Page 5 of Marked By my Boss
Chapter Three
Delilah
“Hey,” I murmur as I slip past Beau, the warmth of his presence brushing against me as I pass by. He holds the dispatch center door open longer than necessary, his eyes catching mine for a beat too long.
“I didn’t expect to be needed tonight,” I say, trying to sound casual, though I’m happy to be called in. I needed to get out of the house. “You usually fly solo on Sundays after your hunts.”
He grins, but it’s tight. “One of the guys on the early shift said it’d been extra busy today, so I figured better safe than sorry.” His head tilts to the side. “I didn’t mean to pull you away from anything at home. Just figured I’d offer you the hours first given that you’ve been looking for the extra money.”
“No, it’s great,” I say, slipping my coat off slower than usual, letting the fabric fall like a sigh. I feel his gaze, soft and lingering. Then again, maybe it’s nothing at all. I’m not sure why I’m so desperate to believe it could be more. I have a fiancé, a life, and a baby on the way. Yet, I tell myself this story on the nights when everything feels sharp. On the nights when home feels like a place that’s slowly erasing me rather than drawing out my joy. It’s a fantasy stitched together from glances and silence, something tender I can tuck into when Dave’s words turn cruel and the walls close in.
I read last night in some article online that little daydreams about someone kind you admire isn’t all that strange and doesn’t have to mean anything, though I might have been leading the search results with my line of questioning.
“We weren’t doing anything productive anyway,” I add, but my voice falters, dipping low as the memory of last night claws its way back in. The fight. The ride home. The way he gripped the wheel like it was me he wanted to break.
Beau doesn’t say anything right away, but I feel the shift in the air. Like he heard the dip in my voice and filed it away somewhere quiet. He’s good at reading between the lines without making me feel exposed.
I move toward the kitchen, needing something to do with my hands. “I’m gonna grab a cup of decaf. You want anything?”
He shakes his head, eyes still on me. “I’m good.”
I nod, but my heart’s thudding harder than it should. It’s not the coffee. It’s him. It’s the way he looks at me, like I’m more than just a name on a schedule. Like he sees me. Like hewantsto see me.
I’ve been struggling so damn long to be seen that when it happens, it’s overwhelmingly confusing.
I pour the coffee slowly, letting the steam rise and curl around me like a shield. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I’m hoping for. But I know that when I’m here, I breathe easier and everything feels light, like I can let down my guard and I’ll be safe.
When I turn back around, he’s still standing there… still watching.
“You sure everything’s okay?” he asks, his voice low and careful.
I swallow. “Yeah. Just tired.”
It’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth either.
The truth is, I’m sad. I’m sad and tired, and I have no idea how to fix any of it, but I didn’t come here to air out all my problems to the man I’ve built a fantasy about in my head. I’m here to work. Plus, I’d bet anything that Beau couldn’t beat the version of him that I’ve built up in my head. Fantasy men tend to be far more agreeable than actual men.
Retreating to my desk, I pull on my headset, turn on my caller alert system, and wait. And wait.And wait some more.
Tonight is just as slow as a normal Sunday is, which makes me wonder if Beau’s story about earlier is exaggerated. For a second, I let myself imagine that he wanted me here. That he likes spending the nights with me. That he likes me close by. I imagine he’s tucked away in his office behind me, torturing himself with all the filthy things he wants to do to me but can’t.
It’s ridiculous, I know that, but believing it makes me feel warm and wanted. So, I let my little fantasy continue.
When did I become this girl? Why can’t Dave and I just work things out? Why can’t he stop being so damn defensive and hear me for once? Honestly though, I think even if he could hear me, he wouldn’t care. That thought alone should be enough for me to leave, so why don’t I?
Clearly, I need to get back to therapy, but I couldn’t afford the copay anymore with all the bills I’ve had recently. Having a baby is exponentially more expensive than I thought it was going to be.
I pull my phone from the bottom drawer to look up more articles that prove I’m not losing my mind when I finally get a call.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“I, ugh, I’m calling to order a pizza.”
I blink, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Ma’am, this is emergency dispatch. If you’re in danger and can’t speak freely, say yes.”
There’s a pause. A long one. The kind that makes your skin crawl.
“Yes,” she whispers.
