Page 100 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

“Hello, I, uh, I was hoping to speak to Eóghann MacGregor.” He doesn’t say E-O Gann or Egon, Egg-ann or Eeyore-Gahan, or any of the bizarre variations I’ve heard. He says Ewan McGregor. “Are you with the artist?”

I nod and start to extend my hand to shake, but before I can introduce myself, he starts with wordus vomitus. He should never play poker; he telegraphs everything: eager, sad, hopeful, a whiff of desperation.

Oh, and he’s freaking gorgeous on normal days, but in a suit, wooo doggy. The combination of light green eyes against black hair is striking, but damn, this man has been gifted by whoever gives out good looks.

“I would like to talk to Eóghann. Will he be here tonight?” He speaks softly, each word perfectly formed, as though it’s an effort.

Before I can answer, he starts talking again, gesturing even though he’s holding a steaming cup of coffee. I won’t have to accidentally-on-purpose make him spill coffee on me for our meet-cute; he’s going to do it all by himself.

His eyes give off the strangest combination of heartbreak and hope. “Eóghann is my last chance. Everyone says it’s time to move on, but I can’t seem to get there. I thought maybe…”

A long, deep inhale fills me with the lemon verbena I’ve banished from my apartment. He’s familiar, like a soft blanket from childhood, but it’s not the scent, it’s not the mannerisms, it’s the voice. I rub away the goose bumps.

Mr. Coffee sounds a lot like him. No, that’s not entirely accurate. I’m the problem here. A guy smells a little lemony, and my imagination goes crazy. Sigh. Scratch that plan to stealth my way into his mornings; I can’t be hanging out with a guy who smells like him.

He runs his hand through his hair, the set of his shoulders tight with stress and just rambling along.

I tune out, bummed that he’s off the potential list, until he says, “I did not realize she was…” He pauses. “The most important thing in my life.”

Got it. Hotty McHotsALot is all bent about some chick. Of fucking course he’s emotionally unavailable. He keeps rambling, a veritable tide of words about which I really don’t care. Blah blah blah.

He reminds me of him, so he’s definitely a no-go zone. Bummer.

“She bought me one of these paintings, the print you have there, on the left? I have the original. I’d like the next four as well, the originals? That completes the series, does it not?”

Now, that I catch. He finally stops talking and waits for an answer, but I’m too stunned to speak. Mr. Coffee has my painting? Rage rises in me. Motherfucker. He ditched my painting? Why does that hurt so much?

Deep breath. Another one, slower, longer. Fuck, I hate lemon verbena.

I. Have. Healed.

Dear Universe, please send more healing, stat. M’kay, thanks.

I take in another deeper, longer cleansing breath and release it even slower. I repeat it again, then tune back in and listen to the onslaught of babbled words.

More lemon.

Eyes more gorgeous than those of a supermodel. Saoirse said his were like that.

“Maybe Eóghann will help me find her, or he could send a message? My friend is extremely frugal, so maybe this is all a huge mistake on my part. I cannot imagine her spending the money for one of these paintings.” I listen, really listen to what he’s saying. There’s a huge difference between hearing and listening. Now that I truly process what he’s saying, my knees threaten to buckle.

This isn’t some guy with his painting.

It’s him. He’s here. How?

“He?” It comes out a pitchy squeak. He means Eóghann, like there’s a he and a me and we’re different, Eóghann and I.

When I was barely keeping my head above the surface, this man kept me breathing.

The weird names on his coffee order? That reeks of Julian.

“He, uh, Eóghann,” he says, unsure. “I was hoping that he could help. I am desperate to find the woman who bought my painting. I would also like to acquire the other four. They’ve not sold?”

No. No. I’m closing the goddamn door and opening a big fucking window tonight. I have healed. I have therapized.

I don’t even think his name.

I’ve had months to practice not saying his name, to forget. His name doesn’t cross my mind without permission, which I do not grant, ever.