This is a problem.
“Something else happened with Chad?” I manage.
She huffs. “You’re skipping Benji, and he’s really why I need you. I understand men like Jett. And you. But Benji…” Her brow furrows like this is an actual mystery she’s trying to solve.
I try not to react to the way she said “you.” Try not to unpack that she puts me in the same mental folder as the man who fingered her on a Harley.
“You understand men like…” No. Stop it. This isn’t about me. “I’m not like…” Stop. Fucking stop. Professionalism is not a kink, but God help me, she might make it one.
“Tell me about Benji,” I say, voice rough.
She lights up like a fucking Christmas display. “So after that clipboard dickblocker who teaches anger management held me back for paperwork…”
It’s almost admirable how quickly she cycles through chaos. I don’t laugh, somehow, but the corner of my mouth twitches. Trenton is a clipboard dickblocker. He’s also a boundary-respecting paper hoarder with no idea what kind of hurricane we’ve got in this chair.
“… I race out to find Jett and run straight into Benji. Oh, Rhys, I hope this doesn’t hurt your ego, but he’s perfect. I mean tall. Not just tall like you. He’s easily six-four. Over a foot on me. He’s got these curls and this sweet smile. But that’s not it. He’s actually sweet. So fucking sweet.”
I swallow hard. And suddenly I hate a man I’ve barely met.
Benji. Security. I’ve seen him in passing. Smiles a lot. Open posture. Seems like the type who holds doors and remembers birthdays. Not her type at all.
Apparently I don’t know her type.
“I believe you mentioned he works security here?” I say.
She nods, dreamy. “Mhm. He teaches swim lessons to little kids and he didn’t even freak out when I gave him a GPS tracker for his keyring.”
“What?”
“So I can track him. In case he gets lost.”
Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
She’s smiling. Like that’s endearing. Like men don’t file restraining orders over less. I write something that might be words in my notebook and keep my eyes off her mouth because she keeps licking the corner like she’s remembering the taste of something she didn’t finish.
I brace myself through a too graphic retelling of the blowjob she gave Benji. And then the sex. And then a woman named Margo.
“Wait.” I hold up a hand. “Let’s go back. You left a gift… for Margo?”
She blinks. “Yeah. She’s his ex. Well ex is being generous he fucked her once. She’s been using her position in the HOA to try and get him to fuck her again. But he’s not into her so I left a little something to let her know. I mean I don’t blame her the man is huge, and he came twice. That’s unusual. But he’s mine now.”
My license. My fucking license.
“And you broke into Benji’s home?” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Delilah, that’s not acceptable. That’s not a boundary issue. That’s a legal one.”
She shrugs. “I used a key. Which I returned after making a copy. And I didn’t break anything.”
My sanity, darling. You’re breaking that in real time.
“I think you’re missing the point,” she says, flicking her wrist like that erases a felony. “He didn’t care. Not about the B&E. Or the key. He doesn’t even know about Margo. Only you do. And you can’t fucking tell, right? It’s like confessional rules. Priest with a PhD.”
My jaw tightens. “You told him,” I say. “About the key?”
“He thanked me,” she chirps, utterly unbothered. “Because, ugh, it’s all in the journal.”
She leans over to grab it from her bag, tits spilling like a damn trap set by Satan himself.
My mouth waters.
