Page 4 of Special Delivery

“Got some mail, did you?” Linda asks with a smile, glancing behind me to see what I’ve got.

Fuck, I’m lucky she didn’t come out earlier. As usual, she wears her Sunday best, even though I’ve never seen her leave for church and it’s not Sunday today.

“Yup. Just some things that my sister ordered for me.” My lips turn up shakily.

“I was surprised to see you open the door, given the time you arrived home last night.”

I suppress an eye roll. Nothing gets past her. Instead, I chuckle awkwardly, deciding to bluff. “Actually, I’ve been up for hours.” She narrows her eyes, but luckily, she doesn’t probe further. I use the moment of silence to say, “I need to get going. Have a nice day.”

“You too, honey,” she responds, finally moving from my driveway.

Letting out a sigh of relief, I enter my house, locking the door twice. A glance at my sex toy-filled floor is enough to send bouts of rage through my bloodstream. My temples still pulse as I march into my room with the boxes in hand. Pillows scatter to the floor while I try to locate my phone. I find it under the duvet and instantly dial my sister.

“Morning, Paige. How are you doing, sweetie?” Emma’s voice sing-songs through my phone, but I’m having none of it.

“Don’t you sweetie me. Where’s Jordan?”

“Jordan, Paige wants to speak to you.”

“I want to speak with you both,” I grit out, landing my ass on my now messy bed.

“What’s up?”

“What’s up?” I shriek. “What’s up? I’ll tell you what’s up.” I lift the closest package, waving it in the air as if they can see it, which reminds me that they, in fact, cannot. I turn the call to video and show them the box, my eyes psychotic in the tiny frame showing my camera.

“Cool, they’re already here.” Jordan shrugs, sending steam out of my ears.

“Cool? Cool?” Great, now I’m just repeating myself. “You want to know what isn’t cool? The fact that they’ve arrived loud and proud, and that the cute delivery guy had to hand me four dildos.” I show four fingers to emphasize my point.

“Only one of them is a dildo…” Jordan says, at the same time that Emma squeals, “A cute delivery guy?”

“Irrelevant. Both of you,” I scold them. “You are missing the tiny fact that I was and still am completely mortified. Haven’t you ticked discrete delivery?”

Emma scrunches her face. “No, we ticked same-day delivery.”

“URGH,” I groan.

“I’m failing to see the problem,” Jordan adds. “It’s just a vibrator. Everyone has them.”

“Not everyone, Jordan. I don’t have them. At least I didn’t have them. And I definitely didn’t want my delivery guy thinking I’m a sex-crazed freak.” It’s what my ex called me the one time I jokingly suggested trying one out. We were only dating for a few months then, but I never suggested it again.

“This is what we were talking about before. Relax, Paige. Live a little. Don’t let everything and everyone else bother you and just enjoy yourself. Trust me, it will be worth it. Besides, you need to save your column, and this is the way to do it.”

Another groan escapes my mouth, as if I’m a rabid dog, but she has a point there. For a person who shares her life in a magazine read by thousands of people every month, I’m freakishly private. Sharing the words on the page is one thing, but my real life is a whole different ballgame.

My gaze lands on the dreaded boxes one more time. Doing pieces about sex toys might not be the reason I became a writer, but my job is the only thing I have going for me right now. If that’s what it takes to save it, then that’s what I’ll do.

CHAPTER THREE

Ryan

I slide into the chipped leather booth where Wes and Parker are already sitting. Our regular place is half empty, but it’s still early, so that doesn’t surprise me. Tim, the bearded bartender, cleans the bar with a rag that has seen better days. The Rusty Anchor lives up to its name, with a massive anchor mounted on the wall above the bar. The man below it, with his olive-green beanie and long gray beard, is as much of a staple of the place as its namesake.

“Evening, gentlemen,” I tell my friends before motioning to Tim to bring me the usual.

“Who are you talking to?” Parker glances from left to right. “I don’t see any gentlemen here.”

The smirk hidden beneath his firefighter mustache makes me roll my eyes. His hair is mussed from the cap he wears most of the day, and his shirt is the usual size too small to showcase his muscles.