TALK NERDY TO ME
“How’s it going, Faith?”
“Can’t complain,” I said, grinning at Konrad. “One more run and then I get to go home and take a bubble bath.”
“Was that an invitation?” The snarky teen waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
“Konrad!” I gasped. “Don’t make me call your mother.”
His expression instantly clouded over. “You wouldn’t.”
“That all depends on what you have for me,” I said, winking so he’d know I was only teasing.
“I have eight for you, this time.” He grimaced. “But—”
“Eight!”
“Before you freak out — three of them are overnights. So, really only five more tonight.”
“But I’ve never done an overnight.”
“I know, but Istvan just told me you’ve been approved for them. Couriers usually have to be here at least four months before they’re eligible, and not everyone gets the green light. They must like you.” He grinned.
Damn. Ever since my after-hours encounter with Istvan the other night, he seemed to think we had a special connection of sorts. I’d caught the typically gruff guard smiling at me twice today. Now, he was making sure I got promoted up the work totem pole. What was next?
“Don’t make that face,” Konrad said. “This is a good thing! It means you’re trustworthy. Plus, it comes with a bonus.”
I sighed. Bonus or not, I’d heard from several other Hermes girls that overnight deliveries were a pain in the butt.
Often, customers dropped off packages at the end of the day, after most businesses were closed, with instructions to deliver them to their destinations first thing in the morning. Rather than have couriers come all the way into work to retrieve the packages — only to head straight back out and potentially miss a crack-of-dawn delivery deadline — the sorting staff would occasionally send a package or two home with the girls overnight. That way, we could simply drop them off on our way to the office and, joy of joys, get an early jump start on our workdays.
Efficiency was highly prioritized, here at Hermes.
I rolled my eyes.
“So, how does it work?” I asked. “Do I keep my bike with me, too?”
“Yep,” Konrad said. “And I’d lock it up, if I were you. If it gets stolen, you’re the one who has to shell out the cash to replace it.”
“That doesn’t seem fair,” I grumbled. “Where am I supposed to keep it, under my bed? Stuffed inside my pint-sized closet?”
“When you see your bonus check, it’ll all be worth it,” he said, winking. “A few months of this, and you’ll be able to afford a bigger apartment.”
“Yeah, yeah. Just give me my damn packages already.”
“Here are the overnights.” He handed me three thick business envelopes — probably some poor suckers’ divorce papers. “And these three are regular delivery.” He passed over several more parcels.
“And the last two?” I asked, looking at the final bundles after I’d stored the others in my satchel.
“These are special delivery.” Konrad’s eyes were twinkling with mischief. “Both to the same destination. Make sure you deliver them last tonight.”
“What are you up to, Konrad?” I asked, taking the first package from him. Enclosed in a black plastic bag, whatever was inside felt soft, slightly squishy. Like a stuffed animal or a piece of fabric. The second parcel was a smallish box, wrapped in black paper.
“You can thank me later,” he said mysteriously.
I stared at him for a moment, riddled with questions, but he failed to offer up any more details.
“Whatever, weirdo,” I finally said, zipping my messenger bag closed. “See you tomorrow.”
“Have a good night, Faith!” he called after me. “Enjoy that bubble bath!”
I shook my head in exasperation as I hurried to retrieve my bike.
Standing on the sidewalk with my head tilted up at the sign, I felt my brow furrow in confusion. My last destination of the night wasn’t a private home or an office building — it was a restaurant. A really nice one, from the looks of it. The patrons filtering through the front doors were all dressed semi-formally — women clad in expensive summer dresses, men clothed in dress shirts and ties.
“Elvarázsolt.” I sounded out the name in butchered Hungarian, my eyes scanning the sign overhead.
“Enchanted,” a smooth, male voice said in perfect English.
My eyes snapped from the sign to the elderly man in an impeccable suit who’d just addressed me. He was hovering not three feet away on the sidewalk.
“I’m sorry?” I asked, eyebrows raised.
“The restaurant’s name. It means enchanted.” He smiled. “I am Hugo, the maître d's here. We have been expecting you.”
I nearly smacked an open palm against my forehead, but managed to restrain myself. “Oh, yes! Of course. You need your packages.” I hastily unzipped my messenger bag, rooting around for the two black parcels. “I’m so sorry for the delay, sir.”
A gentle hand landed on my arm and stilled my movements. I looked up into Hugo’s smiling eyes.
“Miss Morrissey, it is not the packages we’ve been waiting for.”
My jaw dropped at the sound of my name. “What?”
“Please, follow me,” he said simply, gesturing to a young busboy hovering nearby before turning toward the doors.
Before I could so much as dismount from my bicycle, the busboy was at my elbow. “Your bike, miss,” he said, his English poor but intelligible.
“I— What—”
I heard Hugo sigh before he pivoted to face me. “Daniel will take your bicycle. It will be well looked after, locked away in my office for the duration of your meal.”
“Meal?”
He smiled indulgently. “Come.”
Totally bewildered, I hopped off and watched helplessly as Daniel wheeled my bike through a side entrance and out of sight. Hugo had already disappeared inside the main doors. With no other options, I clutched my messenger bag tightly and rushed after him.
I stepped into the opulent lobby, my eyes scanning from the mahogany bar to the gold-gilded wall sconces, and tried not to feel too self-conscious under the curious stares of the patrons who’d gathered to await their reservations. I suppose I did look a little out of place, in my neon uniform, helmet, and tennis shoes. I certainly felt like a fish out of water.
“This way,” Hugo called, waving me over. He led me out of the lobby and down a narrow hallway, to a room marked with a single word I instantly recognized. I’d memorized it on Day One of my Hungarian adventure.
hölgyek
He’d brought me to the ladies restroom.
“What—”
“The packages, madam,” Hugo cut in smoothly. “You may open them, now.”
“But, they’re—”
“If you look closely, you will see they are addressed to you.”
Okay, so… Hugo was clearly a few fries short of a Happy Meal. That was the only explanation for all of this.
Or, that’s what I thought until I pulled out the first parcel and saw FAITH MORRISSEY scribed across the top in tiny, silver lettering. I turned disbelieving eyes to Hugo, but he simply smiled again and gestured for me to open it.
I tore through the thin plastic and was shocked when my fingers sank into whisper-soft fabric. Pulling off the wrappings, my eyes went wide when I saw a magnificent cocktail dress in the most stunning burnt-orange hue I’d ever seen in my life. Simple in design, with a sweetheart neckline and a fitted silhouette, the dress somehow managed to be elegant and modern at the same time.
“This can’t be mine,” I whispered to myself, even as my hands curled tightly around the floaty gauze in a proprietary grip.
“There is still another package, madam.” Hugo’s gentle reminder startled me back to reality. Before I could protest, he reached out, plucked the dress from my hands, and draped it across his arm like a sommelier’s towel.
I stared at him for another moment, dumbfounded, before reaching into my bag and pulling out the small black box. In one swift movement, I tore off the paper, lifted the lid, and found myself gaping at a gorgeous pair of strappy, gold lamé sandals. They were dainty, delicate. Whimsically designed to wrap around the ankle and calf like winding golden vines.
My mouth fell open.
It seemed I’d been transported into a live-action, modern-interpretation of Cinderella, complete with a stunning outfit I’d never be able to produce on my own and a mysterious Prince Charming I’d yet to meet.
A semi-hysterical giggle escaped my lips when I realized that my fairy godmother was a short-statured Hungarian man named Hugo. All he was missing was an enchanted wand and some magic words.
“Bibbidi-bobbiti-freaking-boo,” I muttered under my breath, eyes still locked on the shoes.
“Very good, madam,” Hugo said politely. “You may change your attire inside. You’ll find a garment bag hanging on the back of the door, for your uniform. After you’ve changed, please return to the hostess station and we will guide you to your table.”
“But… This is crazy!” I finally managed to form words, as he handed the dress back to me and began walking away. “Hugo! Who arranged this? Was it Konrad?”
There was no response from the mysterious maître d's. He rounded the corner and faded out of sight, leaving me alone with a beautiful dress, gorgeous shoes, and about fifty million questions.
If this was Konrad’s way of finally getting me to go out on a date with him… that boy was in for a world of hurt.
My stomach clenched with nerves as another, far more disturbing possibility occurred to me. What if this wasn’t Konrad’s plan at all — what if it was Istvan’s?
Was this the next step in his seduction strategy?
Crap. I was so screwed.
Sighing deeply, I pulled open the bathroom door and prepared to pull my sweaty self together.
Light from the flickering candle refracted off my crystal wine glass, as I slowly rotated the stem between two fingers. I watched wax trickle down the candlestick, dripping in creamy yellow rivulets onto the silver stand as the flame consumed the taper. Taking a sip of my wine, I contemplated checking the time on my phone again.
I’d been sitting here for fifteen minutes, and my date — whoever he was — had yet to arrive.
I refused to entertain the possibility that it was anyone but Konrad.
The kid must’ve spent months saving up for this restaurant, the dress, the shoes…
I almost felt bad. Almost.
“More wine, miss?” My waiter was quite diligent — so much so, I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to ride my bike home if he kept refilling my glass at this rate.
I turned to smile at him. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome, miss.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know when my date is arriving, would you?”
His eyes darted to the empty chair across from me and he opened his mouth to say something. Before he could express a single word, he was interrupted by the sound of wooden chair legs scraping against the floor, as well as a familiar masculine voice, speaking from the other side of the table.
“Sorry I’m late, Red.”
I stilled completely, my eyes frozen on the waiter’s face. The young man flushed under my gaze, nodded politely in my direction, and hurried away from the table so fast he made Harry Potter’s apparition skills look sluggish. Damn — I really could’ve used his help. I needed someone to pinch me, hard, because I must’ve been dreaming.
There was no possible way that Wes Adams was sitting at the table across from me. It was simply inconceivable that he’d been the one to arrange all of this.
“Red?”
He was using that soft tone again — the one that made my insides melt — and I couldn’t resist anymore.
Eyes wide, heart in my throat, I turned my head in his direction. And there he was.
For no reason at all, I found myself blinking back tears.
“You did all of this?” I asked, my voice breaking a little.
He nodded.
“Why?”
“Figured it was time I took you out on a real date,” he said, shrugging casually, as though there was nothing special about the evening he’d planned.
Thoughts tumbled unchecked through my head as I tried to process that this was actually happening. My mind was spinning. My chest was so full, it ached. My heart beat so fast, I worried it was about to explode into a million tiny pieces. Staring at Wes, all I could think was how handsome he looked, sitting there with the candlelight illuminating his angular features, dressed in a crisp white button down. No tie, but that was no surprise — he didn’t strike me as the tie-wearing type.
“I thought I’d never see you again,” I finally whispered, when I’d regained a little of my composure.
“I told you — I don’t leave things up to fate.” His eyes locked on mine. “I make my own.”
My head shook in disbelief. “I can’t believe you did this.”
“I can’t believe how gorgeous you look in that dress.” His eyes dropped to my neckline, lingering for a long moment. My breath caught as I saw how his jaw clenched, how the muscles there jumped and tightened. Abruptly, he stood and offered me his hand.
I stared up at him, confused.
“Show me,” he said, his voice low.
I cast an embarrassed glance around the restaurant. “Now?”
He nodded. “I want to see you, Red.”
My stomach flipped at his words and heat began to simmer in my veins.
Slipping my hand into his, I allowed him to pull me to my feet. For almost a full minute, I endured his intent perusal, trying not to shiver as his gaze caressed my body from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I shivered when his eyes finally returned to mine and I saw the unmistakable lust swirling in their depths. My mouth went dry as he tugged me closer.
Was he finally going to kiss me?
A surprised, involuntary laugh slipped from my lips when Wes lifted one arm over my head and spun me in a complete circle. His wolfish whistle injected some levity into the otherwise intense moment and caused several people at surrounding tables to stare disapprovingly in our direction. I didn’t spare them a thought — all my concentration was used up by Wes, who was twirling me closer and closer with each turn. When I pirouetted to a dizzy stop, I found myself wrapped tightly in the circle of his arms.
“Very smooth,” I said breathlessly, still giggling.
“You’re beautiful, you know that?” Wes whispered, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
“This outfit is beautiful,” I corrected. “I have helmet hair and would sincerely benefit from a long shower.”
He smiled that crooked smile. “You need to learn to accept a compliment.”
“There are a few other things I’d like to learn first, mister.” My tone was playfully stern as I forced myself to step out of his arms. Untangling my limbs, I took a steadying breath as I sat back down in my chair. He settled in across from me with an amused, expectant look on his face.
“Such as?”
“Such as…. How did you manage all of this? This dress fits like it was made for me — so do the shoes! Konrad was somehow in on the entire plan. Even honorable Hugo was totally down with your scheming.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Do you have a super power I don’t know about?”
“That depends — do you consider being unbelievably attractive a super power?”
I rolled my eyes. “I don’t like you.”
“Yes, you do.” He laughed boyishly. “Red, Konrad is a teenage boy — he’d have done anything I asked for twenty bucks, a Red Sox cap, and a free case of beer. Hugo was a little harder — a few more bills and a bottle of scotch. And, let’s just say, men aren’t the only ones who can be bought. Your roommate Margot was quite helpful when it came to dress and shoe size.”
My jaw dropped.
“Don’t look so surprised.” He grinned. “You’ll wound my ego.”
“As if that’s possible.” I huffed.
His grin widened.
“You could’ve just asked me out, you know,” I pointed out. “You didn’t have to do all of this.”
“Yeah, I did,” he said, the joking light fading from his eyes.
I looked down at the linen tablecloth. It probably had a higher thread count than the sheets on my bed. “But I’m not worth the effort,” I mumbled quietly.
“Yes, you are.” Wes’ tone was suddenly sharper than a razor blade. “I don’t know who put the idea in your head that you don’t deserve to have the world on a fucking string. I don’t know who convinced you that you’re not worthwhile. But if I ever meet them—” He inhaled deeply and his voice went cold as ice. “I’ll make them regret it.”
Startled by his harsh words, I glanced up to find his eyes burning into mine. The look swimming in their depths was one no man had ever given me before — a swirling combination of stark anger and pure desire. It caught me off guard, sent my thoughts whirling in a kind of panicked anticipation. A blush stained my cheeks under the heat of his gaze and I resisted the urge to hide behind my hair.
When the waiter suddenly reappeared at our table, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. His presence was a welcome reprieve from the intensity of Wes’ stare. Unfortunately, after handing us menus and topping off our wine glasses, he disappeared once more, leaving me alone with a man who had me squirming in my seat with a single heated glance.
I immediately took several fortifying sips of wine — liquid courage was better than no courage at all.
Wes grinned knowingly as he watched me drink. I pointedly ignored him.
For the next few minutes, I pretended to read the options on my menu but, really, all of my attention was consumed by the man sitting across from me. I listened to each breath he took, heard the light scratch of his fingertip against linen as he traced absent circles on the tabletop. I let the calligraphy blur before my eyes as I peeked around the leather-bound edges of my menu, watching the way the flickering light made shadows dance across his features.
When our waiter reappeared, I’d barely scanned the options. Flustered, I ordered the first thing my eyes landed on, not even bothering to read the English description printed beneath the foreign dish title. Taking another gulp of wine, I raised my eyes to Wes and found him staring at me again. He had one eyebrow quirked up and the left corner of his mouth was twitching.
“What?” I asked, a little defensively.
“Nothing, nothing.” His crooked grin was back. “Just surprised you ordered a rib-eye.”
Shit, I’d ordered steak?
My parents had been all-organic, animal-loving, California-crazed heath freaks — in their eyes, red meat was the devil. I don’t think I’d ever eaten steak in my life. But I wasn’t about to admit that, unless I was also prepared to admit why I’d been so distracted while ordering.
I was so not prepared for that.
Burying my embarrassment, I set my shoulders stubbornly. “Why are you surprised — because I’m a girl? Who says girls can’t eat steak? What, was I supposed to order a salad with a side of air? A gust of wind, perhaps, accompanied by a plate of peeled grapes?”
Wes choked on his wine.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “You know, in the olden days, plenty of women ate red meat just as often as their menfolk.”
“Wait, I’m sorry,” Wes interrupted, holding a hand up to stop me. “Did you just use the word menfolk in casual conversation?”
I buried my laughter beneath a glare as I tried to conjure an argument consisting completely of bullshit and bluster. “As I was saying, it wasn’t always a big deal that women ate a steak every now and then. Historically there’s no basis for these women-should-only-subsist-on-light-and-air shenanigans. It’s biologically biased and, frankly, rather sexist.”
Wes’ eyes crinkled around the corners but his voice was deadpan when he responded. “God, I love it when you talk nerdy to me.”
Half a giggle escaped, but I managed to rein it in. “You’re a barbarian.”
“I’m not the one who ordered a huge-ass steak.”
I sighed. There was no winning with him — but it was fun as hell to try.
Our meals arrived a few moments later and I tried desperately to mask my horror when the waiter placed a sizzling hunk of meat down in front of me. The smell wafting from it should’ve been appetizing, but only succeeded in stirring up the mental image of guileless cows frolicking in the pasture. I stared down at the colossal slab, filled with revulsion. There was no freaking way I could eat that.
“What’s wrong, Red?” Wes’ voice was thick with mirth. “Aren’t you gonna eat your steak?”
I looked up at him, my face a little pale. “Um…”
“Because, I mean, if you don’t eat it… aren’t you just reinforcing the meat-shaming stereotypes perpetuated by a male society?”
He was mocking me. I wish I didn’t find that so sexy.
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I’m going to eat my damn steak — it looks delicious,” I lied through my teeth. Taking a deep breath, I picked up my knife with shaky hands. I’d rather plunge it into my stomach samurai-seppuku style than consume this chunk of baby bovine.
“Whatever you say,” he murmured.
I could feel his eyes on me as I cut into the rare beef. Red juice seeped from the middle, flooding the bottom of my plate and absorbing into the mountain of mashed potatoes sitting beside it. Totally nauseated by the sight, I tried my best to keep from puking.
“That looks juicy,” Wes commented happily, taking the first bite of his chicken.
I looked up at him and tried to glare, but couldn’t quite muster the strength. One more glance at my plate, and my facade cracked completely.
“I have a confession,” I muttered, setting down my utensils.
“Let me guess.” Wes grinned at me. “You don’t eat steak?”
I blew out a huff of air. “How’d you know?”
He snorted. “You look like you’d rather swallow your knife than you would a piece of your dinner.”
“Can you blame me? It’s gross. There’s no way I’m putting that meat in my mouth,” I said, grimacing. When Wes chuckled softly under his breath, I thought about the unintended double meaning behind my words and felt a blush flame up to my hairline. “Don’t even go there,” I ordered.
“It was too easy, anyway.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Just red meat, or all meat?” he asked.
“I eat chicken and fish.”
Wes stood, picked up his dinner, and, before I could protest, swapped his plate for mine.
“Wes, no,” I started. “This is your dinn—”
“Red.” His voice was firm as he sat back down. “No more arguing tonight.”
I swallowed the rest of my words. The chicken before me looked delicious — vastly preferable to the poor baby cow Wes was now consuming with vigor. I cut into it and tried not to moan when the first bite hit my tongue. In all the steak drama, I hadn’t realized just how ravenous I was. After a long shift on my bike, I had a tendency to eat like a truck driver.
We ate in silence for several minutes. I was headed toward a full-on food coma when a subdued laugh from the other side of the table made me look up.
Wes wasn’t eating — he was staring at me with a small grin on his lips.
In as ladylike a manner as I could manage, I swallowed the huge mouthful I was currently chewing. “What?”
“You like to eat.” The approval in his voice was unmissable.
I shrugged. “Food is awesome.”
“Yeah, well, most girls who don’t eat red meat are also vegan-vegetarian-gluten-free-you-name-it.”
“True enough,” I agreed. “You tell people in California that you eat gluten, they look at you like you said you enjoy barbecuing puppies on the weekends or slicing kittens into your sashimi rolls. Sheer horror.”
Wes laughed and I cracked a smile at the sound.
“You really are weird, you know,” he told me unnecessarily, his voice soft and his eyes warm.
“I know,” I said, stuffing another hunk of chicken into my mouth. “But you like me anyway.”
He grinned and picked up his fork.