Page 3 of Boss with Benefits

During our few interactions, Rachel was always in motion, like she was chasing something—or maybe running from something. For the first time, I wondered which it was.

“I don’t think skating and sucking on that is a good idea,” I blurted out.

“Thanks, Dad,” she retorted, shoving the lollipop further into her mouth. She twirled on her skates, making a wide loop around the desk. “But I’ve been adulting for a while now. I know how to keep myself alive.”

Just as she rounded my desk, showing off, her skate caught on the leg, and she tumbled face-first into one of the armchairs.

“How’s the adulting going?” I asked, deadpan.

Her head wedged in the seat cushion, Rachel flipped me the bird behind her back, and a smirk tugged at my lips.

As she tried to dislodge herself, she wiggled her barely covered ass, and I quickly averted my gaze, feeling like a deviant.

Rachel was young. About twenty-six. Too young for me. Even if she were my age, forty-five, she was too chaotic for my taste. But having a vibrant young woman in my office, half-dressed, was a stark reminder of how long it had been since I’d been with a woman.

The reality of it had hit me this weekend, sitting by myself in the living room of my townhouse, watching the city come to life outside my tall windows…

I was really fucking lonely.

A tough guy wasn’t supposed to admit that, but I was doing my best to challenge toxic masculinity, both on my podcast and in my personal life. I’d started Dreamary several years ago with my friend and colleague Isaac Pillon after our podcast,Missing Girls, became an international sensation.

We’d wanted to do something noble with the money and fame that came with the success, and so we started a media company that supported other socially conscious podcasts.

Rachel used to come to the office several times a week, always a burst of chaotic energy, a force of nature impossible to ignore.

“Why are you here anyway?” I asked.

She shrugged her shoulder in the direction of a filing box with Eva’s name scrawled on it. “To get Eva’s stuff. But now I don’t have time to bring it to my place before the bout. Can you make sure it doesn’t get trashed? I’ll come get it next week.”

“Sure,” I said, sliding my tote over my shoulder. “Grab your bag. I’ll take you to your match.”

Rachel slung her backpack over her shoulder, tossing the ruined sucker into the trash as she followed me out. Her skates clattered over the hardwood floors as we headed toward the elevators.

My stride was unhurried, but my protective instinct flared up, unbidden. Twenty years on the force had made it second nature. It was in my blood, even if I wasn’t wearing a badge anymore.

“You sure you don’t know that guy?” I pressed, unable to shake the concern gnawing at me. The thought of her being followed, possibly threatened, had me on edge.

Rachel tapped on her phone, barely glancing up as we stepped into the elevator. Upbeat music blared from her phone’s speaker, and she held it up, bopping her head to the beat.

“Pretty sure,” she said, spinning in a tight circle around me, her thigh brushing against mine, sending a jolt of awareness through me. I tensed, trying to ignore it.

“Where’s your game?” I asked, stepping back and pressing against the wall. The confined space felt even smaller with her energy filling it.

“Brooklyn.” She grinned, skating closer, her pink-dyed braids bouncing. “And you’re not escorting me there.”

“Alright,” I conceded. “But I’m walking you to the train. Nonnegotiable.”

“Fine,” she huffed, though there was a smile playing on her lips. She flicked her braid, nearly hitting me in the chest.

Every time I saw her, her appearance was different—whether it was her hair, her style, or some wacky accessory she’d clipped in. Her wardrobe was just as unpredictable, always colorful, always unique. She was like a walking carnival, full of fun and magic, a breath of fresh air in a city that could often feel suffocating.

It could get fucking depressing when I reported on the cases forMissing Girls. It was easier when Isaac was here, but he wanted to focus on his investigative journalism and had been away researching a book for the past year. Now, he did the podcast remotely, and I barely saw him.

Somehow, everyone in my life had drifted away, off into their own worlds. Half of my sisters had families of their own, the other half were living busy lives outside the city, and my parents were preoccupied running their deli in Bedford-Stuy, where I grew up.

“Why are you so protective? Is it from being a cop?” Rachel asked as we made our way down the sidewalk to the subway entrance.

“It was instilled in me from a young age,” I replied, memories of countless nights spent watching over my sisters surfacing. “My parents always worked. My dad runs a deli, and back then my mom was a bookkeeper and a substitute teacher. They’re Catholic—Italian and Dominican—so lots of kids. I was the oldest, and I took care of my six younger sisters.”

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