I launch myself out the door, a slutty bloodhound, scanning the hall for Jett, his rage muscles, his denim sin-walk, the angry stormcloud of a man I want to ruin me emotionally and then ghost me for three to five business days.
But he’s gone.
Vanished like my last impulse control.
I let out a dramatic sigh that’s mostly for me and partially for whatever building camera footage is currently recording my descent into criminal thirst.
The hallway is emptier than my morals. Just me and a vending machine that’s fully stocked with knockoff sugar disasters like “ChocoBrick” and “CreamWadz.”
I’m debating whether depression calories count when a literal fantasy in tactical polyester steps into frame. A wet dream in steel-toed boots.
“Oh. Hi,” I breathe, staring up into a wall of man-meat so big I momentarily forget what language is. “Holy linebacker, Batman.”
The man in front of me straightens from where he was leaning against the wall. He’s massive. “You could build furniture on his thighs” massive. His brown hair curls sweetly at the edges of his security cap, and he’s wearing one of those soft, fitted uniforms that makes my ovaries play the national anthem.
He does a little startled blinky thing, as if surprised I’m talking to him. “Hi, ma’am. Can I help you?”
Ma’am.
My nipples give a standing ovation. If he says it again, I might bust a glitter orgasm right here in the hallway.
Is this a therapy office suite or portal for sex deities? Because I’ve lived in this town for years and I’ve never seen more thanone remotely jumpable man at a time in the same place. Even in big places like the everything under the sun store.
“I was… looking for someone,” I say, trying not to sound like a stalker. “Tall, angry, looks like he could bench press a motorcycle and has trauma you can smell.”
He considers this seriously. “That describes, like... half this floor, ma’am.”
Sweet cinnamon protector with the soul of a golden retriever. And shoulders like sin. His shirt pulls just slightly across his chest as he shifts, and my brain commits treason against every plan I had for the next hour. He smells like clean cotton and safety.
His name badge reads BENJI in all caps. Benji. Of course he’s a Benji. A name that sounds like a cuddle and tastes like a toaster pastry.
“Well, if I can’t find him, I guess I’ll need something else to satisfy my cravings,” I beam at him. “What do you recommend?”
He turns pink. Pink. This man is six-foot-something of muscle and pepper spray, and he’s blushing like I kissed his puppy. He makes a sound like a small engine failing. “Nothing from there. You want the bakery across the street.”
Oh no.
Oh yes.
Oh fuck me sideways with a signed restraining order.
Benji just entered the chat like a side character with main character dick.
And I am spiritually naked.
Chapter Five
Delilah
I’m committed to the process.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway, as I slide another gel pen into the crook of my elbow like I’m assembling an emotionally unstable assassin kit. For war. Or for bullet journaling, which is basically the same thing.
It might have something to do with Rhys. Specifically, the way his voice scrapes the word boundaries across my nerve endings. Or the way his mouth does that little disapproving bow like he’s about to deliver a TED Talk on self-regulation, but then he looks at me like I’m a fever dream he can’t sweat out.
So yeah. I’m in my favorite place: the holy land of stationery adjacent emotional warfare.
Office supply store? Emotional support battlefield? Target’s overstimulated, glitter-snorting cousin who just got dumped and discovered moon water?
