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“We’re still going to have dinner, sweetheart, because you need some proper food in your system. But we’re not going out.”
“Wait. What do you mean?”
Dean smiles for the first time since he arrived. Bending over, he unlaces his boots and toes them off, neatly stacking them beside my loafers. Once standing, he steps into my personal space, his socked feet sliding against my bare toes, and wraps me in his arms.
“I mean, we’re going to order delivery—something more filling than pizza. We’re going to eat and cuddle on the couch. We’ll talk, and you’ll start handing over your worries to me.”
My entire body deflates like a popped balloon. Sagging against Dean’s chest, I rub my cheek against him, wrapping my arms around him and squeezing as hard as I can. “You mean it?”
“I’ll never lie to you, sweetheart.” He pulls back, his hand tracing down my arm until his fingers tangle with mine. “Now, let’s sit, and you can tell me what you’d like to eat.”
Pulling our linked hands, I guide Dean to my small couch. Exactly like the diner, he sits first and drags me onto his lap without comment. He gives me a second to wiggle into a more comfortable position, my legs draped over his lap, my head leaning on his broad chest, close enough that I can hear the steady cadence of his heartbeat beneath my ear.
“Much better,” he hums. “Mio Nonno Trattoria is still open for a few more hours. How does Italian food sound?”
My stomach grumbles in response, thoughts of decadent pasta dancing in my head. Dean laughs. “What’s your favorite dish?”
“The shrimp fettuccine,” I tell him. “Can I get broccoli added to it?”
“Of course,” he says, thumbing his phone screen to the app and entering the order. He efficiently adds a lasagna for himself, a side salad, and two orders of chocolate cannolis. My heart does a giddy jig when I see the dessert. “Looks like it will be about thirty-five minutes until it arrives. Plenty of time to talk, don’t you think?”
“Can I stay on your lap while we do that?” I peer at him through my lashes, affecting every ounce of innocence I can muster in the look.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way, sweetheart.” I snuggle in against Dean’s chest as he peppers me with questions, kicking off with the one I dread answering most. “You texted me this morning, letting me know you had a good bit of sleep. Why do you look so worn down again?”
Grimacing, I tuck my face against his chest, murmuring a semi-detailed replay of my morning and the extra hours I put in throughout the day. Dean remains mostly silent, only pushing out soft, sympathetic hums as I recount my story. When I gloss over the part where Mr. Havers threatened me with a write-up, Dean’s chest vibrates beneath me with a growl.
“That’s bullshit! You’re not selfish, baby boy.”
“But he’s right. I should have worked on the notes—”
“Absolutely not,” he growls. “It’s unreasonable for your boss to expect you to work a full day, overtime that ran until almost midnight, and then stay up until the wee hours of the morning working on notes. Especially when you not only showed up the next day on time but an hour early.”
“He said I wasn’t a team player.”
Dean cuddles me closer. “Baby boy, if anyone in your department isn’t a team player, it’s your boss. Not you.”
Deep down, I know he’s right, but hearing the awful comments from Mr. Havers has me questioning everything I’ve done since I was hired. I say nothing, pushing closer to Dean, hoping I can somehow soak up his comfort.
“Have you considered making a change?”
Shooting up from his embrace, I blink at him. “I can’t leave my job. I won’t. These kids need me.”
“I know your job is important to you, Tanner. I’m worried about how much it’s taking out of you,” he says softly. “You barely sleep, your eating habits are horrendous, and you have no balance.”
“It’s a small sacrifice to make sure someone is looking after these kids,” I defend.
“I’m not suggesting you quit your job,” he says. “I’m merely asking about making a change.”
“Like what?”
“Is there anyone else, perhaps someone over your direct boss, you can speak to? Discuss reducing your caseload to a manageable level and establish after-hours boundaries? At a minimum, you should look for a way to get a break. Seven days a week, without using your time off…it’s not sustainable, baby.”
I shake my head before he can even finish. “Mr. Havers is the director of our location. The only people above him are at the state level, and they don’t manage the local offices.”
Dean’s chest grumbles in annoyance. “Okay, well, if you can’t change your work schedule, what about your home schedule?”
“I’ve tried, but there’s so little time,” I say, defeat pulling my shoulders forward. “I warned you about this. I’d rather sleep in the few hours I have than clean, cook, or make time for myself to be little.”
