Page 4 of Marked By my Boss
“Sure you have.” He grins. “I fix the kitchen sink and remember to feed the dogs. That’s about as romantic as it gets, don’t you think?”
I laugh, loud and genuine, the kind that shakes loose something heavy in your chest. “You’re a damn poet, Knox.”
He shrugs, eyes on the horizon. “Hey, love’s not all roses and candlelight. Sometimes it’s knowing how she likes her coffee and making sure the water heater doesn’t explode.”
The truck bumps over a pothole, and the dogs shift in the back as I ease off the gas and pull up in front of Knox’s cabin. It’s weathered, stubborn, and still standing like it’s daring the forest to try and take it down.
Knox built that place from nothing but grit and pine nearly thirty years ago. I know, because I was right there beside him, hammer in one hand and a cheap beer in the other. We’d barely tossed our graduation caps before he was hauling lumber up the ridge, saying he wanted to live ‘where the bears don’t bother you unless you bother them first.’No blueprint, no backup plan, just a vision and a whole lot of persistence. “Just don’t let this shit consume you,” he says, opening the passenger door. “You want her, go get her. You can’t… let her go.”
“Wow, there’s that poetry again. You really got a way with words, don’t you?”
He rolls his eyes, gives me the finger, then grabs his gear from the back of the truck, a smirk on his face as he disappears into the trees and up toward the front porch of the cabin.
I sit in the truck a moment longer, the engine humming, the silence pressing in. I could head home, unpack, pretend I’m not halfway smitten for a woman who works under me and belongs to someone else. I could pretend I don’t spend nights thinking about what her smile looks like first thing in the morning, how she’d look under the night sky, what her skin would feel like under my touch, or what faces she makes when she’s coming.
But now, that’s no longer an option.I’ve let the door crack open. I’ve let my mind start to wander. I’ve let thoughts of her creep in when I know I shouldn’t, but shame doesn’t stop mefrom taking the long way home, from driving by her house, from hoping to catch a glimpse of her.
Technically, she’s not far from the dispatch center anyway, and I’m on my way there, so I’m just driving by. At least that’s all I’m doing… until I pull off to the side of the road and park behind the heavy oak that shades a bench on Main Street.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I don’t do this shit.
I glance up at the small apartment over the bakery, the one that always smells like cinnamon. It’s there that I see Delilah staring out into the night in an oversized T-shirt that swallows her up, her hair in a messy bun, a soft glow pulsating behind her as though she’s a painting meant only for me.
She pauses by the window, one hand resting on the frame, the other cradling her stomach. For a second, I think she’s looking out at me, but her eyes stay distant, unfocused, like she’s somewhere else entirely.
I wonder if she’s thinking about him.
I wonder if she’s thinking about leaving.
I wonder if she’s thinking about me.
Of course she’s not thinking about me. Why would she be? She’s at home, off shift. I’m sure the last thing on her mind is work.
The dogs fuss in the back, and I know I only have a second more before they’ll be barking uncontrollably and my position will be compromised. I need to get back to dispatch, take a shower, and get them some food and water before I start my shift tonight.
We run the dispatch center out of an old Victorian turned office building, so there’s a bathroom, a kitchen, and a few other amenities that make the place feel like a second home. But comfort, however enticing, doesn’t stand a chance against the pull of her window light.
It's hard to look away, to want her, to not help her, to not ask her what the hell she’s thinking spending her time with a guy like Dave. She deserves so much more, and I want to be the man that gives it to her.
But I’m her boss, and she doesn’t belong to me. She can never belong to me.
I’m about to pull away whenhesteps into the frame. I’ve met men like him before. Men who need their egos stroked. Men who demand respect and peace without doing a damn thing to earn it.
My stomach tightens as he hollers from across the room. I can’t hear what he says, but I can see the intention of his furrowed brows, his clenched jaw, his squared shoulders.
She flinches.
It’s small and barely noticeable, but I see it. I see her. I see her in ways I’ve never seen anyone. She braces herself against the window, and her head dips as though she’s swallowing whatever she wants to say, as though she’s making herself smaller for him.
My jaw clenches.
I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be watching. I shouldn’t be this invested in a woman who works under me and sleeps beside another man… but I am.
I am because I’ve seen her laugh when she’s relaxed. I’ve seen her light up when she talks about the baby. I’ve seen her work through chaos with grace. It looks nothing like the face she’s making now.
I know what she needs, and she deserves better.
I start the truck, the engine loud in the quiet street, the dogs settling with the rumble of the engine. She turns toward the noise, but doesn’t look down and see me dialing her number.
