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.
And holy shit, he’s real.
He lives in a nice part of town. HOA-controlled grass and mailbox-uniformity nice. He’s in the system. And better, he teaches swimming. At the community pool.
That’s it. That’s the moment the rom-com begins. The vending machine thing was just foreshadowing. A trailer. This is the full cinematic release. With popcorn. And my tits out, chlorinated and dripping.
He teaches weekends. And I, conveniently, have no idea how to swim.
Never learned. Trauma? Possibly. I drowned in a kiddie pool once.
Didn’t die, but my trust in water was irrevocably damaged.
Until now. Because now? He’s going to save me.
With his hands. On my waist. Holding me up.
Teaching me how to breathe. God. Water will become our love language.
This is not a sex fantasy. This is self-improvement. Growth.
It’s perfect. I’ll show up in the pink two-piece with the ruffled skirt that whispers purity but screams, step on me gently. It’s the kind of suit that says, I don’t belong here but God do I want to try.
I bought it for a vacation I never went on. But maybe I was always meant to debut it for Benji.
I’ll wear the matching sandals with pink starfish on the straps. Maybe I’ll wear a toe ring. Benji feels like the kind of man who notices feet.
I need a pedicure. Immediately. I’m not showing up with chipped polish and emotional baggage. Only one of those is cute.
That’s the next call as I drain my coffee. My nail tech has a cancellation. Another sign. The stars are begging me to fall in love.
Pool has private slots available. Four sessions before the season ends. That’s all I need. Four weekends for him to fall under the spell. Four Saturdays of floating in his arms, splashing like a helpless little thing, saying “oh no” and pretending I didn’t just brush my thigh against his.
I book it.
The receptionist even said, “Oh, Benji’s a favorite. Super gentle. Everyone loves him.”
Yes. Obviously. I do. I’m everyone.
After I hang up, I picture him waiting poolside with a towel over one shoulder and the sun catching on his lashes. I imagine him holding my wrist to show me how to paddle. I imagine him remembering me from the hallway.
He’s the kind of man who’d apologize after bumping my elbow. The kind who’d hold my bag while I fixed a twisted ankle strap. The kind who’d fall first. Hard.
And when fall comes? We’ll take long walks and pick out pumpkins together. I’ll teach him how to flirt. He’ll pretend not to be good at it, but he’ll blush when I call him brave.
By winter, we’ll be snowed in. It’s going to be so wholesome it hurts. Like, Hallmark-channel-but-horny levels of magic.
God. I’m going to learn so much. About swimming. True love.
And boundaries, so I can get Rhys’s stamp of approval and Hank will drop his damn charges.
I’ve got a whole hour to think while someone scrapes my sins off with a pumice stone and paints my toenails fuck me- pink. That’s sixty full minutes to strategize which of the men I spiritually own gets the honor of my emotional focus today.
Technically, I could try Rhys. For balance.
But he hides in his office all day like a haunted little therapist cryptid, probably journaling about how to emotionally neuter me with healthy boundaries.
Creeping around the building trying to catch glimpses of him might seem romantic in my head, but in execution it’s just..
. stalking. And I’ve already hit my weekly limit.
Benji? Tempting. But I have swimming with him tomorrow, and if I loiter like a deranged groupie today, it’ll dilute the impact of my pre-scheduled poolside seduction. Presentation matters.
Jett deserves chaos today.
He’s broody. He’s angry. He’s got those arms that look like they’re mad at ceilings. And the way he glowered at Kev for looking at me too long, is basically caveman courtship and I accept.
Pedicure complete, toes divine, feet ready to step on a man’s throat, I hit the grocery store first. Recovery snacks are the goal.
Candy. Cookies. Cashews. Something sweet, something salty, something that implies I care about his protein intake but also want to feed him like a raccoon I’ve domesticated with affection and bribes.
Then I detour to the stationery store and find the most perfect little box of cards. Pastel monsters. Big eyes. Little fangs. Sentimental chaos. One of them says “It’s scary how much I like you” and I actually shriek a little in the aisle.
It’s giving “emotionally unstable girl who might kill for you.” It’s giving “my love language is threats.” It’s giving me.
Back in my car, I pack the offerings into a black gift bag with a pink glitter skull on it. Festive. Threatening. Girly in a way that says I chew my pen caps and make men nervous.
I open the card. Inside I scrawl a quick message with a glitter pen: “Don’t hit anyone. Have a great weekend. You’re my favorite problem.”
I hover over the card, lipstick tube in one hand, raw thirst in the other.
“Too much?” I whisper.
“No,” I answer.
I kiss the bottom corner. It’s not a signature. It’s a claim. A tiny, perfect mouth print that says you’re fucked, baby boy and not just emotionally.
Jett’s motorcycle is parked behind the gym, trying to intimidate the pavement.
It doesn’t need a license plate or a nametag or a little sign that says brOOD MACHINE 9000.
The thing just radiates him. All matte black and angry angles.
A threat with handlebars. The gas tank’s been custom painted, of course.
Some grim reaper bullshit, but not cheesy, more like a rotted angel with a blade in its mouth and a spine made of thorns.
Very my love is a battlefield and I will run you over energy. I swoon a little.
Of course it’s Jett’s.
I park beside it and stare lovingly, which I think is normal.
Then I get out, walk over, unbuckle one of his saddlebags, and slip the gift bag inside.
I do root around a little, because if you’re going to leave your things unattended around someone with unresolved childhood attachment issues, that’s really on you.
I don’t find much, just a pair of gym gloves, a bottle of water, and his hat, all folded up unaware it’s been the star of several of my more intense fantasies.
I hold the hat for a second. Sniff it. Gently. Respectfully. Like a weirdo with boundaries. Then I tuck it back in the bag like a good girl. Pause, snatch it out again, and replace my sunhat with it.
Getting on Jett’s bike is not easy when you’re five foot nothing and shaped like a cursed American Girl doll, but I manage. I scramble up like a drunk gremlin trying to mount a dragon, nearly twist my ankle, and definitely flash my underwear to the entire gym dumpster. Worth it.
Because now I’m sitting on his bike. On Jett’s bike.
Straddling his leather seat, thighs pressed where his would be, fingers gripping the handles like I know what I’m doing.
I don’t. I absolutely don’t. But that doesn’t stop me from making soft vroom-vroom noises and imagining what it would feel like to wrap my arms around him while he rides, dangerous and fast and furious, saying “I don’t do relationships” right before rearranging my guts.
I glance around. No one’s here.
I stare at the grim reaper’s snarling face, and whisper: “He’s going to love me or die mad about it.”
Then I press my mouth to the tank, slow and worshipful.
When I pull back, my lip print gleams on the matte black metal, glossy and brazen.
He’ll see it and either jerk off or file a police report. Maybe both, he’s complicated.