Chapter 4

Rosie

Nothing like being interrupted by the doorbell when you're putting away groceries. There's a delivery guy on my porch holding a box in one hand and a cellphone in the other. I open the door hesitantly because I'm fairly certain he's at the wrong side of the duplex.

"Hi," I say.

"Have a package for a Ms. Rosie Breit," he says. "That you?"

I frown. "Yes, but I didn't order?—"

"Sign here." He holds his phone sideways for me to finger scratch my name across the screen. Then he hands me the package and walks back to his truck.

After closing the door, I stare down at the box. It's definitely addressed to me, but there's a stamp over the return address so I can't even see who it's from. Weird.

"Figs, did you order something while I was out picking up groceries?" My sleepy boy looks up at me with his perfectly green feline eyes and slow blinks.

I set the package down and force myself to go back into my tiny kitchen. I was in the middle of putting away my freezer items and I've got to get them up before they melt on the counter. Curiosity gnaws at me. I practically toss everything into the freezer, not caring if the ice cream carton is on its side or the pizza box is bent. I'm dying to see what's in that sizable box that was delivered to my door.

I nearly trip over air on my way back to my sofa where I left the mystery box. Oh-so-carefully, I use the pair of kitchen scissors to slice open the box. It would not be the first time I stabbed myself simply by going too fast.

The first thing I see when I open the box is a smaller envelope. I pull out the note. It's handwritten on fancy parchment-like paper. The penmanship is small and cramped in a decidedly masculine fashion. My heart thunders in my chest.

Dear Ms. Breit,

I've been remiss in sending you a proper work computer. Please let me know if this one is sufficient and if you need any other equipment. A more ergonomically correct chair? A printer? Whatever you need, I will expense.

Sincerely,

H. Wells

"Oh my gosh, Figs, I think he bought me a new computer!" I pull out the rest of the packing material to find a plastic-sealed box. It's the latest compact power machine from Apple. My dream computer, if I'm being honest. But I was gonna be happy with a cheaper PC model.

"And let him know if I need anything else? Is he kidding?" I scratch Figs under his chin. "Can you imagine? Yes, please, Mr. Wells, buy me a fancy chair with a footrest?" I ask using a ridiculous accent.

"Could I have some scones and clotted cream too?"

I don't know why I'm suddenly talking like Margaret Thatcher.

I immediately pull up my e-mail app on my phone and record a quick voice memo thank you to him.

"Mr. Wells! Your generosity is much appreciated. The computer was not necessary, but I'll readily admit that the newer features will enable me to better serve you. And by serve you, I obviously mean in the purely professional sense. Oh, not that I'm that kind of professional. Yikes, I'm just gonna say a big thank you and leave it at that."

I should probably re-record it, but I'm dying to get my new toy out and take it for a spin.

The following week, there's a loud knock on my door. Now, I realize that people knock on doors. But not usually my door. I don't have any family. I don't really have friends except a couple from college who have since gotten married and moved on. So it's just me and Figs. Which is why it's unusual for me to have people standing on my porch.

I look through the peep hole and see three sizable men.

"Ms. Breit, don't be alarmed. We have a package from Mr. Wells to deliver and he gave us explicit instructions that we weren't to leave until everything was set up."

Another gift? And this one requires three guys to put it together?

I open the door, but not very far.

The main guy, the one who was talking, has kind eyes. You learn to watch for those sorts of things when you're in the system. The difference between a truly kind person and one who pretends is sometimes a fine line. But I've gotten good at assessing people.

"I'm Mark," he says, pointing to his chest. "This is Pete and John."

"Mr. Wells sent you? Here?"

"Yes ma'am," Mark says. "We have a new desk and office chair to install for you."

"Oh, well, I didn't request?—"

"Yes, he said as much. But he sent a letter explaining everything." Mark holds out an envelope to me. "You can get started, I guess. But please don't let the cat outside. He's not much of a runner, but sometimes he gets a little sassy."

They nod as I sit on my sofa to open the envelope.

Dear Ms. Breit,

I read a recent study about the negative effects of computer work on a person's back and hips. It would not sit right with me if I were the cause of such injuries to your body. So, I've sent the guys with a state-of-the-art desk that can easily transform from a sitting to a standing desk. The chair you'll find is ergonomically designed. Please let me know if you need any additional supplies.

Sincerely,

H. Wells

There's not a tremendous amount of room in my duplex so I hope the pieces aren't too big. I show the guys where to set it up and they readily go about moving my makeshift desk out of the way.

Two hours later, the guys have finished putting together my new desk and chair. I send the guys off with my thanks and feel terrible that I didn't have any cash to tip them. But they assured me they'd been paid well for the job.

The conversion from sitting to standing happens with just a press of a button. And the chair is so comfortable, I think I could sit here all day.

As if he inherently knows what I need, he sent me this desk. Because I can't sit all day. The scar tissue on my back would never allow for that. So I'm often sitting, then standing, then lying down just to keep from pain. I've never told any of these things to Mr. Wells, but he knew just what I needed.

This is definitely not going to help with the ridiculous crush I have on him.

Yep, I'm a walking cliche. I've fallen for my boss. We've never even met face-to-face, but that doesn't stop my heart from racing as soon as I hear the video chatting ring from my laptop. Or even just his name popping up on my phone with an incoming text. I am ridiculous. I do realize this.

He's probably married. I haven't asked.

Which I should definitely not do because he is my boss and his marriage—hypothetical or real—is none of my business.