Page 86 of Sexting the Boss

“You have a delivery,” she says, her voice flat, like she couldn’t care less.

I sit up, blinking. “I didn’t order anything.”

She shrugs. “Not my problem.” And with that, she turns and walks off, disappearing into her own room.

I frown, getting up and padding barefoot into the living room, where a large black box with a ribbon sits at the door.

It’s elegant. Expensive-looking.

And definitely not something I ordered.

Curious, I sign for the package, thank the delivery guy, and haul it inside, placing it on my bed.

I hesitate for a moment before finally untying the ribbon and lifting the lid.

A dress.

And not just any dress.

A gown.

Deep blood red, silky and smooth, with delicate beading along the bodice. It looks like it was made for royalty, not a girl barely surviving New York on an entry-level salary.

My heart pounds as I run my fingers over the fabric, my stomach twisting with something nervous, excited, terrified.

Who sent this?

As if on cue, my phone buzzes.

Unknown Number: Did you get the dress?

A lump lodges in my throat.

I swallow hard, quickly typing back.

Me: How do you know my address?

My screen lights up with his response almost instantly.

Unknown Number: Your employee records.

I stare at the message, my fingers tightening around my phone.

What.

The.

Hell.

Me: That’s messed up.

Unknown Number: Nothing is over the line when it comes to you.

A shiver runs down my spine.

Not from fear.

From something else, something I don’t want to name.

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