Page 13 of Marked by my Protector (Inked and Possessive. Rugged Mountain Ink #3)

Delilah

There’s a pause until a frantic voice bursts. “My neighbor’s pumpkin exploded!”

The closer we get to the holidays, the more ridiculous the calls become. “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”

“It blew up!” the woman slurs. “There’s orange goo everywhere! It hit my cat!”

I mute my mic and snort into my sleeve, catching my boss, Beau’s, dark eyes as he pours a cup of coffee. There’s a look we give each other when the small town starts small-towning. This is it.

“Is anyone injured?” I ask, trying my best not to laugh.

“Emotionally!” the caller blurts. “It was sabotage. That old coot was trying to kill my cat! He’s been growing that pumpkin for months!”

Beau sits in the empty chair next to me, his dark brows raised, his eyes wide, and a sarcastic grin plastered on his face as his flannel stretches across his strong back.

He mouths the word, wow, then hands me a cup of decaf, the woodsy scent of his cologne overpowering the coffee.

I inhale without meaning to, letting the masculine scent surround me.

I need to get a grip!

“I’ll go ahead and send a unit over. Stay inside until they arrive.” I’m not sure what the cops will do about an exploding pumpkin, but maybe there’s a law on vegetable violence I don’t know about.

The woman huffs and hangs up the line as though she expects more.

“Okay then.” I blink slowly, holding the cup of coffee tight in my hand to absorb its warmth. “And that’s small-town living, folks.”

Beau laughs as he leans back in the rolling chair. “We should write a book. I think we’d be rich off weird vegetable stories alone. Do you remember that man last year who was convinced his eggplant was possessed?”

“Oh yeah,” I laugh. “The cops found it in the kitchen surrounded by a salt circle. He swore it was whispering things to him at night.”

Beau shakes his head, then strokes his massive hand down over his salt and pepper beard. “I swear, sometimes I think this town has completely lost it.”

“Come on. It’s not this town. It’s everyone. Who doesn’t know that it’s easier to blame your vegetables than take accountability for your poor life choices? I bet they do this in New York, too. Lately, I’m thinking I could use a truckload of sweet corn to blame for life’s bullshit. You?”

He stares at me a minute too long, then down at his coffee cup. “Everything okay?”

Truthfully, every part of me wants to collapse into a puddle of tears right here and now, but that’s not boss-appropriate conversation, though I have slipped up a few times.

“Yeah, I think.” I rub my hand over my expanded stomach. I tried hiding my pregnancy for a while because I wasn’t ready for people to look at me like I was suddenly made of glass, but at nine months, my belly is hard to miss now. “Aside from the odd craving for crayons.”

His deep voice upturns as he says, “Crayons?”

“My doctor says it’s some kind of mineral deficiency. I’m on a vitamin, but I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been craving the color blue all day.”

He laughs out loud at that one. “Noted. I’ll make sure and lock up the art supplies.”

I laugh softly, grateful for the moment of levity. “Probably smart. I’ve been eyeing the blue marker in the break room.”

Beau chuckles again, then he leans back, stretching his long legs out under the desk. “You ever get a craving for something normal? Like, I don’t know, pancakes?”

“Maybe I’d like them more if they were navy blue,” I say, and he grins like we’re two friends hanging around on a Saturday night, not boss and employee currently working the late shift.

Conversation like this has always been easy with Beau.

It has been since the very first day I started at dispatch, nearly two years ago.

He has this hometown, old-fashioned, man’s man kind of way about him.

Like the world could be crumbling apart and he’d still be standing strong and steady, reminding everyone that everything is going to be okay.

I guess that’s what makes him good at his job.

“I think I’ve got some pancake mix in the cupboard.

I could mix you something up.” He stands, widening his shoulders as he walks toward the kitchen, returning a moment later, tapping his thick fingers against a box of blue sprinkles we used to celebrate a gender reveal for a co-worker a few months back.

“I mean… this is practically calling your name. I’m surprised you haven’t dug in yet. ”

I laugh, but there’s something about the gesture that catches in my chest. It’s such a small thing. Something sweet, a grin, but I’m not used to this kind of care, and I don’t know what to do with it.

At home, kindness comes with conditions. Some days, it seems my fiancé Dave can do nice things without any thought at all. Others, you’d think an extra hug or listening to my feelings is like asking for the moon.

I stand there for a moment in the dimly lit hallway of the dispatch center, letting the warmth of Beau’s care settle into my bones. Letting myself wonder what it would be like to think I deserved this kind of care.

I’m a mess. A big, pregnant, messy mess, and I need to get a grip.

“We doing pancakes, or what?” Beau leans against the frame of the kitchen door, his massive body shrinking the space. I’ll never understand how a man that tall, with biceps that big, is alone. Not to mention the part about how kind and considerate he is. The dude is the total package.

That’s wrong too. I shouldn’t have thought that.

It’s just hormones. I say that to myself over and over again.

Pregnancy does weird things to your brain, like making you crave crayons and cry over laundry commercials.

Plus, I hear it’s really common to crush on your boss.

I mean, you spend all day with a man who’s dominant, protective, and smells like the woods.

A man who listens when no one else does, and doesn’t flinch when I say something weird.

A man who makes decisions, handles pressure, commands respect.

Who wouldn’t crush over a man like that?

It also doesn’t help that we spend hours together every day. I mean, I know so much about him.

What he does. How he thinks. Where he goes hunting on Sundays with his buddies. How he likes his coffee with two sugars. How he has a soft spot for peanut M&M’s.

Oh, and when he notices my work, it does something to me I can’t explain. It’s not just a ‘good job’ tossed over his shoulder. It’s the way he pauses, looks me in the eye, and says, ‘ you handled that call perfectly’ or ‘ you kept calm when most people would’ve panicked.’

His voice softens when he says it, his brow furrowing like he’s genuinely impressed, and there’s this deepness in his voice like he sees something in me that I’ve forgotten how to see in myself.

And God, it wrecks me. It wrecks me in all the ways it shouldn’t wreck me.

It’s what I think about when I’m alone, when I’m touching myself, when I need a fantasy to break through all the nonsense.

Realizing I’m still staring like a stupid idiot, I attempt something normal like trying to form a sentence. “I, ugh—” A heavy knock hits the front door, and I know it’s Dave.

I jump at the abrupt sound, my brain transitioning from feeling safe, back toward whatever it is I feel with Dave.

When did I become this person? The girl who can clearly see she’s unhappy, but walks into it anyway.

I’m pretty sure folks call it ‘too stupid to live,’ though my therapist claims it’s a cycle of abuse.

She says I’m stuck in a loop that’s rewired the way I think, the way I feel, and how I react.

It starts with me thinking it’s safe to need something, which leads to an inevitable blow up, then there’s sudden tenderness which makes me question whether I imagined the whole thing.

That’s the part that messes with me most. The way he can flip the script and make me feel like I overreacted, like I’m the problem.

After that, things go quiet. We slip into the calm phase.

He’s sweet again. I breathe easier and start to hope.

You’d think hope was good, but it’s the most dangerous place of all.

Hope is what convinces me to stay. Hope convinces me to try again, to need, to want, to believe that this time will be different.

It never is.

The loop resets, and every time it does, I lose a little more of myself. My instincts. My voice. My confidence. My belief that I’m worthy of anything other than exactly what I’ve been getting.

Of course, knowing all these things doesn’t make me an expert on managing them. There still are pieces of me that wonder if maybe I’m exaggerating, if I really am the problem.

“You alright?” Beau is next to me now, his gaze heavy on mine like he really cares.

“That’s probably Dave,” I whisper, breaking our stare in favor of my purse beneath the desk, then my coat.

I need to get a grip, and I need to do it now. I can’t let my little girl come into the world to a mother who can’t think straight.

Beau brushes past me, wide and strong, the scent of cedar on his flannel as he unlocks the front door and pushes it open, greeting Dave with a handshake and a nod.

There’s a split second when I see Dave that I think maybe I’ve misjudged his mood, but then his jaw clenches, and I know I haven’t. Work ended ten minutes ago. He’s probably pissed that I lingered talking to Beau, or that I didn’t rush to the door fast enough.

I step off the sidewalk too quickly, desperate to smooth the night over before it spirals. But as my foot hits the curb, I stumble.

“Woah,” Beau growls under his breath, gripping me in his big, steady, warm hand. “It’s slippery out here.”

My cheeks flush hot. Not from the stumble, but from the way Beau steadies me.

It’s the kind of touch that doesn’t ask for anything, and for a split second, I want to lean into it…

just a little. But I don’t. I pull away too fast, like I’ve done something wrong.

Like Dave can feel it from across the parking lot where he’s already climbing up into his truck.

“Thanks,” I mumble, eyes darting toward Dave. He’s watching. Of course he is.

My stomach knots. That look means I’ll pay for this later. Not with words, necessarily. Sometimes it’s silence. Sometimes it’s passive aggression. Sometimes, it’s nothing.

Trouble is, I probably am wrong. I shouldn’t think the things I think about Beau. I shouldn’t have lingered talking to him. I should’ve been ready and waiting for Dave.

I force a smile toward my boss, the kind that says I’m fine even though I’m not. Then I hurry toward the car, heart thudding, already rehearsing apologies.

As I leave, Beau calls my name, and I turn back. His voice is low and steady as he says, “The roads are bad tonight. Let me know when you get home.”

It’s not uncommon for us as a team to show care for each other. I do it all the time with my co-workers, and I know Beau does too, but for some reason as I nod, my throat tightens.

Beau steps back, but his eyes lock on mine. There’s something in them, something that makes my skin flush and my heart tighten.

It’s that look that makes me ache in places I didn’t know I could ache, and I’ll be thinking about it when I lie awake tonight, analyzing my relationship, craving blue crayons, and wondering what it would feel like to be wanted without fear.