Page 97 of And Now, Back to You

“Who do you think?”

I tuck my arms against my chest. There’s a reason my work phone is still hidden at the bottom of my bag. “Oh. No, thanks.”

“Did you hear me asking?” He nudges me with the phone again. “C’mon, Delilah. Don’t stop being brave now.”

“But I don’t wanna,” I whine. I’d much rather ride the high of my victory and pretend that Keith doesn’t exist. “Tell him I’ll call him tomorrow.”

Jackson fills the space next to me, propping himself up against the wall with his shoulder. He knocks his boot against the side of mine. A silent show of support.

Mark grunts. “Don’t remember becoming your secretary either. The longer you make him wait, the worse it’ll be. You know that.”

“You have a real gift for motivational speeches,” I mutter, staring hard at the phone.

“So I’ve been told.”

The screen lights up with an incoming call. KEITH flashes across the caller ID. It’s time to pay the overly greased, Mountain Dew–addicted piper, I guess.

“Fine,” I sigh. Mark nods and takes one of the chairs beside the fire. Both he and Jackson stare at me expectantly. “Do you think I could get some privacy for this call?”

“No,” they answer in unison.

“Great. That’s . . . great.” I pace toward the wall of windows, ignoring them both, and raise the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Hello, Delilah.”

“Hello, Keith.”

I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this polite and cordial greeting. Usually, when Keith is in the throes of a fit, he’s inconsolable. Once he hurled a half-full container of caramel macchiato creamer across the newsroom because he thought someone else used it. It hit one of the interns in the forehead. Keith tried to sue them for workplace harassment.

“Put it on speaker,” Jackson orders from somewhere behind me. I wave my hand over my shoulder to shush him.

There’s a frustrated sigh and then heavy steps against the carpet behind me. Jackson lifts the phone out of my hand, taps the speaker button, and leans against the window, holding it just out of reach above my head. I kick him in the shin, but he doesn’t so much as flinch. We have a silent argument composed of exaggerated facial expressions, rude gestures, and whispered threats. Well, one of us does. Jackson just stands there slouched against the window, his face impassive.

“I enjoyed your reporting today,” Keith says, his too-calm voice floating up in the space between us.

Jackson rolls his eyes. I press my entire hand over his face. He swats it away. We have another twenty-second, completely silent argument.

“Um,” I manage while Jackson and I twist around each other. His free hand shoots out and loops around my shoulder, holding me tight against his chest. His thumb edges over the base of my throat to hold me steady. A wheezing noise shudders out of me.

Jackson smirks.

“Thank you?” I say into the phone, hoping for the best.

“My favorite part was when you deliberately ignored my direction.” Keith keeps that steady, easy tone that inches its way under my skin. “That was nice.”

I deflate like a sad little balloon and rip my gloves off, pressing cold fingertips to the middle of my forehead. I can feel the uncomfortable urge to fight rising within me, Jackson plastered against my back. To stand up for myself. To demand something better. Maybe it’s someone else finally bearing witness to the bullshit Keith routinely subjects me to or maybe it’s just the last snip to a string that’s barely holding on, but—

I am so damned tired of being this mediocre man’s punching bag.

Jackson lightly touches my hip and I stare up at him. His mouth quirks at the corners.

Give him hell, that look says. He deserves it.

I deserve it too.

“My favorite part is when you tried to remove me from the broadcast,” I snap. “I really enjoyed the lack of communication.”

Jackson’s eyebrows shoot up. Behind me, Mark lets out a muffled guffaw.