Page 20 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

I hope this doesn’t get out. I can’t have a bunch of men getting their way all the time. What would be next, Michigan and Ohio State fans holding hands and singing Kumbaya before the big game?

We talk for an hour—without a big reveal of his middle name—chatting happily until he’s tucked in.

“Call me soon?” I ask. Needy is not a good look for me, but that doesn’t stop the words from exiting my mouth.

His answer is a soft murmur, a little slurred. He doesn’t need me, but I listen for a few minutes to be sure. It’s the best part of my job, this quiet moment spent listening to Henry drift off.

It turns out he doesn’t have the ability to just charm me; his superpower extends to other women too. Three days later, I go to our mailbox to get our packages and mail some things. It isn’t until I get back to the office that I find one in the stack addressed simply to Kait. It’s from Chicago. Henry. He’s a details man; he confirmed the spelling on one of our first calls.

I slice at the packing tape with my car key, too impatient to find scissors. Inside is an elegant blue box with silver trim and a matching bow. I pull it out, swiping the packing peanuts back into the shipping box. Half expecting a French tickler or some sort of sex thing, the well-established standard of gift giving around this joint, I gently lift the lid.

Hit with a wave of almond, rich but delicate, my mouth waters as I take in an array of pastel treats he must have hand carried back from Paris. Henry Sweet Pea Sterling took time out of his excruciatingly busy workday to send me a present, and I’m moved to tears by his thoughtfulness. Guys send shit I’m afraid to touch all the time—we open our mail here with those thick yellow dishwashing gloves—but they don’t send thoughtful, expensive gifts.

Callers cannot be trusted. It should be a rule.

But this? This is a gift for me. Not a cupless bra for Kait’s giant fictional rack, or “for me” but to suit their kink. No, this is a delicate pastel rainbow of Parisian macarons, dozens in perfect rows, four of every color. Baby blue with blueberry, sunshine yellow with lemon curd, maybe? A cream one that must be vanilla, judging by the tiny brown specks. They’re almost too gorgeous to eat. Almost.

Taking a tiny nibble of a pink one with a jam-like layer between the cookies, I moan as the flavor melts on my tongue. Framboise rouge. The cookies are crisp yet chewy, with a thin layer of raspberry between. Digging through the packing peanuts, I find a printed menu and a wee envelope the size of a business card. Kait is handwritten in a bold, masculine script on the front. Inside, a note.

Dear Kait,

Please find enclosed a treat for you and the ladies at the office.

XO,

Henry—Top Secret Middle Names—Sterling

I fan myself with the tiny card, and then for some inexplicable reason, I hold it to my heart. Biting my lip, I shake my head in an attempt to make the smile go away before someone sees. It doesn’t work. I float through my day, beaming and listening to everyone gush about Henry being a prince among men.

CHAPTER SIX

HENRY

“GIRL ON THE PHONE” — THE JAM

I’m running late for drinks with Julian, so I’m tempted to ignore my phone since it’s after five, but when I see that it’s my accountant, I answer, even though I have regrets before he says a word.

“Henry Sterling,” I say, and wonder if answering non-work calls that way makes me sound like a douchebro.

“Henry, hi, it’s Mark Batson, calling from Jacques & Batson Accounting.” He says it as though we haven’t talked every single month about my finances and investments for the last four years.

“Hey, Mark, it’s a few weeks early. What can I do for you?” I jam my phone between my ear and shoulder as I finish putting my shoes on.

“Hey, I’m getting ready to pay your American Express bill, and there are some⁠—”

Oh hell.

“—uh, some unusual charge activities. You’re not usually a big spender—in fact, you’re pretty diligent about early retirement savings,” he says, and I stifle a groan. “But I’m seeing recurrent but identical charges from an Unlimited Creative Consulting out of Columbus, Ohio. Maybe we should do a charge-back? The repetitive nature seemed like a red flag, so I looked them up, and it looks like it’s a phone s⁠—”

I jump right in and interrupt before he can say phone and sex in the same sentence. “Oh, yes, that’s my new therapist, we do therapy by phone, phone therapy sessions,” I say.

“—sex outfit.”

“Nope, no fraud there. That’s a legitimate charge, uhm, for my, uhm, insomnia. That’s my sleep therapist,” I say with a gulp.

Total silence on the other end.

“Totally legit charges. Legitimate and therapeutic charges on my Amex.” Stop talking, Henry. Stop this instant.