Page 13 of Protected from Torment

I can’t help it. I burst out laughing.

The red in her cheeks spreads to the rest of her face. “I think I’m just making this worse.”

“No, you’re not,” I assure her. “It’s funny. And I’d love to hear more about Oscar and his silly habits.”

This time when she smiles, it hits me straight in the gut.

The relief in her gaze makes my heart twist.

Maybe my gut is wrong about her.

But I really don’t think it is.

CHAPTER 3

1 Month Later

MELISSA

My favorite TV show isn’t distracting me like it usually does.

Most nights, an episode of The Office is guaranteed to lift my mood, no matter how long or stressful ‌of a day I’ve had. There’s just something so comforting about it—the dry humor, the droll way the characters deliver their lines, the way they make the mundane tasks in the office seem fun, and the silly pranks they like to play on each other.

But tonight, the pranks aren’t as funny.

The jokes don’t hit right.

Instead of laughing along with the characters, I just feel sorry for them.

And the stress I’ve been trying to shed since I got home from work is hanging on with a vengeance, tightening my shoulders and knotting my stomach.

The memory of earlier today threatens to resurface, and I try to shove it back. But there it is, jabbing at me like a splinter buried deep—not overly painful, but stubbornly reminding me of it whenever I move.

I try to focus on the scene on TV, but superimposed over the voices of the actors is that of my boss. He—my boss, not one of the actors—is scolding me, saying, “What you choose to do outside the office is your business. But when you’re here, I expect a certain amount of… decorum.”

Decorum was a nice way of putting it.

The whispers of my coworkers weren’t quite as tactful. During the few times I left my desk, I caught snippets of hissed conversations, speculating why I had arranged for such an inappropriate delivery and what kind of person would do that.

I desperately wanted to insist I had nothing to do with it. That I wouldn’t have an ordinary package delivered to my work, let alone one filled with sex toys.

And not items that could be construed as something else, like a foot massager or body oil. Oh, no. There was no confusion about what the items were for.

I can still see Brenda, our office manager, walking over to me with a large brown box in her hands and a scandalized expression. When she set it down on my desk, the flaps were open, and bubble wrap was poking out. As I frowned in confusion at the unexpected delivery, she explained, “It was sent to the office. Your name wasn’t on the shipping label. That’s why I opened it. But the packing slip inside...”

“I didn’t order anything,” I protested. “And I would never have it sent here.”

She plucked the packing slip from the box and handed it to me. “Your name is on it, Melissa. Not anyone else in the office. Yours.” Then, in a lower tone, she added, “I had to tell Mr. Jenson about it. It’s an office rule. Any suspicious packages have to be reported to management.”

At that point, I began rummaging through the box, wondering if I somehow messed up and had Oscar’s food subscription sent there by accident. Or the newest bandana I bought on Etsy for him, embroidered with fall leaves and his name to match.

But the box held neither of those things. Instead, it contained a collection of toys and accessories that turned my face a flaming red. Slamming the flaps closed, I insisted, “I didn’t order this. I have no idea why my name’s on it.”

Judging by the look on her face, she didn’t believe me. And as the day progressed, it became clear that none of my coworkers did, either.

I’m not technically in trouble because of it, thank goodness. After my brief meeting with Mr. Jensen, he sent me back to my desk with only a verbal warning. “Please check your deliveries from now on,” he told me sternly as he peered over his horn-rimmed glasses. “This is a place of business. We can’t afford these kinds of distractions.”

Just thinking about the judgment in his eyes makes my face go hot all over again. My heart beats faster. Anxiety squeezes my chest.