Page 3 of Dirty Delivery

I aim to please. What do you say?

I stare at his last message, hesitating. Is this a terrible idea? Probably. But then I glance at the bottle of wine on the coffee table—half-empty and all the company I’ve had tonight—and before I can talk myself out of it, I type:

Me

Fine. But if the jokes are terrible, I’m kicking you out.

Tinder Guy

Deal. Text me your address?

I bite my lip, second-guessing myself for half a second before sending it. What’s the worst that could happen? A mediocre date and an awkward goodbye?

Or maybe, just maybe, this could be the start of something I might find tolerable.

Twenty minutes later, I’m pacing the living room, second-guessing everything.Why did I agree to this?My wine buzz is wearing off, and the reality of inviting a stranger over is settling in. But before I can cancel, headlights sweep across my window. He’s here.

I take a deep breath, plaster on a smile, and open the door.

It’s going to be fine. Probably.

Chapter Three

Rylan

The scent of motor oil and stale smoke fills the Doyle warehouse, a place I’ve been trying to avoid since I was old enough to drive. The building hasn’t changed in years—same cracked concrete floors, same low hum of fluorescent lights that give everyone a sickly glow. It’s a shrine to everything I hate about the "family business."

"You’re late," Declan says, not looking up from the stack of papers he’s reviewing. My older brother has perfected the art of disapproval, and it shows in every inch of his rigid posture.

"Traffic," I reply, tossing my keys onto a nearby table. It’s not a complete lie; Brooklyn at rush hour is hell, but mostly I just didn’t want to be here.

"Traffic," he repeats. His tone drips with sarcasm. "You’d think someone who insists on playing delivery driver for a living would know how to navigate a few city blocks."

"It’s called blending in, Dec," I shoot back. "Not all of us want to be the poster boy for the Irish mob."

He finally looks up, his piercing blue and green eyes narrowing. "And yet here you are, delivering our shipments like a good little soldier."

I clench my jaw refusing to rise to the bait. This is the game we always play—Declan asserting his dominance, me pretending not to care. It’s exhausting, but walking away isn’t an option. Not yet.

"What’s the job?" I ask, cutting to the chase.

Declan smirks, sliding a clipboard across the table. "Couple of drops tonight. Usual spots, and one special delivery." He taps the last address on the list. "Make sure this one gets there on time."

I glance at the address, and my stomach sinks. It’s one of our more "sensitive" clients, the kind that comes with strings attached. "Got it," I mutter, grabbing the clipboard and heading for the door before Declan can say anything else.

The night stretches out in a blur of stops and starts. The usual deliveries go off without a hitch—quick exchanges with familiar faces and occasional gruff nods of acknowledgment. Each time Icross another address off the list, the tension winds tighter. That last delivery looms like a storm cloud on the horizon.

By the time I reach the "sensitive" client's address, the air is heavier, thicker on my skin. It's not a place I’d want to linger in under normal circumstances—dim lighting, too many shadows, and eyes that watch from behind curtains. I double-check the package and take a deep breath to push down the unease curling in my gut. The door opens before I can even knock.

"Good. You’re here," the client quips. There's no small talk, no pleasantries, just a quick handoff and a reminder of why I don’t like coming here. A tense moment passes as they inspect the contents, but when they finally nod in approval, I’m free to leave.

Relief washes over me as I step back out into the night. I exhale, shoving my hands in my pockets, and make my way to the truck. One more stop. The stop. My pulse quickens at the thought of seeing Savannah again, her name like a steady drumbeat in my mind. The tension from earlier fades with each mile that brings me closer to her house. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for all night.

Technically, I should be on my way to return the van to the main hub and clock out for the evening, but after the last few months of running into her during herBoudoir Blissdeliveries she’s become a part of my routine. I tell myself it’s harmless—just checking in. Making sure she is okay. But the truth is, she’s been living rent-free in my head and I’ll use any excuse to catch a glimpse of her again.

When I pull up outside Savannah's brownstone, the lights are still on. That’s weird. Even though it’s a Friday night, she’s a teacher with early mornings and doesn’t seem to stray from her routine. Not that I’d know, except . . . well, okay, fine. I might have driven past her place a couple of times, or . . . every night. Before heading back to the hub to clock out for the evening, but it’s not what it sounds like. I’m not a creep, I promise. I’m justlooking out for her, call it a byproduct of growing up in a family like mine where knowing too much about what goes bump in the night is second nature.

But tonight, something feels off.

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