Chapter 2: The delivery
The doorbell sliced through the haze of my half-sleep, a sharp, insistent sound that jolted me upright on the sofa. For a moment, I just stared at the door, my brain still fuzzy from last night's work at the club. The second ring came, more impatient this time.
Right. The furniture.
A laugh bubbled up in my throat at my own forgetfulness. I’d been so tired when I stumbled home at 4 AM that the delivery had completely slipped my mind until Jason’s text this morning. Pushing myself up, I padded across the cool hardwood floor, my bare feet making soft slapping sounds. I grabbed the silk bathrobe from the hook by the door, the one Jason bought me in Manila, and shrugged it on. The smooth fabric felt cool against my skin.
It wasn’t until my hand was on the deadbolt that the realization hit me. A cold little drop of awareness. Under the robe, I had nothing on. Absolutely nothing.
Oh, you idiot, Sarah.
But the doorbell rang a third time, a long, demanding buzz. There was no time to go back. I cinched the belt tighter, took a breath, and pulled the door open.
The man on the other side was… substantial. Broad-shouldered and solid, maybe in his fifties, with weathered skin and thick, graying hair. He had a kind, tired face.
“Mrs. Johnson?” he asked, his voice a deep, accented rumble. “I am Zlatan. From the furniture company.” His eyes, a warm blue, did a quick, professional sweep of me, but they stalled for a half-second too long at the V of my robe. I felt the silk clinging to me, suddenly very aware of the shape of my body beneath it.
“Yes, come in,” I said, my voice a little too bright. I stepped back, holding the door wider.
As Zlatan moved past me with a nod, the scent of fresh coffee and faint sweat trailing him, two other men appeared from the large truck parked in the driveway. The younger one, maybe late twenties, was lean and muscular, his dark eyes immediately locking onto me with an unnerving intensity. The other was an older American man, tanned and portly, who gave me a polite, distracted smile.
“This is Erkan and Darren,” Zlatan said, gesturing with a thumb.
“Morning, ma’am,” Darren said, his focus already on the stack of flat-packed boxes in the truck.
Erkan just offered a slow, deliberate smile. “Good morning.” His gaze felt like a physical touch, sliding from my face, down the length of the robe, and back up. It was the kind of look I was used to at the club, not in my own hallway at 10 AM. A flush of heat crept up my neck.
“The bedroom is just up the stairs,” I said, pointing the way, trying to sound like a normal person hosting a normal delivery, and not a woman standing in her doorway naked under a flimsy piece of silk.
They got to work, a well-practiced machine. Zlatan directed, Erkan and Darren carried. The narrow hallway became a chokepoint as they maneuvered the large, flat boxes towards the staircase. I stood back, pressed against the wall to give them space, trying to be helpful.
Erkan and Darren were carrying a long, heavy box containing the bed frame. As they shuffled past, grunting with the effort, the belt of my robe must have caught on the corner of the console table behind me. I felt a sudden, loosening tug. The silken knot gave way.
The robe fell open.
It was just for a moment. A heartbeat. The cool air of the hallway hit my bare skin from navel to knees. My hands flew to pull the fabric closed, fumbling, my heart hammering against my ribs. But it was too late.
Darren, facing me, quickly averted his eyes, a faint pinkness coloring his cheeks. But Erkan, coming behind him, had a perfect, unobstructed view. His eyes widened slightly, and that same slow, knowing smile spread across his face. He didn’t leer. He didn't say a word. But the smile was enough, a silent, intimate acknowledgment that felt louder than a shout. The heat rushed to my cheeks, a burning blush that I knew covered my entire face and chest.
I clutched the robe shut, my knuckles white.
“Everything okay?” Zlatan asked, coming down the stairs. His eyes moved from my flushed face to my death-grip on the robe.
“Fine,” I managed, my voice tight. “Just… tripped a little.”
Zlatan nodded, his expression neutral, but I saw his gaze drop to my tightly clenched hands for a fleeting moment before he turned back to the job. “Erkan, the headboard next. Carefully.”
They continued their work, the rhythmic sounds of their labor—the tear of packing tape, the thud of wood, the low murmur of their voices—filling the empty spaces of the apartment. They were perfectly professional. Efficient. But the air had changed. It was thick with the unspoken moment, with the ghost of my exposed skin. I stood there, anchored to the spot in my hallway, the cool hardwood under my feet and the warmth of my own humiliation on my face, watching these strangers assemble the bed where I slept with my husband.
I needed to do something, anything, to break the strange tension that seemed to coil in the air like a serpent, ready to strike. "Can I get you men something to drink?" I asked, my voice a little too high, betraying my nervousness. "Coffee? Tea? We have soda, I think." The words tumbled out in a rush, a desperate attempt to fill the silence that hung heavy between us. Zlatan looked up from the instructions he was poring over, his brow furrowed in concentration.
He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, leaving a smudge of grease on his forehead. "Coffee would be very good, thank you. Black for me," he said, his voice a deep rumble that seemed to resonate in the room. Darren grunted in agreement, his large hands gripping the side panel he was attempting to secure. "Same here," he said, his voice gruff and unyielding. Erkan just nodded, that same quiet smile playing on his lips as his eyes briefly met mine. "Coffee is perfect," he said, his voice soft yet firm.
I fled to the kitchen, the sanctuary of four walls offering a temporary respite from the strange situation. Leaning against the cool stainless steel of the refrigerator, I pressed my palms against my closed eyelids, trying to block out the image that kept replaying in my mind. My robe falling open, the cool air of the hallway, the heat of their looks - it was all too much.
Before the doorbell had shattered the silence, I had been tangled in the sheets, half-asleep and throbbing with a lazy, private need. My fingers had been tracing circles on my stomach, drifting lower, chasing the fading ghost of a dream. I was so close, lost in that warm, building pressure, the world narrowing to just the feeling. Then that sharp, electronic buzz had torn through the silence, yanking me back to reality. Now, here I was, flushed and flustered, my body still humming with unfinished business while three strangers built a bed twenty feet away.
The confusion was a thick fog in my head, desire and embarrassment all twisted together. I couldn't let anything else happen. No more dropped tools, no more loose belts. I took a deep, steadying breath and pushed away from the fridge. Get it together, Sarah. Just make the coffee, be polite, and get through this. The gurgle of the coffee maker filled the quiet kitchen, a comforting sound that anchored me to the present. I focused on the mundane task, the scoop of grounds, the stream of water, anything to ground my spinning thoughts. But my skin still remembered the cool air of the hallway, and the heat of their looks.