Monday Afternoon, July 25th

Bracing my briefcase against the wall with my foot, I hold my iced coffee in one hand while I check my mailbox with the other. The day has been long and all I really want to do if just get upstairs to my apartment, take off all my clothes and try to escape the sweltering heat of this day.

It's so fucking hot and I curse the day that I decided that I needed to work in a job where a suit is required. Sometimes I think that I would be happier if I were like the girls I see in their shorts and tank tops working in the ice cream stand just around the corner. Of course, then I would be poor and I wouldn't be able to afford the nice, air-conditioned apartment in this building.

I jam the key in the hole and twist. It always gets stuck no matter how many times the maintenance man tells me he used WD-40 on it. I'm pretty sure he's lying, but I can't prove it. Stupid Jacob – hot maintenance man with perfect abs. I'd probably break my hand if I tried to punch him in his stomach.

I look in my box and there's a huge stack of mail. Ooh…my People magazine and US Weekly are in here. Grabbing the bulk of paper with my hand, I bring it out and clutch it against my chest. I can feel a drop of sweat dripping down my ass.

Gross.

Now, both my hands are full and the mailbox is still open. I take a drink of my coffee and try to position the mail under that arm. Just as I think I have it all worked out, my briefcase falls back and I slip on my stupid high-heel. Everything goes flying – mail, coffee and even my ass.

After the initial pain wears off, I look around and the first thing I notice is my People magazine wet and covered with coffee.

"Goddamn it!" I curse. I really wanted to know why J-Lo was leaving Marc Anthony. You know, aside from the fact that he seemed like a jealous, controlling asshole.

"You look like you could use some help," someone says above me in a deep, sleepy voice. I don't look up because I'm still pissed that I ruined everything. Including the white camisole I just bought at Nordstrom. "That coffee must have been iced because your nipples look way more excited than you right now."

Gasping, I look up, ready to kick the asshole in his shin with my heel. Maybe they are good for something other than the daily torture they normally provide. Bronze, tousled hair and eyes the color of fresh-cut grass are looking down at me. And his perfect mouth is smirking. Fucking smirking.

"Listen, I don't care how hot you are, asshole," I seethe. "You have no right to talk about my…my nipples. And the least you could do is offer to help me."

"You think I'm hot?" he replies, still smirking.

"Fuck you."

"I'd love to," he says. "But I think we need to get you cleaned up first…unless you like it dirty."

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A/N

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