Personal Delivery
A Billionaire Secrets Story
Ainsley Booth
www.ainsleybooth.com
Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Other Books by Ainsley Booth
She’s got a crush on the delivery guy.
He's got a billion-dollar secret.
I recognize the sound of his truck turning off in front of my building.
Not only do I recognize it, but my pulse picks up and I get all hot and bothered. Then I hear the low growl cutting out, followed by the clank of metal as he pulls up the back door to grab my package....
Grab my package?
That sounds so dirty.
Which is probably appropriate given some of the fantasies I've had about him.
My obsession with the new, mysterious delivery driver is crazy. Intense. Distracting.
The last thing I need is to be crushing on a six-foot-something distraction with a dirty grin.
But my friends have other plans.
Billionaire Secrets
Personal Delivery is the first book in a sexy new rom com series! The second book, Personal Escort, is currently available in the Love in Transit anthology (under the alternate title, St. George Station). Look for an excerpt from that at the end of this book!
Reading List
Personal Delivery - Jake & Jana
Personal Escort (aka St. George Station) - Toby & Cara
Personal Disaster - Marcus & Poppy
Personal Interest - Ben & Skye
* * *
www.ainsleybooth.com
Chapter One
Jana
Eight days after Thanksgiving
I now recognize the sound of his truck turning off in front of my building.
Not only do I recognize it, but my heartbeat picks up and I get flushed when I hear the low growl cutting out, followed by the clank of metal as he pulls up the back door to grab my package…
Grab my package?
Does that sound dirty, or is it just me?
I scramble off the couch and pace into the kitchen. This is a good place to be when he knocks—it’s a decent distance from the door, so it’ll take me enough time to get there that he won’t know I know he’s already here.
He won’t even be thinking about that, I tell myself.
It doesn’t matter.
I know that I’m thinking about it.
I’m all hot and bothered for the new delivery guy, and that’s…intense. I mean, it’ll all be completely in my head, because he’s hot and just doing his job. And I’m average and not one to behave inappropriately toward someone while they’re working.
This is not going to be like a bad porno where the lady of the house invites the pizza guy and all of a sudden he’s banging her on the counter.
But that’s how it’ll go down in my head after he leaves.
I’m totally going to use the “personal massager” that arrived yesterday—package number eleven—and do unspeakable things as I fantasize about the delivery guy who has visited my house almost a dozen times in the last two weeks.
I don’t even know his name.
He has a name tag—Dane—but last week, before Thanksgiving, I opened my big mouth and asked him if that was his real name.
He gave me a funny look and admitted it wasn’t, but he didn’t elaborate and that was already further out of my comfort zone than I ever wanted to go.
But Not Dane was on my mind when I headed to Philly for our annual Not Family Thanksgiving, and after drinking half a bottle of red wine, I told my friends all about him.
So it’s really my own fault that he’s at the front door of my building, punching in the entry code he’s now memorized.
Chapter Two
Jana
Thanksgiving, Eight Days Earlier
For the third year in a row, my besties and I have decided to skip spending a small fortune on flying home and spending an awkward few days with family members we don’t always like.
We’re going to have to do that in another month anyway.
So Nina’s driven down from New York, and I took the train up from Baltimore, and we’re camped out in Daisy’s living room with a bowl of taco dip and a football game on the television.
We’re mostly watching because of the butts, and we’re placing bets on which of them have donkey dicks.
Nina’s cheering for the Vikings. One in particular, who we agree is definitely packing something good, and she gets a goofy look on her face every time the camera pans past his crotch.
Clearly the cameraman thinks he’s hung, too.
“God,” she sighs. “I’d be his Freya in a heartbeat.”
“He’s not really a Viking,” I point out.
Nina shrugs. “And I really wouldn’t be protesting if he threw me over his shoulder and carried me off to his pile of furs to ravish me.”
“Oh my God.”
“Don’t judge me and my fantasies.”
“I’m not. I’m really not. I’ve got dirty fantasies of my own, so I can hardly be pointing fingers.”
Daisy bursts into the living room from the kitchen, where she was doing something to the turkey. “Am I missing good gossip?”
“No!” I shout as Nina nods.
“She lies. Tell us your fantasies, Jana.” Nina leans over and tops up my wine.
“They’re private,” I mumble. The last thing I need is more alcohol. “Daisy, can we help you in the kitchen?”
She shakes her head. “Turkey’s basted for the last time, and it’ll be done in thirty minutes. Simon’s mashing the potatoes. We’re good to go.”
She joins me on the couch and scoops up some taco dip.
I ignore the expectant look on her face and try to change the subject back to Nina. “How’s the new job?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Probably not going to last very long. I miss Washington.”
“You hated D.C.”
“Turns out I hate New York more. Maybe I need to find some hunky farmer to marry and make babies with. Leave the marketing world behind me.”
I bite my tongue, because Nina will do whatever she wants.
“How’s the new kitten?”
I beam. “Adorable. She’s fit in really well with Trick and Jared. Larken is taking a while to warm to her, but the cat sitter texted me a picture of them sharing the cat condo earlier.” I pull out my phone and show her that picture, and a few others.
My cats are the cutest things ever.
This new kitten is a foster kitty. She’s just with us until we find her a forever home, and that’s okay.
“And how’s work?”
Work is not going well at all, but I don’t want to talk about it. “It’s fine. Oh, I’ll be in New York to meet with the creative team in a couple of weeks. We should have dinner.”
I work for a major greeting card company. I started
as an assistant right out of college, and won an internal competition to become an illustrator two years later. Then one of my design series really took off, and thanks to having a decent agent who negotiated that extended related work also be done by me, I’ve now got a couple of product lines. Inspirational journals, coffee mugs.
Tote bags. People love my tote bags.
And I love my job. But sometimes it’s really hard to come up with thirty unique and amazing sentiments for a new card line. Especially when you’re distracted by the new delivery driver who’s been assigned to your route, and now most of your creative energy is being diverted to X-rated fantasies.
“It is a plan. And we can do some shopping, too.”
“I’ve got all my Christmas presents taken care of. You’re getting a muzzle, for example.”
She grins. “Excellent. I read a DIY sex thing on the internet, how to turn that into a ball gag.”
“Oh my God.”
“Just kidding. But I did start a FetLife account.”
My eyes bug out of my head.
“What? New York is rough for dating. I miss Washington.”
“No you don’t.”
She sighs. “No, I don’t.” She purses her lips together. “Dare I ask about your dating life?”
I wrinkle my nose. “Don’t. It’s pitiful.”
That might be because I haven’t checked any of the online profiles she set up for me last summer. Like, ever. It’s not that I don’t want to date. It’s just that I have standards. Reasonable ones, in my opinion.
Gainfully employed.
Tall.
Funny.
Well hung.
Enthusiastic about going down on me, but not creepy about it.
Kind to pets.
None of this is insane. Or if it is, well, then fuck the male population of Maryland, Virginia, and D.C., because I don’t want to settle for anything less than this list.
Daisy, who had been watching us volley back and forth, puts up her hand. “So you are dating, and it’s going badly? Or you’re not dating?”
“You know I’m not.” I blush, though, because I’m hopeless, and she latches on to it.
“Who is he?”
“Nobody.”
“Jana’s got a crush on someone…” Nina grabs the wine bottle. It’s empty. This doesn’t bode well for my ability to keep this secret. “Who is he?”
“You guys can keep asking me that. I’m not going to tell you anything, because there’s nothing to tell.”
“Uh huh.” Daisy crosses her arms.
Nina goes to the kitchen and fetches another bottle of wine.
The seconds tick by, and I hold out for a long time. Twenty-three, maybe even twenty-five seconds. Then I fold like a house of cards. “The delivery guy is…hot.”
They stare at me, then burst into laughter. “How long have you been pining after the UPS guy?” Nina asks through gasps for air as she wipes her eyes.
“It’s not a UPS guy,” I mutter. Then I take a big swallow of wine. “It’s SwiftEx.”
Daisy nods. “I can see. Their uniforms are hot.”
It’s more than just the uniform. He’s got the best smile. It starts as a friendly curve of the mouth as he hands over the clipboard, but it grows as he watches me. Just thinking about it makes me squirm. “Anyway, he’s new. He just started a week ago, so I’m not pining for anyone. And I’m pretty sure he’s just filling in for the regular guy, so I might not even see him again.”
“We can make that happen.” Nina waves at Daisy’s computer. “Let’s get started on your Christmas shopping.”
“No.”
She snorts. “You’re no fun.”
“I’m tons of fun.”
“Prove it. Let’s go to the spa tomorrow before you head back.”
I wrinkle my nose, and she howls.
“See? No. Fun.”
Daisy wiggles her feet. “I could do with a pedicure.”
Nina shakes her head. “No, pedicures don’t win the attention of sexy delivery drivers. Black Friday Bush Removal. It’s a new tradition.”
I squeak, and then realize she’s dead serious. I shake my head. “This is crazy. And also…I don’t think that a bikini wax wins attention either.”
“Bikini? Try Brazilian, babe. And he’ll know. He’ll be able to look at you and see your new, sexy confidence that you want him to see you naked. Because you’ve got a sexy surprise.”
“Oh my God.”
“Stop saying that, like you’re all shocked. You’re not, you’re just embarrassed, and that’s deeply rooted in the secret that you think this is a good plan.”
She’s not wrong, but I can’t admit that yet.
She keeps going, like the weird mind reader that she is. “Build it and they will come. Or in this case, groom it and he will come. When he sees it. After delivering your…package.”
“Stop.” But I’m grinning. It’s never going to happen like that, but a girl can dream.
Chapter Three
Jake
The day after Thanksgiving
For the first time in two weeks, I’m not doing my delivery route in Baltimore. I guess I didn’t do it yesterday, either, but it was a holiday.
I’ll be back on the job tomorrow, but since I was going to be back in New York for the holiday, I scheduled as many meetings as I possibly could into today as well.
“Is that everything?” I ask the VPs sitting across from me. I don’t bother to hide my frustration with how long this report has taken—both in being compiled, and now in their presentation of it. I don’t need to look at my watch to know my next meeting is scheduled to start in three minutes, and that’s going to happen, whether or not they’ve finished.
I like punctuality. Maybe that’s why I’ve recently acquired a courier company.
“People are asking where you are,” my communications VP says reluctantly.
I raise one eyebrow. “And it took you an entire hour to work up the courage to tell me that?”
He shrugs. “I wouldn’t say courage. We understand what you’re doing with this undercover boss thing, but it needs to come to an end.”
No, it doesn’t. “We’ve just acquired SwiftEx, Matt. Aston Corp is a well-oiled machine. SwiftEx is a disaster, and I come from tech, not operations. I can improve their backend with my eyes closed, but I don’t know the first thing about what it’s like on the front lines—for my new employees, or my customers.”
I think immediately of Jana Pritchard. I interrupt her workday a couple of times a week, for example. That’s gotta be annoying. She’s always sweet about it, but she’s exactly the type of regular customer I want to get feedback from.
Feedback. Yeah.
That’s all I want from her, because she’s a customer. And I have like six jobs to do.
“Mr. Aston, your ten o’clock appointment is here,” my assistant says smoothly through the intercom and I stand up.
“I’ll be in Baltimore as long as I need to,” I repeat, gesturing for the door. “I can cut back to four days a week so I’m here on Mondays or Fridays if need be. Make do without me.”
The executives leave and I make a mental note to bring this shit up at the next team meeting. They need to trust me. I know what I’m doing.
Unbidden, Jana pops back into my mind. The way she glanced up at me when she was signing my clipboard on Wednesday. How she’d said, “Happy Thanksgiving,” with a breathy half-smile, her thick eyelashes framing the prettiest brown eyes I’ve ever seen.
What are the chances Bronze Heart Cards will have a package for her tomorrow? Not good. She seems to have a regular Tuesday package from them, and she got two larger boxes on random days as well, but it’s all work stuff.
Work stuff isn’t delivered on a Saturday.
I probably won’t see her until Tuesday, and for reasons I don’t want to explore, that makes me fucking grumpy as hell.
I push that down, squishing it hard until it’s a chunk of coal in my gut. It’ll fu
el me through the rest of the day until I fly back to Baltimore and put on Some Guy Named Dane’s uniform.
When Jana asked me if that was my real name, I’d almost said yes. But I didn’t want to show up at her house again and have her give me that sweet, shy smile and say, “Hi Dane.”
No.
I want to hear my name on her lips. “Jake.” Or, “Yes, Jake.” Even better would be, “Oh, God, Jake,” but that might be wishful thinking.
On the other hand, I’m a fucking billionaire. If I can’t use that to my advantage with the prettiest girl in Maryland, then what good is it?
Chapter Four
Jana
Two days after Thanksgiving
I’m in my office working on some sketches, because yesterday was shopping and personal grooming and general mortification on an epic level. And if I don’t work on a Friday, I make it up on Saturday.
This work ethic might be why I don’t have much of a social life.
The kitten is sleeping under my drafting table, and she’s soft and warm against my toes. Or at least she is until the door buzzer goes off and she jumps like an air horn just sounded next to her ear. I make a shushing noise and promise her I’ll be right back.
Of course she doesn’t listen to me, because she’s a cat, and she darts under my feet as I head for the door.
“I’m going to call you Underfoot, baby girl,” I say as I jump to keep from tripping on her.
She just meows at me.
I tap on the intercom button. “Hello?”
“This is, uh, SwiftEx. I’ve got a delivery for you.”
I jump just like the cat did, because the way he says it, his voice a little deeper than normal—although what do I know about his normal?—and that little hitch as he stumbled over his words. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Maybe the fact I wasn’t expecting him makes this moment more intense. It definitely steals my voice.
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