“I’ll do that,” I promise.
He walks away, and I sit back in my chair, trying to pull myself together. The evening I spent with Matt was a kind of emotional earthquake, and the aftershocks keep rattling me.
Maybe I’m ready to concede that Jenny is right—I should start putting myself out there again. But Matt isn’t a great reintroduction to dating. He’s too intimidating. Too amazing. Too...everything.
Just as I form this thought, my computer monitor dings, and his login name appears on my screen.
Sniper87: Hi there. Today’s request is for a dinner date next Tuesday at 7pm. Oh, and reservations. Wherever my date wishes to go.
For a moment my heart soars. A dinner date. Wherever I want to go! With the most potent man on the planet. Alone. Just the two of us.
A wave of lust rolls through me. Unfortunately, it’s quickly followed by a wave of panic.
A private dinner date? I’ll probably turn into a babbling lunatic with the conversational skills of a frightened chimpanzee. The man has no idea how many hours of worry and preparation went into that night at the opera. And, thanks to the performance onstage, I didn’t even have to speak for much of it.
If I’m honest, the conversation parts of that evening were the best parts. Somehow I’d finally relaxed and enjoyed Matt’s company. Right around the time we began inventing opera plotlines, I forgot he was Matt Eriksson, Toronto forward, and began to see him as Matt, the funny guy I enjoy talking to.
But was my competent performance a fluke? Lightning rarely strikes twice in the same spot. And even if I manage not to babble or embarrass myself, let’s be honest. The man has more testosterone than I’m used to dealing with. He’ll expect sex—the kind of passionate, dirty sex that famous athletes are used to.
With me—the woman who isn’t even sure she likes sex.
Don’t get me wrong—the idea of Matt Eriksson naked and moaning is very appealing. But the deed itself has always been a big letdown. So even if I screw up my courage and go through with the whole adventure, the result will be a soul-crushing disappointment, right?
Right. I’ll let him down easy.
HTE: Hi Snipes.
Sniper87: Just the girl I was looking for! Sitting here in the hotel all by my lonesome. Thinking about a date I had recently. On the way home...
HTE: I have to stop you right there, sir. The Fetch chat is stored in your client file and can be read by anyone who assists you.
Sniper87: Hmm. But a certain HoTtiE always assists me. That can’t be random luck.
Oh, heck. He has me there.
HTE: It’s not random, but it is luck. Certain accounts are always routed first to an owner, who looks after that customer personally.
Sniper87: Ah, so that’s how it works. For your big customers?
HTE: Big ones and troublesome ones.
Sniper87: Well I know which kind I am. :-) Why don’t you find out.
HTE: !!!
Sniper87: :-) HTE: Not joking here. If I take an unplanned day off, or you sent in a request in the middle of the night, you’ll be hitting on the guy we call the Dark Lord, maybe.
Sniper87: So you’re saying we can’t have really fun conversations over the Fetch chat.
HTE: Precisely. Sir.
Sniper87: I do like it when you call me sir. Gives me ideas.
HTE: Snipes!
Sniper87: Sorry, sorry.
Sniper87: I’ll be good. If you insist.
HTE: I really do.
Sniper87: Five days is a long time not to chat. But I’ll live. Later, HTE.
HTE: Later.
Whew. And now I’ve bought myself a little more time to think about whether we’ll go out on a second date. I won’t hear from him for a few days, and I’d be able to clear my head.
Ding!
I check the monitor again, and Sniper87 appears. Instead of writing a personal message, he’s filled out the standard request form.
Request type: Pickup and delivery
From: Frankie’s Florists on Yorkville Ave
When: After 2pm today.
Destination: Fetch offices, 99 ? Scollard Street, for Ms. Hailey Taylor Emery
Notes: Please route this request to any staff member other than the elusive HTE. Gracias.
He’s sent me flowers?
Wow.
That starts up a fresh aftershock. In my mind’s eye, I see his sexy smile loom closer, and then he captures my mouth as I gasp…
Gah!
With a single click of the mouse I route the request to Jenny. Then I get up to go check out the pile of boxes that Dion warned me about. I’m not so addled that I’ve forgotten there’s real work to be done. As I pass the bullpen, I hear Jenny let out a little squeal, but I don’t catch her eye because I don’t feel like seeing her I-told-you-so face.
Sure enough, there are a bunch of boxes accumulating outside Jackson’s office. I sink down on my knees to sort through them. We receive lots of parcels for our clients here in the Fetch offices, because only by taking delivery can we verify that our orders actually arrive.
Many of these items come properly tagged with the customer’s name or—in the case of those clients who remain anonymous—a Fetch ID on them. (FBO MrEightInches, etc.) But quite often the shipping label only says Fetch, Inc. So Jackson and I open the unlabeled boxes ourselves in order to preserve our clients’ privacy.
The first box I open is an imported Japanese volleyball. The invoice says that it cost us seventy bucks. I stand and lean into the bullpen. “Anyone missing a fancy volleyball?”
Dion turns his head and cries, “WILLLLLSON!” just like Tom Hanks in Cast Away, while everyone laughs.
Then another Fetcher claims it for a client. Mystery solved.
The next package is full of toner cartridges for our office printers. Yawn.
But the third package leaves me in a quandary. After I open it, it takes me a moment to identify the contents. My first guess is sporting equipment, because there are stretchy bands attached to loops. But this contraption is accompanied by a weirdly large feather. And a pair of...furry handcuffs? They’re actually pink leopard fur. No self-respecting leopard would be caught dead in this color. But whatever.
I find the invoice and note that the stretchy thing is an item called “personal restraints.” And underneath the bubble wrap is a flogger. Medium weight, apparently.
Oh.
Oh.
The delivery is fascinating, but also problematic. In the interest of customer privacy, I can’t hold these items up and yodel for their owner. Instead, I carry the box into my office and place it on the desk while I pull up our Fetch database. I re-enter my password and start trying search terms. Personal restraints comes up empty. Handcuffs pulls up seventeen different requests, but all of them are fulfilled, and none of them recent. Feather is equally useless.
“Hailey?” Jackson says from the doorway. “Where’s the file on…” His eyes fall on the box and its contents. “Um…?”