Catford Connection
"When delivery driver Marcus brings flowers to the wrong address, Jamaican-British florist Nadine decides to keep both the flowers and the man who delivered them."
"These aren't for me."
Marcus checked his phone. Wrong address. Third time this week. He was going to get fired.
The woman in the doorway didn't seem to mind. Nadine was thick in a floral apron, dark skin and knowing eyes, her flat smelling of roses.
"But they're beautiful. And yuh look like yuh could use some tea."
Her flat was a garden exploding indoors. She ran a florist, worked from home, filled every surface with blooms.
"Sit, sit. Mi making jerk chicken anyway."
"I should get back to deliveries—"
"The flowers were wrong anyway. Yuh company owes mi one. And mi claiming yuh."
Dinner became drinks. Drinks became closer. Closer became her hand on his thigh.
"Yuh know," she said, "mi been ordering flowers weekly hoping for a delivery man worth keeping."
"And?"
"Today mi got lucky." She kissed him softly. "Stay?"
He stayed.
Her bedroom smelled like jasmine. That thick body wrapped around his like vines, claiming him completely.
"Yuh so beautiful," he breathed.
"And yuh about to find out how good a Catford woman treats her man."
She treated him very well indeed.
"Yes! Right there! Don't stop!"
The delivery company called. He ignored it. Called again. Ignored it again.
"Yuh gonna lose yuh job," Nadine murmured.
"Worth it."
She laughed, that thick body shaking against him. "Then yuh better make it really worth it."
He did. Multiple times.
Marcus got fired. Nadine hired him. Now he delivers her arrangements across South London.
And every evening, he comes home to her flat, her cooking, her body.
Catford's sweetest arrangement.
The delivery man who delivered himself.