Provocative Professions Collection (21 page)

It's the most enticingly, alarming rollercoaster ride to find myself on and at times, I scare myself at how lost in the overwhelming mystery I delve.

Since I get the letters in my box, un-mailed, he must work in the building. Any man I see in the office, halls, cafeteria, elevator, even the parking lot could be him. My body stiffens each time I'm alone with someone, nerves wracked, wondering if this is the time he nabs me…or produces a rose from behind his back
—
hopefully along with a clean background check and healthy psych evaluation.

My feelings on the matter, the possibilities, interchange between intrigued and frightened with every letter and time I think of it, and often I feel depraved for even the slightest spike in my heart rate, the curious flicker of my eyes around the building seeking him out
. How sick am I
?

How sick is he?

With a deep, confused intake of lonely breath, I slip out of the bathroom to hide the letter in my bottom, lockable desk drawer with all the others and gather my things for morning meeting. I stick my head out my office door and tentatively glance both ways, sighing in relief at finding it empty before I scurry to the conference room.

The rest of the administrative staff have already arrived, milling about in different small groups. The animated people are in the corner, no doubt comparing details of their sex and excitement-filled weekends. The few others congregate around the coffee and danish station, most likely drowning out mundane weekends such as my own with caffeine and carbs. I opt for neither crowd, getting settled in my seat to the immediate right of Ashley's, impatiently waiting for the meeting to start.

"Good morning!" Not five minutes later, Ashley breezes in and chirps her greeting, bright-eyed and blissfully poised. She's the boss, highly compensated and deliriously ensconced in love—how else would she act?

The chatter stops and everyone hurries to their seats. Mabry, my closest female friend, pathetically my
only
friend outside of work, whom I met
inside
of work, sits down beside me. "Any new, thrilling developments over the weekend?" she leans in and whispers, wagging her eyebrows.

"Hmmm…" I tap my finger to my chin. "I finished two really good books and took Lucy to the vet." I stand corrected, I have
two
friends
if
you count (which I do) my delightful cat. "What about you?"

"Yes!" she practically squeals, downright salivating. "Went a couple rounds with FedEx. I can barely walk let alone sit down."

Mabry's been obsessed with the FedEx guy who delivers to the Admin wing, watching for him every day like clockwork for the past eight months. Admittedly, he's as attractive a man as I've ever seen in real life, well over six feet tall with short dark hair and sinful crystalline blue eyes. His smile could blind, strikingly white against dark, tanned skin with a firm, muscled body always threatening to bust right through his uniform.

If I'm being honest, when I read my romance novels, I usually picture him. Even if the hero's character is written with long, blond hair, I envision FedEx.

"Well, congrats! It's about time." I smile, jealous as hell and mentally debating whether or not to jab her with my pen. "So I assume somewhere in all those rounds, you got his actual name?"

"Shaw Bryant," she croons, a dreamy look in her eyes. "Isn't that a sexy name?"

"I guess so." I shrug.
Yes, yes it is
.

"All right ladies, and gentleman." Ashley regards our lone male team member, Wyatt—and no, he's not Mr. Notewriter; 100% confessed and flamboyantly same-sex oriented—bringing the meeting to a start.

I keep my head down and write feverishly for the next forty-five minutes while Ashley drones on about goals, strategic planning and ten other ideas that were mine. But not notes on the meeting, I did that when I handed in my proposals, the words on her slides my own. No, I'm writing a reply to this morning's intoxicatingly scented "Amelia."

Dear I Wish I Knew Your Name,

I must begin by saying that while your attention is flattering, you're scaring me. I'm not sure if that's your intent, but I'd think frightening me would be the last thing you'd want to do if you ever planned for this to go somewhere. If you're a normal, upstanding guy, why would you not drop by and say hello, maybe start up a casual conversation, rather than leave cryptic, inappropriate notes?

Chances are you have a sister, a female friend, and most definitely a mother. How would your approach make them feel? What would you think of them being waylaid in the same eerie manner? The last thing I want to do is frustrate you, or anger you in any way, but truly…

I'm asking you to stop. Again.

Sincerely,

Amelia

I re-read it three times; it has to be stern and amply clear, yet not provoke his possible insanity in any way.

When the meeting adjourns, I hurry back to my office, rip out the page, and trifold it, labeling it simply "You" and, making sure no one's watching, slip it in my assigned mailbox.

By the time five o'clock sluggishly rolls around, I'm exhausted. I take a minute to drop my head in my hands and rub my temples before even attempting to stand. For some asinine reason, Ashley delegated non-medical personnel payroll to Mabry and the first half of today was spent training her, the second, redoing all her "work." As badly as I want to turn a blind eye and let Mabry learn the hard way and fix it herself, if it's not done properly, people don't get paid on time. No groceries for their kids, no electricity…so I'll be coming in early tomorrow morning to ensure all is well.

With my desk cleared, drawers locked, and purse in hand, I move to turn off the lights. Halfway there something odd and out of place, catches my eye. My feet fail me, frozen mid-step as my breath hitches and paralysis sets into my limbs. There, in my mail cubby, the edge of a stark-white envelope sticks out. My reply, which I expected to be received by tomorrow morning, was on yellow legal paper, which means…
what the?
Besides morning meeting, after which it wasn't there, I'd left this room exactly two times today, once to buy a soda from the vending machine to drink with my lunch (eaten at my desk) and once more to go request PMI, our payroll database, access for Mabry from the tech team located on the first floor.

Two very random, out of normal routine, windows…and he'd capitalized, taking my letter and returning one of his own seamlessly, an unseen apparition I've come to regard him as.

Since it's closing time for Admin, I hurriedly grab the envelope and leave with the five o'clock crowd. The last thing I want is to be alone in the office or parking lot with this guy so obviously watching my every move.

Paranoid can also be defined as "carefully smart"!

Almost every episode of
SVU
is based on a true story; I'd watched my fill until they moronically cut Detective Stabler's fine-ass character.

"Hold it, please!" I yell, quickening my pace. A large hand shoots out to halt the closing elevator doors just as I squeeze my way inside. "Thank you," I say absently, tugging my purse strap further up my arm.

"My pleasure." A burly, masculine voice resonates from behind me, literally stealing every ounce of oxygen in the tiny box.

A quick peek over my shoulder at him and an even faster whip of my head so it's back to facing forward, and it's confirmed—
FedEx
.

I really shouldn't yearn to take a second look to lock in a fresh image for tonight's fantasies since my good friend's sleeping with him, but damn, he's just so unbelievably attractive. And when he flashes that smile with the discreet dimple on the left side it's difficult as hell to think straight.

The ride down is insufferably gradual, my flesh simmering with the heat of "I wonder what it'd be like," until we're finally at the ground floor. The doors open and I probably look manic, unable to escape the smoldering confines fast enough.

"Pleasant evening, Amelia." He's wishing me well, I know he is. That or he's aware of the delicious enticement carried in his voice and he's begging me to spin and run back to him, throw myself at, on, and around him. I'm perilously close; he's unstoppably tempting.

Clearly I'm creating scenarios in my head, because he far from asked to be accosted. Good thing I've never been one to act on impulse, nor am I the type you'd call daring, or this could get embarrassing…and the hospital sued for sexual harassment. So very much
like
myself, and legal, I keep walking, pitifully convincing my inner devil of how great a night of quiet, alone time to enjoy comfortable pajamas, a good book, and glass of wine sounds.

Yep, absolutely divine.

I mean it, dammit!

Once in my car and on the road, the letter buried in my purse finds its way to the front of my mind, beckoning me to pull the car over and read it. What if this is the one where he snaps? Or confesses he's simply a shy guy and apologizes? My willful interest is unhealthy and I'm well aware of it. The intelligent part of my brain duels against the others—sex deprived and lonely— the entire drive, which I continue, without pulling over for a peek.

I shake my head, not wanting to overthink it anymore, just as I arrive at my local bookstore. There's no place better, in my opinion. The smell of paper and ink alone is worth the visit. Speaking of scents, if Mr. Cologne-laced Letters really wants to stalk me, he'd be wise to follow me here, maybe offer to buy me a new release.
That
would get him a lot more action than his current bi-polar approach.

Chapter 7

After I've triple-locked my apartment door, I change into my favorite black cotton shorts and white cami, eager to dig into the overflowing bag from my impromptu shopping trip and decide which book I'll start first. It may not be a typical night for a single girl my age, but it works for me.

Once I've fed Lucy, I get settled out on my balcony with glass of wine beside me, blanket over my legs and book in hand, at the exact same moment my pain in the ass upstairs neighbor starts what sounds like a one hundred attendees party.

All of which love death metal. But only if it's loud enough to actually induce death. Heart attack or brain bleed both optional and acceptable forms of impending demise.

I've never seen the jerk in person, or I'd have chewed him a new one and possibly "accidentally" poked him straight in the eye, but I've reported him to the super more times than I can count.

Clearly it did wonders.

Luckily he seems to be gone for days at a time throughout the week. I'm not sure what he does for a living, but I hope he keeps doing it. I relish those nights of silence, tonight clearly not being one of them. Slamming down my book, I peel off the blanket and grumble the entire way to the kitchen, digging my phone out of my purse.

The letter.
It stares me straight in the face and I find it hard to believe I had managed to forget about it. I'll consider that progress.

First things first. I dial the super. He knows precisely why I'm calling, which is exactly why I'm immediately sent to voicemail.

"Mr. Wallace, this is Amelia Hill, remember me? Just in case, I'm in 804A, RettaSuite Apartments, and
yes
, I'm calling about my upstairs neighbor…again. The lease agreement
I
signed had a specific noise ordinance clause, and I can only assume the polite patron above me signed the same one. Why you still haven't fixed the issue, I'm not sure, but my next complaint will be to the authorities. Please let me know with a return call when you've finally done your job and taken care of the problem. Anytime within this week is acceptable. Thank you."

That should do it. Now he knows just how serious I am. I'm not usually so harsh, but enough is enough. It should help that the head-banging monstrosity of noise was blaring in the background for the entire call. Irrefutable evidence.

Basically numb (well, my eardrums are anyway) to the racket, I refocus on
the
letter
, which is still leering at me from the counter.

Even if I don't open it and turn a blind eye, only acknowledging it long enough to add it to the collection,
he
doesn't know that and will keep them coming. I suck in a seething breath and open it.

Amelia,

Always so forthright, sensible, and diplomatic, my Beauty. I do, in fact, have a mother and two sisters, all of which would give you a high-five for your excellent points, made so prudently. If these letters make you uncomfortable, I will stop, disappointed not to speak, even distantly, but content to return to admiring you, unknown and from afar, as I did for so many months before putting a pen to my thoughts.

And one day, I'll take you up on that drop by conversation proposal. Perhaps you'll feel the sparks and know it's me. Perhaps not, in which case I'll find another way, for I must have you. Completely.

And have you I shall.

When I think you're ready, I'll ask once. Listen to your body before you answer with what society's taught you.

No escape, Beauty

—Yours

Was that supposed to make me feel better or worse?

And for God's sake, enough with the rave, it's a work night! I go grab my broom, climb on a kitchen chair, and bang the tip of the handle against the ceiling as hard and loud as I can. Pieces of plaster rain down in my hair, getting caught in my eyelashes, but I just keep whaling away, until
finally
, the music stops.

As over today as one can possibly get, I drop the broom, step off the chair, and drag myself to bed. No book, no preamble…sheer mental exhaustion takes over the minute my head hits the pillow.