Junk Mail

Chapter Three

Chapter Three JoshI walk down Madison Avenue toward my company’s office fifteen blocks away. After living in Manhattan for nearly a decade, I still love it just as much, if not more, every day. This city energizes me, and so do the people. Today, the walk offers the added bonus of time to shake off the memory of my royal fuckup last night.

In the light of day, I have to physically try not to cringe at the memory of the exchange. What else can I do? Though I do wonder who Peyton is.

As I pass a coffee shop, waving to the barista who makes a kickass espresso, I wonder if Peyton is an artsy gal, serving up lattes to customers and putting a smile on their faces. On the next block, as I nod a hello to the curly-haired lady with three teenagers who runs the organic cleaners where all my suits are pressed, I wonder if Peyton might be a married mom of three. Oops.

But the other thing I’m damn curious about is this—did she secretly enjoy not only the pic, but our exchange? Hell, that picture was a fine shot. I still have no idea why ButterflyGirl6 gave me a fake number. I’ll bet the number belongs to a friend of hers, and she wanted to see if I’d actually do it, and maybe now ButterflyGirl6 is cursing herself for missing out on the ride of her life.

I won’t hear from her again, though. Last night after the major screwup, I returned to my dating app, deleted my profile, and erased all photographic evidence of my member from my phone. Some close calls you don’t need to experience twice, and I definitely don’t want to tempt fate. One wrong sender receiving an up-close-and-personal view of my private parts is more than enough, thank you very much.

By the time I reach my office, the walk through the harried Manhattan crowds has reset my mood. I stuff my earbuds into my pocket, run a hand down my tie, and stride into the building, ready to tackle the day and forget all about last night’s little error.

Big error.

I mean, it is big, if I do say so myself.

It’s time to focus on business, and honestly, my job is one of my favorite things.

Inside the office, I say hello to Irene, our receptionist. “How are things with your son? Did his Little League team win the championship?”

She smiles and adjusts her red glasses. “They did. We went out to celebrate at Famous Ray’s.”

“Every celebration should include pizza. It’s a law, you know.”

“It’s one I follow judiciously,” she says with a wide grin.

When I reach my office, my assistant, Toby, runs in, frazzled and breathing hard. “Josh!” Everything he says is in exclamation points; even breathing for him is exciting.

“What can I do for you, Toby?”

Panting, he drags a hand through his wiry hair. “Brody called me! He tried to call you!”

I frown, then snap my fingers. “I was listening to a podcast. I might have hit DO NOT DISTURB by mistake.”

Toby grabs his stomach. “Brody ate wheat last night! By mistake!”

I cringe. Brody can’t go near the stuff on account of the world’s worst allergy. “That sucks.”

“And he wanted you to take his morning meeting with Wish Upon a Gift.”

A new boutique is slated to open a few blocks from our flagship store on the Upper East Side, and that’s why Brody has been hunting for new partnerships to give us an edge.

I nod and flip open my laptop. “Right. Sure. He sent me the file the other night, and I glanced through it.”

Toby points wildly. “She’s in the conference room right now. He said it’s vital that you fill in for him!”

I push my hands down so he knows to cool his jets. I’ve handled plenty of meetings before. This one isn’t going to be an issue. I stand, clap Toby on the back, and tell him I’ll be there in five minutes.

Toby darts out the door, his feet clopping down the hall.

I review the file quickly, refreshing my memory of what I already scanned the other night. Then I slide open my phone and find about 547 texts from Brody.

They include phrases like too dizzy to live, I’m only ever eating fruit, wait—is there some new wheat-based fruit that’s secretly trying to kill me, my life is the worst.

And then there are the more business-like ones . . . new client with a subscription box that’s all the rage, seal this deal like the deal-sealing mofo that you are, this company is the toast of the town—but not wheat toast, we want to partner with them like a magnet wants all the metal in the world, like my d**k wants all the ladies in the world.

Yeah, he’s a bit all over the place.

I text him back.

Josh: It’s under control. Sorry to hear that some wheat kicked your ass . . . again.

Brody: *middle finger emoji*

Brody: Also, thanks, man.

I head to the conference room, cringing when I overhear Toby telling the prospective partner how he had to help his roommate give her long-haired tabby a pill last night.

“I had to wrap him in a towel like a burrito,” he says.

The woman laughs. “That’s why I like dogs. “You can just trick them with a little bit of peanut butter.”

Her voice is pretty, sweet and melodic, and I wonder if the face matches.

I step into the conference room and . . . holy matching face of an angel. The Wish Upon a Gift woman is hotter than sin.

The brunette perched in a conference chair is smiling at my assistant, showing off the prettiest lips I’ve ever seen. She wears a black-and-white dress and looks like a cookie I want to bite. Which is a thoroughly inappropriate reaction.

I remind myself to expunge inappropriate thoughts from my mind. My d**k got me in trouble last night. No way is that sneaky bastard getting me in trouble now. But, f**k me, I seriously need some action.

She and Toby turn to me.

“This is Josh Hanson! He’s my boss! And he’s also a rock star in one-on-one basketball. He kills me every time we play!”

Um, we played once. But Toby’s right. I did destroy him.

I give him a self-deprecating grin. “You played valiantly. It was an even matchup.”

The woman stands, revealing long, toned legs that I do my best not to stare at because I’m not an asshole who objectifies women—especially not women I want to do business with. But right now, I’m waging an internal battle between my d**k and my brain. And the longer I stare at her, the closer my d**k is edging to victory.

Not cool, man. Not cool.

I focus on her eyes and that’s a whole new challenge, because they’re sky blue, a gorgeous contrast to her lush dark hair. She stares at me a little longer than I’d expect, like she’s studying my face.

I extend a hand, and after hesitating for a second, she takes it.

“Nice to meet you, Josh.” She swallows a little hard on my name, like it surprises her or is hard to pronounce. “I’m Peyton.”

I blink. What the actual f**k? What are the chances she’s the same Peyton?

Slim to nil, right?

Has to be.

Because there’s no f*****g way she can be the same Peyton. Her name isn’t a common one, but this has to be a weird coincidence.

As we shake, her gaze drops to my hands and she stares for an awkward beat or two. Like she’s cataloguing them now too. Like she’s doing the math—big hands, big feet, big . . . all over.

When she looks up and meets my gaze, the chance of her being the Peyton just surpassed one hundred percent. Red splashes across her cheeks. Her eyes are huge and wild. Her face is the picture of embarrassment.

Well, s**t.

I cringe, and Peyton coughs. She recognized me from my childhood photo . . . not the d**k one, obviously.

“Nice to meet you,” she says, as if she’s straightening out her words and trying to speak for the first time in ages.

“Good to meet you too, Peyton.” Trying to keep my tone as even as I can, I turn to Toby. “And thanks again. Especially for the cat tales.”

He laughs as he leaves, and when Peyton and I take our seats, there’s a tiny smile on her face too.

“Cat tales,” she murmurs with a little laugh.

“I personally prefer taking my pills with peanut butter,” I say, hoping to use humor to defuse the situation. We both know what she has seen, and it’s hella awkward.

This situation is all kinds of f****d up, and I need to unfuck it. Stat.

She stares at me, her nose crinkling. “So, last night . . .” She shakes her head, frustration etched on her face.

Which means it’s time for me to launch into a full-court apology. After all, we can’t risk losing her business to someone else.

“Look, Peyton. I’m sorry. I had no idea who you were. Your number must have been on my phone because of the file Brody sent me. I did not in any way, shape, or form intend to send you that picture. I’m so sorry.”

It’s the only explanation. I mean, how else could I have mistaken her number for ButterflyGirl6’s?

Peyton lets out a heavy sigh and presses her hand to her face as if checking to see if the temperature is still high. “I seriously can’t believe you sent it to me.”

I sigh as well. “I can’t believe I did either.”

“And I can’t believe you sent me your elementary school photo too.”

Yeah, that was weird. I see that now.

I frown, scrambling to fix the problem. “In my defense, I was trying not to seem like an asshole who sends unsolicited d**k pics.”

She holds up a hand to stop me. “Can we just not talk about that picture?”

“The kid pic or the junk shot?”

She raises her gaze to mine. “Both. Can we have a whatever you call it in basketball? A mulligan?”

I chuckle. “That’s a golf term. But we can just call it a do-over.”

“Yes, we need a do-over,” she says with an earnest nod. “We need to pretend it never happened and go about this meeting like we’ve never met before today.”

Yeah, good f*****g luck with that.