exactly what happened on that mountain.
But Frank Hartwell looks like hell, and he’s too absorbed in his own pain to notice anything unusual about his daughter. He’s hunched slightly to favor his bad back, deep lines of discomfort etched around his eyes as he shuffles toward me with a stack of delivery manifests.
The sight of him struggling makes my chest tight with guilt. He should be taking it easy, not worrying about route logistics at dawn.
“Hey, Dad.” I force my voice to sound normal, professional. “How’s the back this morning?”
“Same as always,” he grunts, which means it’s terrible but he’s too stubborn to admit it. He hands me the paperwork with the careful movements of someone trying not to jar anything. “Got your routes optimized for minimal backtracking. Standard runs today, nothing too challenging.”
“Oh, I should probably mention…” I clear my throat and reach into my jacket pocket, pulling out the thick roll of bills Riven pressed into my hands. “I got a pretty generous tip yesterday from that new mountain client.”
Dad’s eyes widen as I hold out the cash. “Jesus, June. What’s this?”
“Tip from yesterday’s delivery. The client… appreciated my service.” That’s one way to put it. “I thought maybe this could help with some of the bills?”
