“We can’t stop.” In an insane move, he slingshotted her forward and yelled, “Jump!”
Confused and hopped up on adrenaline, wine, and his hand gripping hers, Verity just reacted. As soon as her feet left the ground, she was in Hudson’s arms. And he was still running.
“Holy crap!” she yelled.
He smiled, and before she knew it, they had passed the gate and were out on the street. Half a block down, the car that had brought them waited, a door open.
“I trust you enjoyed your time at the garden, sir,” the driver said, calmer than a funeral director.
Verity watched Hudson wink as they threw themselves in the back. Seconds later, the car was in motion.
“So, did you like it?” he asked.
Shell-shocked, Verity stared at him. “What the hell just happened?”
“Seems my man forgot to convey the plan to the rest of the staff. Sometimes you live life on the fly.” He shrugged. “Don’t tell me it wasn’t kind of fun getting caught like that.”
“You’re a total criminal, aren’t you?” she asked, but to her surprise, she was grinning ear to ear.
He shook his head. “Have I stolen your heart yet?”
That stopped her cold. She blinked several times. “What?”
“Don’t answer,” he whispered. “I won’t take it until you give it freely.”
Verity Michaels @VerityPics03
Strangest first date ever. #SmoothCriminal #KissMeAgain #WhyPussyfeathers
Hudson Fenn @tatwhiteknight When someone says FIRST date, that means they want more. #IWantMore #Honeybee #BecauseILikeToMakeHerSmile
Chapter 8
#OhDamn
Tijan
“My niece set up my Twitter account over the weekend.”
Those were ten words Verity never thought she’d hear from Larold Lay, and now that she had, she wanted to sink down in her chair and disappear through the floor. She eyed the ground and nudged the carpet with her foot. Nope. It wasn’t moving. There was no chance she could be swallowed back down to her desk. She looked up at her boss. He leveled her with a hard stare, eyebrows pinched together and mouth puckered like a confused duck.
He wasn’t going away either. This bitch was happening.
Verity let out a sigh and folded her hands into her lap. “Did she? I wasn’t aware you had a niece.”
He cleared his throat and tugged at his collar. “Well, I have to admit I don’t see her as often as I should, but her mother decided last weekend that Mexico was calling her name. She has a weakness for gentlemen named Jose, if you get my drift.”
Ah. Splendid. Verity’s lip twitched. She could go for some one-on-one time with Jose Cuervo herself. She’d been called to Lay’s office as soon as she came into work this morning, which she had expected after her saucy exit on Friday. She had not, however, expected Twitter to enter the mix. Her gut dropped; she had a horrible feeling she knew where this was going.
Mr. Lay reached for his cell phone and pressed a button. Before showing it to her, he added, “She did a search for my friends and added my coworkers too.” He paused, and his beady eyes took on an excited gleam. “I must say your feed included quite a few interesting tidbits.”
“Oh God.” Verity didn’t dare look at him. Her head sunk farther, her chin folding against her chest.
He cleared his throat, then read aloud: “If my boss tries to see my cooch one more damn time… hashtag eyes up front.”
She closed her eyes. Her teeth sank into her bottom lip.
“Okay then.” His voice grew quieter, but he read another one. “Hashtag replacing batteries in the rabbit.”
This was humiliating. Her boss had not known how to use Twitter when she tweeted those. She knew that for a fact. She had checked when she got her account. If he’d been on there, she would’ve blocked him, but now the damage was done.
Her teeth bit harder into her lip. What did those texts have to do with why she was sitting here in his office? He was the one who should be feeling stupid, not her. Of course social cues were not really his forté…
He read a third tweet, his voice moving into a higher-pitched tone. “Hashtag pound Hudson. That bike messenger was named Hudson.”
There it was.
This was all about Hudson. Just as she’d thought.
“I called the company where he works,” Lay continued.
Oh no. Her head popped up, and she felt suddenly cold. Had she cost Hudson his job? He loved that job, and who knew if he could even get another one with all those tattoos. She didn’t know a lot of bike messengers, but they all looked like they had criminal tendencies. Plus, they could move freely around the city, not sit behind a desk or enclosed in a cubicle from eight till five.
“What’d you do?” she asked.
His eyes narrowed for a split second, then he pushed his phone away and leaned back in his chair. He tugged at his collar. “Nothing.” His finger began tapping at his desk. “But I did make it known that Mr. Hudson Fenn isn’t to be bringing any more packages here.”
That was it? He was still employed? Verity sat still, as if any movement might shake her boss’s decision. Larold Lay was a loose cannon. Her eyes fell to the pen resting on his desk. It was the one he liked to throw on the floor and watch her bend over to get for him. Even thinking about it, her pulse picked up, and she started to get irritated about this whole thing. The level of douchebaggery was too high, and now he’d barred Hudson from bringing packages here? Her teeth ground against each other.
“… go there instead.”
He’d been talking. She hadn’t been listening. Oh, crap. She raised heated eyes to him, but cleared her throat too. She needed to go. She forced a calm and polite smile over her lips and asked, “What was that, Mr. Lay?”
He frowned slightly, looked nervous for a moment, and then shrugged. “Because I requested that Mr. Fenn not bring any more packages here, the company needs a day to add us to someone else’s route. That means today they’ll have a package there waiting to be brought over. I’d like for you to go get it, and hurry back. No hashtag pounding Hudson if you see him. Get my drift?”
She was stunned. “I have to go there?”
“Just today. And come back right away.”
She jerked to her feet. She could go. No more sitting with Mr. Slimeball here. “Yes, Mr. Lay. That’s quite fine with me.” As she turned to go, she heard the small sound of something falling to the floor. She stopped, her back to him. She knew that sound. No. Just no.
“Uh, Verity?”
He sounded sweet, too sweet. Her teeth started grinding against each other again. She looked back, already knowing, and there it was. The damn pen was on the floor in front of his desk.
“Can you get that for me?” he asked, a gleam in his gaze. “You must’ve bumped it when you stood.”
She knew damn well she hadn’t. Be professional, Verity! At least one of you should be. “Uh…”
His phone rang, and she was granted a diversion. She kicked the pen under his desk. He frowned at her as he picked up the phone, then looked down from his side of the desk.
With her best fake smile plastered on her face, she lifted her shoulders. “Oops. My foot slipped,” she whispered as she hurried out of there. Marge glanced up, startled by Verity’s swift appearance, but Verity scurried through the door and was in Angie’s office in record time.
“Do I even dare to ask what that was about?” Angie asked, looking up from her computer.
Verity’s mouth pressed into a line. “My exit last Friday, before Hudson took me on that date.”
Angie laid her arm over her forehead and struck a dramatic pose. “By the way, can I just say swoon? Took you to the Conservatory Garden and let you use his grandfather’s Hasselblad? I mean, come on, that’s the sweetest date ever.”
“We broke into the Garden. We were trespassing.”
“Even better.” Angie pretended to fan herself. “I wouldn’t have made it through the picnic before showing him
my flowers.” She winked. “Then and there, Verity. That’s how I would’ve rolled with Mr. Tattoo-Rebel-Who’s-All-Mysterious-About-MIT-Guy.”
“Angie!” Verity hushed her before glancing over her shoulder. She’d confided the MIT suspicion over their second bottle of wine on Saturday when she went over to tell Angie about the date. Her friend was right, though. Friday had been like a dream. Then Saturday they’d exchanged texts and flirty tweets all day. But Sunday rolled around and… nothing. The wine hangover hadn’t helped, but she’d convinced herself she’d be seeing him today.
Turns out, she probably would be, since she’d be going to his work. The fluttering in her stomach started again. She’d care later that he’d been banned from delivering packages to their office. Somehow, she’d get that corrected. She’d fix it. Mission: Bring Back Pussyfeathers was a go, but—she glanced at the clock—she needed to go pick up Larold’s precious package first.
“What?” Angie asked, jarring Verity back to the present. “What’s that look on your face?”
“I have to run an errand for Mr. Lay,” Verity confessed. “He’s barred Hudson from the office, so I have to go pick up a package.”
Angie shook her head as Verity left.
Downstairs, Verity double-checked the name of the messenger company Hudson worked for, forwarded the office calls to her cell phone, and headed for the elevator. She took a cab to their headquarters—on Larold’s tab this time—and felt a decidedly non-office-related feeling as she went through the glass double doors and walked toward the receptionist. This was just an office errand, but it was more. One person, one name made it so ridiculously different. Hudson.
She started to feel warm. This was ridiculous. Who was this guy to have this effect on her? A stolen cab. Breaking her into the Garden. Letting her use a family heirloom.
This was so dumb. She was lucky it hadn’t gone horribly, horribly wrong.
What would her dad say if she called him from jail after Hudson’s next big idea?
She was twenty-two. She was going places, putting together a real career and making her dad proud. Getting all hot and bothered over this guy, who she’d only known for a little while—no, known was too strong a word. She still knew nothing about his sketchy tattooed ass. She needed to get herself in check. Proceed with caution.
“Hello!” The receptionist smiled at her, pushing a button on the phone at the same time. “How can I help you?”
“Oh.” She cleared her throat. This was business. “Verity Michaels. I’m here for SalesExportt.com. Mr. Lay has a package that needed to be picked up today.”
“Yes.” Recognition clicked in the receptionist’s gaze, and she began looking around her desk. “You used to be on Hudson’s route; isn’t that right?”
“It is.” Verity’s smile felt etched into stone. Her cheeks were rock solid. “Actually, is he around right now?”
“Hudson?”
He worked here. It made sense the woman would know him, but did she have to sound so friendly about it? Good grief, what do you care? Evidently the conversation she’d had with herself wasn’t sticking.
Then she heard the receptionist’s voice double in cheer. “There he is! You’re in luck. He’s heading out.” She pointed down the hall.
Verity looked.
She immediately wished she hadn’t.
Her insides were sucked dry as she saw him. His blue eyes sparkled with laughter. His mouth was lifted in a smile. A girl walked with him. She said something, also laughing. Her cheeks were pink and her hand rested on his arm. He bent to hear what she was saying, but Verity’s gaze fell to his hand, those tattooed fingers.
He was holding her hand.
Verity Michaels @VerityPics03
Fuck. That is all. #TheBoxesMustDie
Verity Michaels @VerityPics03
Hello, Vodka. We’re going to be best friends again. #Kidding #VodkaIsMyBitch
Verity Michaels @VerityPics03
Hey, Mr. Lay and Mr. Lay’s niece, guess who I’m blocking? #Fuuuuuck
Chapter 9
All the Fuckery in the World
Helena Hunting
“Aren’t you going to stop him?” the receptionist asked, her extra-smiley smile plastered all over her stupid face.
“He’s busy. It can wait until the next time he delivers a package.” Verity returned the smile, but it felt plastic and forced.
“I thought that’s why you were here. He wasn’t doing that any more? He’s right there. I never miss a chance to get close to him.” The receptionist giggled as she stood, smoothing her skirt over her tiny, prepubescent hips. She lifted one hand in the air, as if she were controlling traffic, or pumping her fist at some boy band concert.
Verity put her hands up in surrender fashion, hoping to dissuade the idiotic woman from bringing attention to either of them.
“Hudson!” the receptionist yelled.
Fortunately, the door had already closed behind them, making it impossible to hear her fingernails-on-chalkboard mating call.
Verity watched as he threw back his head in laughter at whatever the girl in the super-short sundress said. Then they disappeared around the corner.
“You can still catch him if you run,” said the receptionist.
“I need to get back to work. Can I just sign for the package, please?” Verity tried to look less like a bitchy troll and more like the hot desk jockey she was supposed to be. Based on the receptionist’s expression, she failed.
Verity collected her package, which was yet another bedazzled box, this time with flower-shaped jewels and zebra-print tape crisscrossed over and around the glitter paper covering the outside. It was like someone had tried to straightjacket the thing together.
Once outside, she scanned the street, hoping to find an ice cream shop to drown her sorrows in. She found an open bar and headed in there instead. She’d never done that before in her life, but when in Manhattan, do like the locals, right? Business drunk seemed pretty damn okay, even in the middle of the day. Thirty minutes and two shots later, plus a beer chaser, Verity was on her way back to work, the glitter-bombed package safe in her lap. She shook it, but as usual, it made no sound to indicate the weightless box actually contained anything.
Verity flipped it over in her hands, checking the corners for loose zebra tape, but the damn thing was sealed tight. Enraged by the stupid box, her stupid boss, and smooth-talking, two-timing Hudson, she hurled it on the floor of the cab. What she really wanted was to pretend it was Hudson’s balls and puncture the cardboard with her pointy heel. Instead, she picked it up and inspected the damage. One corner was dented, and picking at the spot, she used her nail to create a tiny hole.
With skills gathered from binge-watching CSI, Verity used the flashlight feature on her phone, nearly blinding herself in her quest to uncover the contents. Holding her phone to the hole, she attempted to get a peek inside, but all she could see was darkness and glitter.
Then the cab stopped in front of her building, ending her mission to reveal the mysterious contents. She threw money at the driver and stumbled out of the cab, narrowly missing a sewer grate. Recovering herself, Verity beelined inside and straight for the bathroom, the drinks having worked their way through her system. Verity set the package on the floor, hoping someone else’s pee particles would contaminate it. Her hands were covered in sparkles. She used a piece of toilet paper to pick the box back up to avoid direct contact. No matter how much soap she used to wash her hands, she couldn’t seem to get sparkle free. Glitter was the herpes of crafting.
Two minutes later she was back in the elevator, heading up to Mr. Lay’s office with the package tucked under her arm. She hated him for making her pick up the damn thing. Not only was her outfit now covered in glitter, her Hudson fantasies were tainted by the pretty little blonde with her hand on his tattooed arm and their fingers laced together.
Verity wanted her plain hand twined with his decorated one. Or she had until today. That would have made an awesome picture
. She could envision it in a frame. The elevator dinged. She took a deep breath, preparing for the day’s second interaction with Mr. Lay.
Marge said nothing, didn’t even look up as Verity pushed through the doors to Mr. Lay’s office, where she found him with a pair of tweezers up his nose. He dropped them in a hurry, shoving them under a pile of papers.
“Ms. Michaels. You’re back?”
Verity really wanted to say no, but somewhere inside her, professionalism fought its way through her day-drinking buzz and Hudson-related anger. She kept her mouth shut as she crossed his office, lifted her arm, and dropped the box on the desk like she was shitting it out of her armpit.
He huffed his displeasure. Snatching it up, he leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. The position hiked his pants up, creating a moose knuckle at his crotch. Oblivious to his ballsy display, Mr. Lay inspected the dented corner, poking his finger in the tiny hole. “What happened to my package?”
Verity’s eyes lifted from the highlighted package in his lap to the one he was holding. She leaned on his desk and pretended to examine it as well.
When she returned her gaze to Mr. Lay, she found him staring not at the slightly mangled box, but at her cleavage. Verity straightened immediately. “I have no idea. That’s how it was when I picked it up.”
“You didn’t do this, Ms. Michaels?”
Verity crossed her arms over her chest in mock shock. “Of course not!”
“This is unacceptable.” Mr. Lay picked up the phone, punched viciously at the buttons, and gestured to the chair opposite his desk. “Have a seat.”
“But—”
“I can’t have my package tossed around like this.” He gestured to the glittery monstrosity.
“I may have dropped it in the cab,” she mumbled into her shoulder.
Mr. Lay put his hand over the receiver. “You may have dropped it?”
“Okay. I did drop it. I don’t see what the big deal is. Gravity is a thing.” She thought better of her tone and added, “Sir.”
Felony Ever After Page 6