Millionaire Ordered Takeout Late At Night, Not Realizing The Delivery Woman Would Soon Win His Love
A Late-Night Delivery
Harlon Jensen was halfway through a bottle of scotch and three weeks into a brutal acquisition deal when he decided he couldn’t stomach another night of caviar and silence.
“Order something,” he muttered to himself, tugging the collar of his white dress shirt loose as he leaned over the kitchen island in his glass-walled penthouse.
The city glittered beneath him like it owed him something. He hated it tonight.
He grabbed his phone, bypassed the private chef’s number, and opened a food app he hadn’t touched in years. Fried chicken. Greasy, crispy, unapologetic fried chicken.
He clicked on the first place with decent reviews and hit order, not even checking the name.
He didn’t know that twenty minutes later, the woman who would change everything was about to walk through his door holding a paper bag and wearing a hoodie that didn’t quite hide the tired in her eyes.
Jessa Zeller was two deliveries away from being done for the night. Her back ached, her hair was falling out of a rushed bun, and her car smelled like French fries.
She didn’t care. Rent was due, her sister’s medical bills were stacking up, and tips from late-night deliveries paid better than most people thought.
When she pulled up to the luxury high-rise and the valet waved her through like she didn’t belong, she rolled her eyes.
“Penthouse,” she told the security guard, flashing the delivery receipt like a badge. “I got food for a Harland Jensen.”
The guy’s eyebrows popped up. “You’re delivering to Harland?”
He let out a low whistle. “Good luck.”
She didn’t ask. She was too tired to care who Harland was.
The elevator doors opened into a space bigger than her entire apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows, marble floors, and a man with a drink in his hand and no patience in his eyes greeted her.
“You’re late,” Harlon said.
Jessa blinked. “I’m on time. Maybe your stomach’s just impatient.”
He looked at her then, really looked. She was not who he expected. She wasn’t fawning. She wasn’t nervous, and she wasn’t even slightly impressed by the $30 million view.
“You always talk to strangers like that?” he asked, stepping forward, barefoot and unshaven.
“Only when they assume the world owes them something just because they live in a castle in the sky,” she shot back, handing him the bag.
He opened it, took a sniff, and sighed—for once, not from frustration. “This smells like heaven.”
“Good. It’s supposed to.”
He handed her a $100 bill. Jessa blinked. “Sir, it was 21 bucks.”
“Keep it.”
“I don’t need your dirty conscience money, thanks.”
She pulled out a ten from her jacket and shoved it at him. “I’ll take a tip, not a statement.”
He stared at her. She didn’t flinch. For the first time in weeks, Harland let out a real laugh.
“What’s your name?”
“Jessa. And unless you’re ordering again, you probably won’t see me again.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to order again.”
She rolled her eyes, but a corner of her mouth twitched. “Good night, Harland.”
He ordered again the next night, and the one after that. Jessa showed up every time, sometimes with food, sometimes with attitude, always with something he couldn’t name but started craving more than the food.
“You know,” she said one night, leaning against the marble counter while he opened a box of tacos, “you could just tell me if you’re lonely.”
He looked up from the food. “What makes you think I’m lonely?”
“You live in a palace and eat alone every night. That’s not rich; that’s sad.”
“Maybe I like my solitude.”
“Maybe you just don’t know what to do with company.”
He paused, then asked, “You offering to teach me?”
She smiled, slow and easy. “Depends. You got more tacos?”
He pushed a box away. That night, they sat on the floor of his penthouse, eating tacos and watching some old movie she picked.
She called his furniture cold, his art pretentious, and his wine too purple. He laughed more in that hour than he had in the last year.
