Page 1 of Marked By my Boss
Chapter One
Delilah
“911, what’s your emergency?”
There’s a pause until a frantic voice bursts. “My neighbor’s pumpkin exploded!”
The closer we get to the holidays, the more ridiculous the calls become. “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”
“It blew up!” the woman slurs. “There’s orange goo everywhere! It hit my cat!”
I mute my mic and snort into my sleeve, catching my boss, Beau’s, dark eyes as he pours a cup of coffee. There’s a look we give each other when the small town startssmall-towning.This is it.
“Is anyone injured?” I ask, trying my best not to laugh.
“Emotionally!” the caller blurts. “It was sabotage. That old coot was trying to kill my cat! He’s been growing that pumpkin for months!”
Beau sits in the empty chair next to me, his dark brows raised, his eyes wide, and a sarcastic grin plastered on his face as his flannel stretches across his strong back. He mouths the word,wow,then hands me a cup of decaf, the woodsy scent of his cologne overpowering the coffee. I inhale without meaning to, letting the masculine scent surround me.
I need to get a grip!
“I’ll go ahead and send a unit over. Stay inside until they arrive.” I’m not sure what the cops will do about an exploding pumpkin, but maybe there’s a law on vegetable violence I don’t know about.
The woman huffs and hangs up the line as though she expects more.
“Okay then.” I blink slowly, holding the cup of coffee tight in my hand to absorb its warmth. “And that’s small-town living, folks.”
Beau laughs as he leans back in the rolling chair. “We should write a book. I think we’d be rich off weird vegetable stories alone. Do you remember that man last year who was convinced his eggplant was possessed?”
“Oh yeah,” I laugh. “The cops found it in the kitchen surrounded by a salt circle. He swore it was whispering things to him at night.”
Beau shakes his head, then strokes his massive hand down over his salt and pepper beard. “I swear, sometimes I think this town has completely lost it.”
“Come on. It’s not this town. It’s everyone. Who doesn’t know that it’s easier to blame your vegetables than take accountability for your poor life choices? I bet they do this in New York, too. Lately, I’m thinking I could use a truckload of sweet corn to blame for life’s bullshit. You?”
He stares at me a minute too long, then down at his coffee cup. “Everything okay?”
Truthfully, every part of me wants to collapse into a puddle of tears right here and now, but that’s not boss-appropriate conversation, though I have slipped up a few times.
“Yeah, I think.” I rub my hand over my expanded stomach. I tried hiding my pregnancy for a while because I wasn’t ready for people to look at me like I was suddenly made of glass, but atnine months, my belly is hard to miss now. “Aside from the odd craving for crayons.”
His deep voice upturns as he says,“Crayons?”
“My doctor says it’s some kind of mineral deficiency. I’m on a vitamin, but I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been craving the color blue all day.”
He laughs out loud at that one. “Noted. I’ll make sure and lock up the art supplies.”
I laugh softly, grateful for the moment of levity. “Probably smart. I’ve been eyeing the blue marker in the break room.”
Beau chuckles again, then he leans back, stretching his long legs out under the desk. “You ever get a craving for something normal? Like, I don’t know, pancakes?”
“Maybe I’d like them more if they were navy blue,” I say, and he grins like we’re two friends hanging around on a Saturday night, not boss and employee currently working the late shift. Conversations like this have always been easy with Beau. It has been since the very first day I started at dispatch, nearly two years ago. He has this hometown, old-fashioned, man’s man kind of way about him. Like the world could be crumbling apart and he’d still be standing strong and steady, reminding everyone that everything is going to be okay. I guess that’s what makes him good at his job.
“I think I’ve got some pancake mix in the cupboard. I could mix you something up.” He stands, widening his shoulders as he walks toward the kitchen, returning a moment later, tapping his thick fingers against a box of blue sprinkles we used to celebrate a gender reveal for a co-worker a few months back. “I mean… this is practically calling your name. I’m surprised you haven’t dug in yet.”
I laugh, but there’s something about the gesture that catches in my chest. It’s such a small thing. Something sweet, agrin, but I’m not used to this kind of care, and I don’t know what to do with it.
At home, kindness comes with conditions. Some days, it seems my fiancé Dave can do nice things without any thought at all. Others, you’d think an extra hug or listening to my feelings is like asking for the moon.
