Chapter 1

On the night of my birthday, my heart pounds with eager anticipation as I tear into the beautifully wrapped gift box left by Oscar Gibson, the boy I grew up with.

But I only find a literal pile of dog shit sitting right in the center, carefully arranged as if it were some precious treasure.

I slump against the doorframe, burying my face in my knees as the tears spill over. The generous amount of alcohol I consumed earlier only magnifies the crushing sense of betrayal.

That is until a shadow fell over me. A gorgeous stranger in a crisp white shirt crouches down to my eye level. Reaching out, he gently brushes away my tears with the warm pad of his thumb.

"Looks like there was a shipping error," he murmurs. "Let's try this again. I'm the real gift."

Maybe the booze makes me reckless, but I go ahead and thoroughly "unwrap" the breathtaking surprise the universe has dropped into my lap.

Sometime later, my phone buzzes. It is Oscar. Feeling a surge of spiteful confidence, I answer the call, "I am absolutely obsessed with your gift."

He completely loses his mind on the other end of the line. "Are you insane, Claire Clark? You actually liked a box of literal dog shit?"

Not long after, Oscar stands frozen at the threshold, his face draining of all color as he stares at the man clad only in a bath towel. "Mr. Quinn?"

*****

The alcohol burned in my stomach like battery acid, but it was nothing compared to my heart, which was pounding so hard I thought it might crack my ribs.

Last night, Oscar Gibson had been insufferably smug on the phone. "Claire Clark, I've got something massive coming your way tomorrow. I guarantee it's a birthday present you'll never forget."

I had waited all day. From the crack of dawn until the streetlights flickered on, I paced my apartment. When the delivery driver finally buzzed my intercom, I sprinted out the door so fast that I lost one of my fuzzy slippers in the hallway.

There it was, a giant box wrapped with a gaudy pink ribbon. It screamed Oscar: flashy, completely lacking nuance, and undeniably male.

I couldn't even wait to drag it inside. I rubbed my hands together like a kid on Christmas morning and started tearing at the ribbon right there in the hallway.

The bow fell away. I popped the cardboard flaps open.

Before I even looked inside, a smell hit me. It was an indescribable, gag-inducing stench.

I froze.

At the bottom of the box, resting on a bed of decorative crinkle paper, was a pile of dog shit.

It was literally steaming.

Propped up next to it was a card, written in Oscar's chicken-scratch handwriting: [Surprise? Didn't see that coming, did you? Admit it, my creativity is next-level. Happy birthday, crybaby.]

My blood turned to ice, and then, fueled by the three glasses of wine I had had while waiting, it boiled over and shot straight to my brain.

The shock faded, immediately replaced by a crushing, suffocating wave of misery.

Without warning, tears spilled over my eyelashes and splattered onto the cold hallway tiles.

I was twenty-seven years old. I had waited all day for a birthday surprise from the man I had been secretly in love with for over a decade. And he sent me a box of literal shit.

I sank to the floor, crouching next to the box, and sobbed like an absolute idiot, feeling entirely abandoned by the universe.

"Nope. Let's try that again."

A crisp, incredibly attractive voice floated down from above me.

I blinked up, tears blurring my vision.

Standing there, silhouetted against the dim hallway lights, was a tall man. The sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt were casually rolled up to his forearms, revealing the powerful lines of his wrists.

His features were strikingly handsome with deep-set eyes and a defined jawline. He was leaning forward slightly, looking down at me with an intense focus that made my breath hitch.

He crouched down so we were eye-to-eye. Without a word of hesitation, he reached out, his warm fingertips gently brushing the tears from my cheek. The gesture felt impossibly natural, as if we had known each other in another lifetime.

"I'm the real gift," he said softly, the corner of his mouth curving into a devastating smile. His eyes seemed to catch all the light in the hallway. "Crying the second you unwrap me? That's going to ruin my reviews, Ms. Clark."

I stared at him, my brain lagging horribly behind the alcohol. A gift? Did Oscar send me a guy?

Of course. That idiot Oscar would absolutely think it was hilarious to send me a box of dog crap to make me cry, only to follow it up with a male stripper or a model to make it up to me.

Did Oscar realize how I felt about him? Was this his convoluted way of giving me what he thought I wanted?

My thoughts were a chaotic mess. But one thing was crystal clear: the man crouched in front of me was gorgeous, his voice was a low, soothing hum, his fingers were long and elegant, and he had literally just introduced himself as my present.

The bitter ache of a decade-long unrequited crush, the crushing humiliation of my birthday prank, the liquid courage of the wine, and the absolute raw magnetism in this stranger's eyes collided and exploded inside my chest.

I grabbed the hand he had used to wipe my tears. I shot up from the floor, stumbling slightly because my legs had fallen asleep.

He caught me instantly.

"So you're the gift," I mumbled, my voice thick and nasal from crying. "Come inside."