The sweetness I don’t think you even know how to hold.
Maybe I’ll go the extra mile and bring cookies with M&Ms on top. That way the sweetness’s on the outside too. Symbolism matters.
Chapter Seven
Delilah
I pour my coffee into the stupid sentimental mug I ordered using Hank’s Amazon account. He called it stealing. I call it self-care. If you’re gonna ghost me, block me, and pretend I never existed, then I should at least get to drink out of a pink mug that says YOU BELONG TO ME in gothic script while planning your spiritual downfall.
It’s chipped now. I smile anyway. Slept like a corpse last night. No dreams. No intrusive Hank & Bimbo Go to Cabo slideshow in my mental inbox. Might be time for a new mug.
Maybe something Rhys-themed. Ominous black, sleek, haunted like his eyeballs. Or one from Jett. Red and aggressive. A mug that breaks itself out of spite. Or Benji. Definitely Benji. Something soft. The size of a soup cauldron. The kind of mug that gets hugged on rainy days and smells like cinnamon and safety.
I drum my fingers against the Pop-Tart box. Iced Cherry. The sluttiest flavor. I deserve two. I plop both in the toaster and stare at the dial.
Benji.
He was huge. Gargoyle on a church rooftop tall. Or one of those stuffed bears you win for rigging a carnie game with violence and cleavage. He had the vibe of a man who’d apologize to a bug after stepping on it. I want him in my kitchen. I want him flustered and calling me ma’am while I ask if he wants a bite of my pastry. And I want him saying yes even though it’s already in my mouth.
There was something about him.
Not just the size. Not just the flustered way he looked at me like I was dangerous and fascinating and on fire.
It was how I felt standing next to him. Tiny. Seen. Weirdly safe.
Like maybe if the world exploded, he’d cover me with his body and apologize for the mess.
Anyway. That’s probably fine.
Totally normal.
Definitely not falling in love with a man who I saw for less than five minutes.
While the toaster hums like a sleep-deprived whore, I call the therapy office. Main line. Some front desk drone picks up with all the enthusiasm of a dying cactus.
“Hi! Who handles your security?”
She goes full suspicious. I go full PTA mom. What? Me? No, I’m not stalking anyone, I just want to send a thank-you gift to the sweet man who helped me to my car yesterday. Fruit basket. Maybe an edible arrangement shaped like a puppy. Normal stuff.
After a painful round of office ping-pong and at least three lies I’m proud of, I get the name of the company.
I snap one pastry into four perfect squares and pop a piece in my mouth. Then I dial the security company.
This guy? Way more helpful. Possibly horny.
“Oh my god,” I coo. “You have the most wonderful employee. He walked me to my car, made me feel so safe. I would die if I couldn’t send something. Can you tell me who was on shift yesterday? I just need a name.”
He hesitates. I double down. Say things like hero and God-sent and has a real gentle giant thing going on, doesn’t he?
And then boom.
Benji Fennick. I have a name.
I say thank you, hang up, and lick a smear of pink frosting from my thumb like a satisfied demon.
Idiots.
It turns out Fennick is a rare-ass last name in our city. Statistically freaky, endangered species, did your ancestors crawl out of the ocean last week? rare. And “Benji”? Not exactly a power name. Too soft. Too sweet. So when I search Benji Fennick between bites of my second pastry, there’s only one hit.
