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I lift the thick manila envelope beneath it and take out the card.
This month’s card statement wouldn’t seem right without at least one line of yours on there.
I drop the card back into the box and shove the lid on, covering up the beautiful lingerie before I get too attached to something I’ll never keep now that I know it’s from him.
The arrogant bastard didn’t sign it. He knew I’d know it was from him at the mention of his credit card. Even the knowledge that I spent over a thousand dollars on lingerie in New York at his expense doesn’t make me feel any better.
And the one he’s sent me is so much nicer than any I own. It will have cost him a sickening amount, I’m sure.
I shove the box away just as there’s another knock at the door.
“Miss Roberts?” A different delivery man holds out a small box.
“That’s me.”
I take it inside, a frustrated huff leaves my chest as I rip it open, taking none of the care that I did with the first package. I lift the lid off the smaller white box inside, a tidal wave of memories hitting me all at once as I take out the perfume bottle shaped like a tiny globe encased in a flower. It’s the old design. The original bottle that’s been discontinued. My father bought it for me for my twelfth birthday. The scent was too grown up for me then. But he said he knew I’d like the bottle. The perfume inside ran out years ago.
I take the lid off and inhale the waterlily and tonka bean scent that I fell in love with as I got older.
There’s no card, but I know it’s from him.
I run my thumb over the carved glass as I feel the weight of the full bottle in my palm. “And you still think you have nothing to give,” I whisper. “Idiot.”
There’s a knock at the door again, and I rush to pull it open.
“Yes, I’m Miss Roberts,” I say to the delivery woman on the other side.
“Okay, have a great day,” she says as she hands me an envelope and a chilled glass bottle with beads of condensation running down the sides.
I scour the street for a delivery truck, but she hops back into a private car instead, then drives off.
I close the door and take the grapefruit juice into the kitchen, emptying out my mango juice from theglass to replace with the grapefruit.What am I doing?I abandon the glass and unscrew the bottle lid, drinking straight from the bottle instead.
I sigh as the fresh tang bursts across my tongue, invigorating and sharp.
I refuse to let Jet Grant ruin grapefruit juice for me.
Asshole.
I rip open the envelope and spit out the mouthful of juice.
“What?”
I swipe the back of my hand over my lips as I scan the contents. The letter is addressed to the new majority shareholder of the juice company.
Me.
“What the hell did you do?” I gape, my eyes zoning in on words like,unlimited supplyandweekly deliveries.
There’s another knock at the door and I stomp to it, the letter in front of my face as I read the contents again.
“Yes, I’m Miss Roberts.” I stuff the letter onto the hallway table so I can take whatever thing is coming next.
“And I’m the Asshole, here to deliver an apology.”
I jerk back, my spine steeling itself as I look up into cool blue eyes.
Notanasshole,theasshole. He’s got that right at least.
