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  With a grin, Leo slides off me, pulls the sheet from the bed, and wraps it around his waist. I whimper as my vagina mourns the loss of his heat, and then I slap a hand over my mouth and lie staring up at the ceiling to avoid seeing him in all his semi-naked glory. And despite how I feel about the man himself, he is one glorious specimen to look at. He’s Chris-Hemsworth-in-Thor kind of glorious, only without all that ridiculous hair. Yes, to look at Leo Nass is to look at a god, but any god-like impression is ruined the second he opens his mouth.

  “You know, Pop Tart, I could take care of that for you. With the way you’re panting, it shouldn’t take more than a few seconds to get you off. Then you can buy me breakfast. You owe me for putting up with your angry, drunk self last night.”

  Case in point.

  I bolt upright. The man has lost his damn mind. “You will not be taking care of anything. You are not permitted to come anywhere near my princess parts.”

  He laughs. “Did you just refer to your pussy as your princess parts?”

  “Shut up. I’m flustered, and I don’t do well with conflict.”

  “Could have fooled me.”

  “You still haven’t told me what the hell you’re doing sleeping in my bed.”

  “You really don’t remember anything?”

  I cross my arms over my body, as if they could protect me from what I fear might be the truth. “If I did, would I be asking?”

  “Well, shit. This is awkward. I’ve never had a woman forget a hard night’s fucking before. Maybe I’m losing my edge?”

  My jaw drops open and I have to work to pick it up. “We did not have sex. There’s no possible way. I would never let you touch me.”

  “You’re right. We didn’t have sex.” He grabs his pants from the end of the bed and tugs them on, then his belt, shirt, and socks. “I just saved you from imminent death, walked you home, carried you inside, deposited you safely on the couch, cleaned your apartment, and checked on you every two hours to make sure you didn’t slip into a coma.”

  My shoulders sag. Crap. Now I feel bad for insulting him. “Oh, well. Thank you. I appreciate it, but I’m still alive, haven’t slipped into a coma yet, so . . . you can leave now.”

  Leo laughs, but it’s low, and there’s no humor to the sound. “What exactly did I do to make you hate me so much?”

  “Hmm . . . let me count the ways.” I smile. “This may take a while. I’ll just email you an itemized account, would that be okay?”

  He shakes his head and makes his way to the living room. I follow, grabbing his jacket from off the back of the couch and holding it out to him. His fingers brush mine as he reaches for it. Instinctively, I pull away. “Ah, Pop Tart, it’s always a pleasure seeing you.”

  “What a terrible shame that the feeling isn’t mutual.” I walk him to the door and open it wide, gesturing with a sweep of my arm that he should leave.

  Leo stares at me for a beat and says, “You know, you’re really a bitch in the morning.”

  “It’s an all-day thing whenever you’re around.”

  He crosses the threshold and turns to face me. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

  “What?”

  “For not leaving your ass on the street. For pulling you out of the path of that cab. For spending the night.”

  “Oh please, you slept in my bed.”

  “Well, it’s not my fault someone passed out on the couch.”

  “Thank goodness I did because I’m still going to need to burn my sheets after you were rolling around in them. I may even need a new mattress,” I say. “The way I see it, you owe me.”

  “Oh, Pop Tart. No wonder you’re still single.” Leo walks away. Even his walk is irritating, as if he knows he’s god’s gift. Asshole.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” I call to his back.

  He just waves. “See you at the wedding.”

  Touché. Jealousy, anger, and dread roil in my stomach. In just a few short weeks I’ll be walking down the aisle toward my ex-fiancé, only my ex-best friend will be the one to say I do. Not only that, but I’ll also have to help plan their wedding, under my co-worker Katherine, who is just as desperate as me to make partner. My life is a nightmare. A literal nightmare.

  Frustrated and worked up from Leo’s teasing, I slam the door and turn to face my cats. Sam, Dean, and Cas all look at me as if I’ve lost my mind. I head for the couch, but then I notice my bookshelf—the one filled with all of my Supernatural memorabilia—has been tampered with. My Pop! Vinyl figures all look like they’re taking part in an orgy, and the worst part is he put Sam and Cas together. Sam and Cas. What is wrong with that man? Thankfully, he had the sense to leave my ’67 Chevy Impala Baby replica alone.

  It occurs to me that I have no idea what Leo has touched, and the thought of his cooties all over my apartment does not impress me at all. I need to clean from top to bottom, but first, I need to shower and rid myself of any germs I picked up on the street last night.

  I run the water and slip beneath the spray of the rainfall head, scrubbing my skin until I practically sparkle. I have a few scrapes and bruises on my arms and legs, and my face has a minor cut that Leo must have covered with a butterfly bandage while I slept. I’m not sure how I feel about Nass the Ass touching me while I was out cold.

  Once dried, I wrap myself in a towel, pad slowly out to the dresser, and open my underwear drawer. A frustrated scream escapes me. My only vibrator has been savagely ripped apart by a . . . a savage. Wires and tiny metal parts of the motor spill out of its pearly white silicone.

  “Son of a bitch!” I’m sure my cussing can be heard from several blocks away.

  I stalk into the kitchen, yank my phone from off the dock, and shoot a text to the most infuriating man in Manhattan.

  Me: I owe you? How about you owe me, after destroying my vibrator.

  Leo: LOL. You know, if you had a man, you wouldn’t need a vibrator.

  Me: Not true. I always had one with Chase.

  Leo: I said a man, not a boy.

  Me: Isn’t he your best friend?

  Leo: Yeah, that’s exactly why I get to call him a fucking kid. Jesus, how did you put up with him that long? Come to think of it, how did he put up with you?

  Me: Fuck you, asshole.

  Leo: No thanks, I don’t go in for missionary. Chase says that’s your thing.

  I gasp and glare down at my phone. Oh my god, Chase did not tell him that. I mean, Claire and I used to talk about our sex lives all the time, but that’s what women do. And it’s not like I’m a missionary freak or anything. I tried to spice up our love-making, switch up positions, introduce toys and fuzzy handcuffs, but Chase liked things a particular way. Plain. Vanilla. Not necessarily boring, but . . . yeah, it was totally boring. Chase was consistent in the bedroom, and I was busy. We were a busy couple, and sex was as efficient and enjoyable as it could be.

  Me: Chase also left me because we wanted different things, and yet it seems two months later he’s schtüping my best friend and proposing marriage. Maybe Chase can’t be trusted?

  Leo: Did you really just use the word schtüping?

  Me: Stop changing the subject. You owe me a new vibrator. And it’s not going to be cheap.

  Leo: Send me your wish list.

  Me: I don’t have a wish list.

  Leo: Come on, you make lists for everything. Tell me you don’t have one for your ultimate vibrators.

  Me: Nope, sorry. Unlike some, I’m not governed by my genitals.

  Leo: Says the woman demanding that I replace her vibrator.

  Me: I hate you.

  Leo: Feeling is mutual, Pop Tart. Don’t worry, I’ll buy you something good. Hello Kitty, perhaps? No. I know, something with a Supernatural theme.

  I throw my phone on the counter with a grunt and stomp back to the bedroom to get dressed. God, I hate him.

  Chapter Four

  The gift that keeps giving.

  Poppy

  “I got a delivery here for a Miss Port
er.”

  “That’s me,” I say, popping my head up over my cubicle wall, wondering who might have sent me something. I never get flowers, not even when Chase and I had dated. Not even on my birthday or Valentine’s day.

  I step out from behind my cubicle and hurry toward the man, excited to see what’s in the giant basket of goodies he’s holding. Delivery Guy’s brows shoot skyward, and he lets out a low whistle. Well that’s not creepy at all. I give him an unimpressed glare, but as I get closer and finally get a good look at the contents inside, I freeze. All of the blood in my body seems to have clawed up my neck to pool in my cheeks.

  Oh. My. God. I’m going to murder him. Slowly. Maybe even before the wedding.

  Delivery Guy shoves the basket toward me and I have no choice but to take it. “Tha . . . that’s not mine. There must be some kind of mistake.”

  “Your name Poppy Porter?”

  “Y-yes but I didn’t . . .” I trail off as I glance at Katherine, who I share a cubicle wall with. She eyes me suspiciously. Several of the other women from the office gather around. “I didn’t order these,” I whisper indignantly to the man, shoving the basket back at him. He volleys it right back as if we’re in a game of hot potato. The cellophane wrapping crinkles, and then one of the toys—a sparkly pink rabbit vibrator begins whirring. Heat claws at my neck. My eyes go wide, and I may just pass out right here.

  “Lady, I don’t care who ordered it. I’m paid to deliver, and that’s what I’m doing . . . delivering. Just sign here.” He thrusts an electronic hand-held scribble pad toward me. I sign my name while shame stings my cheeks. Delivery Guy turns and stalks away and I’m left clutching a giant basket of sex toys in the middle of my office while my dignity goes up in smoke.

  Once back at my desk, I tear into the package to stop the rabbit, but when I pull it out, it’s no longer moving—the one beside it is. It’s a sleek, U-shaped vibrator that doesn’t look phallic so much as it looks to be a carefully crafted silicone potholder. I pick it up. It stops vibrating. I glance up from the sex toy. Everyone is staring at me. Katherine, Dale—our receptionist—and even the new temp Amber seems to be delighting in my mortification. Praise be to baby Jesus that Jacinta is in her office on a conference call or I’m sure she’d be rifling through the contents of my Hamper of Humiliation.

  “Practical joke from a . . .” He’s certainly not a friend but what the hell else would I call him?

  “I didn’t know you were dating anyone,” Katherine says in her accusatory British accent, as if we were besties and she’s hurt I haven’t confided in her.

  “I’m not.” Men cannot be trusted. Men are big hairy balls worth of suck.

  “Oh my god, who would send you such an intimate gift then?”

  “Just some asshole,” I say, and instantly regret it because Katherine looks mortified. God, she’s so annoyingly perfect. Does she not realize that it’s the 21st century and women can cuss and still be professional? Sort of. I set the vibrator back in the basket and then I pull the card from the cellophane.

  Pop Tart,

  Now you can schtüp ’til your heart’s content. No luck finding replicas of Sam or Dean Winchester, but I did find a little Lucifer vibe to brighten your day. It’s sparkles too, because Old Nick’s dick was just begging for some glitter.

  You should also know I’ve hand-selected every piece. You’re welcome.

  L.

  I screw my nose up at the card and throw the basket in the trash. It doesn’t fit. Of course it doesn’t, because it’s a giant basket full of sex toys. In my office. Sitting there for all of my co-workers to see. He is so going to die. I pull my cell phone from my drawer and shoot off a text.

  Me: I hate you.

  Leo: LOL, come on, Pop Tart. Lighten up. I’m just trying to remove the stick from up your ass. You’ll find I’ve included my favorite kind of lube for that.

  Me: Your mother drank excessive amounts of alcohol when she was pregnant with you, didn’t she?

  Leo: It’s highly possible. Admit it, you’re clutching your pearl right now, aren’t you?

  I frown. The one and only time I’ve ever worn pearls was at cotillion, and only because my mother forced me to.

  Me: I don’t wear pearls.

  Leo: I didn’t say pearls. I said pearl. Singular. It was a euphemism for that pretty little button between your legs, but that’s okay. I know exploring your princess parts must be a new thing for you, so I’ll give you a minute to find it and see what it does. You can thank me later.

  Oh, he did not.

  Me: My clitoris and I are on very friendly terms, thank you.

  Leo: Really? What’s her name? Ariel? Belle? No. I know, Sleeping Beauty, because you’re just dying for Prince Charming to come and kiss it, and wake it up. You’ll have to introduce me sometime.

  Me: Never going to happen. She’s unimpressed by your pin dick.

  Leo: Such a mouth for a well-bred woman. I know just what we should do with it. And you know I don’t have a pin dick. After all, wasn’t it you getting off this Sunday past when I rubbed it up against your sweet little pussy and your eyes rolled back in your head?

  Me: My eyes only rolled because I grew tired of waiting to feel something. When did you say your penis implant surgery was?

  Leo: Oh, I’ll make you feel something.

  As if on cue, the vibrator starts humming again. I glare at it and kick the basket with the toe of my nude Louboutin pumps. The vibrating intensifies. I pick up said vibrator and consider hurling it over the cubical wall into Kathrine’s tea, but instead I wind up stuffing it into my purse, and then I shove it to the very back of my desk drawer. I feel a stab of disappointment when I return to my phone and see that I have no more texts from Leo, and then I want to stab myself because it’s Nass the Ass, and I shouldn’t be looking forward to texts from him.

  Instead of causing myself bodily harm, I flick my mouse and my screen hums to life. I check my emails again from Jacinta and set about completing the rest of the tasks on her to-do list, which I then cross reference with my own to-do lists.

  Katherine and I essentially do the same job. When we complete a task off Jacinta’s to-do list, we’re supposed to mark our name alongside it. Thanks to my little surprise delivery and the angry texting that followed, Katherine has already completed a good portion of the list, which means I’m stuck calling vendors for the rest of the afternoon. All courtesy of Nass the Ass. He sure knows how to ruin a girl’s day.

  ***

  I wait until almost everyone has cleared out of the office before I switch off my computer and ready myself to leave. There’s more than one reason for this. One, that stupid vibrator has been buzzing on and off all day, and I spent a good twenty minutes in the bathroom when I should have been working trying to get the damn thing apart and remove the batteries. I couldn’t locate the batteries, or a way in, and I needed the extra time to get everything squared away before I left.

  The second reason was because I couldn’t handle the humiliation of carting my basket of goodies through the office while everyone stared. I would leave it here for the cleaners to take, but truth be told, as much as I hate the man who gifted me said basket, I’ll admit, I actually want to try some of the things in there. It's not like he’ll ever know, and I’m not sure the cleaners would get rid of it anyway. Knowing my luck, it would still be here in the morning.

  I cover the basket in question with my coat and head for the elevator. Only when the doors open and I step inside, my boss comes careening down the hall shouting for me to hold the lift for her. For a split second, I weigh up my humiliation at her seeing my cargo, and the horrific idea of disappointing her, but then I lunge for the button and hold the door.

  “Thank you,” she pants as she leans against the mirrored wall.

  I give her a tight smile. “You’re welcome.”

  “What do you have there?” she asks, and by her tone, I’m pretty sure she already knows. Nothing gets by Jacinta. If something happens in her o
ffice, she’s one hundred percent aware of it.

  “Oh nothing, just some things a . . . friend sent me.”

  “Poppy, why is your purse vibrating?”

  “Um . . . it’s a surprise.”

  She raises one perfectly sculpted brow, and smiles. “So, who’s the lucky man?”

  “No one,” I spit out disdainfully.

  She lifts the corner of my jacket covering the basket and peeks inside. “That’s an awful lot of money to drop on sex toys for a complete stranger, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Fine, it’s from a guy I know, but it’s not what you think. He’s Chase’s best man. In fact, he’s the man who convinced Chase to break up with me over some brewskies and a—how did he put it? Oh, yes, a handful of stripper dollars.”

  “And he’s sending you sex toys?”

  “He’s a pervert. It’s not unusual behavior for him.”

  “Has he sent you sex toys in the past?”

  “No.”

  “Then why now?”

  “I don’t know, because he’s a jackass? He might have maybe saved my life this past weekend and pulled me from the path of a wayward cab, but then he rifled through my underwear drawer and found my vibrator. He broke it.”

  “Oh my god, what an ass.”

  “Right?”

  “He’s one hundred percent into you.”

  “No.” I laugh. “It’s not like that at all.”

  “Really?”

  “I would not sleep with him for all the money in Manhattan.”

  “And he’s the best man in the Vanderbilt wedding?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Careful, Poppy. If he’s responsible for talking Chase into breaking up with you like you say he is, that man may have ulterior motives.”