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The man is exactly the kind of trouble I should know better than to want, and his looks aren’t the only problem. People move out of Duncan’s way without being asked, and when he speaks, everyone listens. He doesn’t demand control because he carries himself like it already belongs to him.

The fact that I’m apparently developing a crush on a straight billionaire should be enough to make me quit and save myself the embarrassment. Instead, I’m standing in the elevator thinking about all the things I’d like him to do to me. I push those thoughts away before my body decides to advertise them to everyone at work.

I press my thumb against the time clock and wait for the familiar beep before heading to the lockers. My phone, wallet and keys go inside, and I grab one of the company radios with the tiny earpiece that makes us all look like we’re working security.

“Good morning, Caroline,” I sing as I stroll past her desk, putting entirely too much enthusiasm into every syllable because it annoys the absolute shit out of her.

Caroline is my supervisor and the closest thing this company has to a permanently disgruntled gargoyle. She peers over the top of her reading glasses.

“It’s nine-oh-two.”

I glance at the clock, then back at her. “Good morning to you too, Caroline.”

“Your shift starts at nine.”

“And yet the entire company somehow survived those two minutes without me.” I flash her my brightest smile as I continue toward the kitchen. “Try not to miss me too much.”

“I’d rather lick a nine-volt battery,” she calls after me.

I laugh and keep walking. Caroline would probably worry me if she ever greeted me like she was happy to see me.

She shakes her head and goes back to her paperwork while I continue toward the kitchen, whistling.

I scan the order screen for my assigned floors. I’m still not sure how I managed to get executive clearance my first week here, but I’m not about to question it. Some of the other delivery guys had been waiting years for the same access, so there were plenty of dirty looks when I walked in off the street and got handed a badge that opened doors they couldn’t get through. I figured management recognized my charming personality. Either way, I’m not giving the badge back.

I scroll through the orders until I find the one I’m looking for. Daddy Duncan has ordered his usual Monday grilled chicken salad with mixed greens, cucumbers, tomatoes, avocado, and light vinaigrette on the side. Then there’s the unsweet tea, which is fucking gross.

Being from the South, I consider unsweet tea an abomination unless you’re diabetic. I’m choosing to believe he has a secret stash of sweetener in his office because I’m not ready to accept that he actually likes it that way.

So far, that’s the only thing in Duncan Murphy’s negative column. Everything else is annoyingly perfect, which gives me plenty to appreciate while I’m pretending I’m not counting down the hours until I see him.

I still have a couple of hours before I reach the executive floor. Pathetic, but at least staying busy keeps me from watching the clock. I stock supplies, help in the kitchen, and do everything else that needs doing until the delivery carts roll into position at eleven.

I take my first run to the twentieth floor, dropping off sandwiches and salads to people who barely look up from their computers. Then I head back for the executive cart. My favorite floor.

Some days, Declan and Xavier order lunch too. Xavier talks enough for three people, which gives me an excuse to linger a minute or two. Today it’s just Duncan.

One grilled chicken salad, one unsweet tea, and one Duncan Murphy who has absolutely no idea I’ve memorized his lunch orders. He also has no idea how much time I spend thinking about those big hands of his, which is something I need to stop doing before I walk into his office with a problem my uniform isn’t going to hide. I grab the cart and head for the executive floor.

I learned during my first week that the Murphy men don’t repeat themselves. When I knock on one of their office doors, I’m already reaching for the handle because the “come in” comes fast, and they expect you to hear it the first time.

I reach Duncan’s office a few minutes early. His assistant’s desk is empty, so I knock twice.

“Come in.”

I push the door open. “Your lunch—” The words die in my throat. Duncan Murphy is standing beside his desk without a shirt on.

Well, fuck me.

My gaze drops before I can stop it. I’ve imagined what Duncan looks like beneath those expensive suits plenty of times, and apparently my imagination wasn’t nearly ambitious enough. One dark eyebrow arches, first at me and then at the cart. Right. His lunch.

“Sorry, Daddy,” I mumble.

His other eyebrow joins the first. “What was that?”

Well, shit. I clear my throat and try again. “I said… sorry, Duncan Murphy.”

Why the hell did I use his full name? I push the cart farther into the office, hoping I can deliver his food and make it back to the elevator with some of my dignity intact.