Page 129 of Candy Hearts, Vol. 2

CHAPTER 1

LEX

When I earned a doctorate in cultural anthropology, I imagined grading papers in a cozy college office or changing the world while working for an international health organization.

I didn’t picture spending a rainy February day rushing around the Willamette Valley, delivering singing telegrams. My three-hundred-and-sixty-nine-page dissertation was about as valuable as the wad of napkins in my console.

As I sat in my ancient—but still reliable—Toyota Corolla, I scarfed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I needed sustenance before the next telegram. So far, they’d all been lovey-dovey messages asking people to be my clients’ valentines. The next one was something else entirely.

Rain thunked against the roof and the overcast Oregon sky added a dour note, doing nothing to pump me up for my performance. Yay, Seasonal Affective Disorder . I had three more telegrams to deliver before I started my evening job.

“This telegram isn’t going to deliver itself, and Poppa needs a good tip to help cover my next student loan payment,” I muttered.

I made sure my black long-sleeved T-shirt was free of peanut butter and jelly, then confirmed the recipient’s address and office information. With the rest of my costume and a box of chocolates tucked under my arm, I hustled across the street to an office building for a local tech company.

When I reached the safety of the awning, I pulled the red foam heart over my head. It covered my shoulders and torso, with the point at the heart’s bottom covering my groin. I slapped a jagged black Velcroed line across my chest.

It sent one hell of a statement to break up with someone via a singing stranger in a costume. I’d received specific instructions to do it during the day when he was at work instead of home. Did that mean the breaker-upper was the asshole, or the dumpee had earned the embarrassment?

Not my problem as long as I got paid.

I got some odd looks as I took the elevator to the fourth floor and caught a couple of people taking sneaky pictures of me. Shame I’d left the Cupid costume in my closet. It showed off my best assets, but it wasn’t warm enough for a diaper and sparkly wings.

When I exited the elevator, I was greeted by bright fluorescents, white walls, and a bland corporate space. The sign above the reception desk said QuantoCube in sharp chrome letters. That name gave no hint at what the business did. Could be anything from cryogenically freezing rich people to creating some futuristic video game.

I pulled my phone from the pocket of my black dress pants and made sure I had the office number correct as I mentally ran through the lyrics I soon needed to enthusiastically belt. I inhaled deeply and centered myself as I did before every performance—no matter the venue or what I was performing.

The feminine-presenting person behind the desk glanced up from their computer with a mild smile that brightened as they took in my costume. It wilted when they likely noticed the broken part of the heart. I clocked the She/Her pin on her pink cardigan.

“Hi there.” I cranked the wattage of my smile and hoped it came off more charming than creepy. It usually earned me good tips at my other jobs. “I’m here with a delivery. Office 421?”

Her eyes widened as she gestured to her right. “421? Sure. It’s down that hallway and to the left.”

“Thanks.” I tossed her another smile before strutting confidently toward my destination. The sooner I got this over with, the quicker I could move on to the next one, where no one was getting dumped.

I couldn’t help but wonder about the person I was about to sing to. Unfortunately, I hadn’t gotten any juicy details on the booking form. Sometimes, people included long and sweet stories about why they loved the person and were ordering a singing telegram. On the rare breakup ones, there was usually at least some justification. Often cheating. But this one had been thin on details. Just a date, address, office number, and a note of thanks for me taking care of it while they were out of the country on a business trip.

Was the dumpee an asshole? Were they kind? Would they try to punch me? I’d had food thrown at me, coffee—thankfully lukewarm—dumped over my head, and someone had threatened to find where I worked and sing in my face. Don’t threaten me with a good time. Thankfully, I didn’t get these requests often.

I rolled my shoulders as office 421 came into view. The tag under the door number read Garrison Harrison, He/Him . It took all my self-control not to bust out laughing. That was one hell of a name.

The door was closed, so I knocked.

“Come in,” a deep, rumbling voice called.

It’s showtime!

I plastered a smile on my face and swung open the door to greet Garrison Harrison. Snort. Don’t laugh while you’re sing-dumping the guy.

The space was tidy but blandly nondescript. Framed degrees on the walls, no photos or tchotchkes. A huge whiteboard hung on one wall with neat writing in blue marker. The only personal thing I noticed was a charcoal-colored blazer draped over the back of the guest chair beside his desk.

Garrison turned toward me, his almost-black eyes widening in surprise. He was thick and muscular, which was my favorite frame for hugs. Tasteful scruff covered his jaw—dark against his golden skin. As he took me in, his Cupid-bow mouth fell open.

He scooted back in his rolling office chair like I was a lion about to pounce. I could be a lion in the bedroom, but now was hardly the time to flirt. Garrison was hot as hell, but given what I was about to do, I doubted I’d have a chance with him.

I belted out a modified version of N*SYNC’s “Bye, Bye, Bye,” with some pretty good choreography, if I did say so myself. Once I began singing, I sort of blacked out until it was over, so I didn’t absorb his reaction until I’d finished my performance with a flourish, dropping to my knees and presenting him with the box of chocolates.

I waited for him to take the box. He didn’t. Instead, he stared at me and sat eerily still. Seriously, Garrison Harrison was quite attractive. My thundering heart had less to do with singing to a stranger and more to do with his entrancing dark eyes.

When he blinked, I became aware of the whispers behind me. That was to be expected. Singing telegrams tended to draw a crowd.

“I’m sorry about the breakup,” I said quietly. “And all this.” I gestured to myself and grimaced slightly.

His eyes narrowed and his jaw ticked. I sensed controlled power racing through his veins, and frankly, I wouldn’t mind him bending me over his clean and tidy desk. Or me him. I wasn’t picky. The audience could stay or go.

Knock it off. Think about your dry spell on your own time.

“The chocolates are really good. They’re from a cute place in Dahlia Springs.” Like that mattered to someone getting dumped right before Valentine’s Day. I stood.

The whispers behind me increased until he shot a glare in their direction. The footsteps quieted as people scattered.

I shivered when he turned his attention back to me.

“I’m single. You have the wrong office number.”

Whoops.