Page 88 of Hard to Resist

It could be from my parents. They send me little gifts every now and again. But this seems a touch too big.

Inside the brown box is a slightly smaller forest-green box with a shiny silver G logo. The designer in me pauses for a second, admiring the way it seems to be a play on multiple letters stacked within one another. I pick out A, R, and D, which are sectioned out by a central Y and all surrounded by an O, which is placed within the G. It’s elegant work and has a refined feel to it, which can be hard as a lot of companies try to do iterations of similar monogram designs nowadays and come off looking cheap.

Something about the logo and the repeating pattern on the box seems familiar, but I’m not sure why.

I pluck the green package out, so I can lift off the lid, and then freeze. There’s a gold drawstring bag inside, but this time that Glogo isn’t just a logo. Below it, in a Condor-variation font, is the wordGoyardin all caps.

What the hell?

I almost fling the box away but stop, worried about ruining the undoubtedly expensive item within. The last thing I need is to scratch what I assume is a handbag and be left repaying the damages, because I sure as hell did not order this myself.

With delicate hands, I carefully lift the box off my lap and place it on the couch, like it’s made of glass. Then I tear back into the larger brown box to confirm that it is, in fact, my name on the shipping label.

Was this Hannah’s doing?

I recognize the brand label because she owns one of their bags. I complimented it a couple of times and then blanched when I learned that it cost an entire paycheck. As much as I want to splurge on items for myself, I put all my spare money into an account for my parents.

Still, this gift would be excessive—Hannah knows that I’d feel bad about not being able to give her something of equal value back.

Maybe she ordered it for herself, and the website autofilled with my name and she missed it?

That seems a little outlandish, but it is also the most plausible reason.

Knowing that she’ll be home at any moment, I slip into her bedroom and turn on her curling wand before heading back to the kitchenette and grabbing some leftover Chinese from the fridge to heat up. The looming presence of the package floats with a haunted aura, and I keep glancing over at it.

The front door jangles a few times before the lock clicks and Hannah slinks in.

“Ugh, I hate when men set early dates. Like, do they not understand that I can’t just teleport myself after work? I have tocome all the way home, get ready, and then head right back out again. And they always pick places far away from where we live, which just tacks on more time.”

She makes the same complaint every week without fail. If it were up to Hannah, we would be living more midtown or even downtown, but because of my budget, we’d been stuck picking a place way uptown, away from the hustle and bustle.

“Who’s tonight?”

“Vince. Works as a consultant, is supposedly six three, and has a pic of himself cooking shirtless on a yacht.”

“Oh, a new one.”

“Mhm, we matched on Monday. Tomorrow night is the third date with James.”

“That’s the one who looks like a young Shemar Moore and took you to that fancy new rooftop bar, right?”

“Correct.” She kicks off her oxfords and dumps her Goyard on the dining table.

“You have packages on the couch.”

“Ooh, yay.”

I pop my food in the microwave and then twist around, watching her rip into the bubble mailers with startling ferocity.

“What’d you get?”

“This new transfer-proof lip gloss. Bridget Vaughn posted about it and—Oh. That reminds me. You busy tomorrow night?”

“Uh, no?”

“Great. I have a gift.” She slides back over to her bag and pulls out a rectangular envelope, holding it out to me.

“What’s this?”

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