Page 59 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

I run my hand over my stubble, but it doesn’t help me focus. No, it makes me think of dragging the coarse hair over her most sensitive places and snuggling her, truth be told. “Kait, all I know is this: I would be miserable if you suddenly went away. Promise me you won’t disappear one day. At least say goodbye.”

“Henry, I would never,” she says, and with such vehemence that I can’t do anything but believe her.

“I still have irrational hope that one day we’ll sit down for coffee—or tea—and you’ll tell me your name, and we’ll laugh and have a grand time.”

And maybe you’ll look at me with more than friendship in your eyes.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

HENRY

“STAY (FARAWAY, SO CLOSE!)” — U2

Sitting at Sophie’s, the rooftop bar at my hotel, gives me a gorgeous night view of Dublin, high above the local rows of shops and restaurants. The walls of windows have a gorgeous 360-degree view of the skyline as the sun sets, honey and apricot skies in high contrast against aged stone churches and steeples, and Harcourt Street.

I like eating here. I’m on a first-name basis with the staff, and they take great care of me. They put ice in my water, even though that’s a thoroughly American preference, and know how I like my steak. The bartender on tonight didn’t even wait for me to order before putting a ramekin of mayonnaise, salt, and pepper in front of me for my fries. She knows I’m a french fry guy, like I know she’s up for conversation when they aren’t too busy.

Kait and I have planned a chat later. It’s only three for her, so I have some time to kill. I’m trying to stay on Chicago time, so I’ll be up for a while. But it’s eight here, and already dark since it’s April, so Scotch isn’t unreasonable, nor are some tempura prawns while I await my steak. I might even have some sticky toffee pudding delivered later.

“I’d ask if you come here often, but the staff seem to know your name,” says the woman stepping close, as British and posh as Julian.

She’s sleek in that way women who live in big cities and make lots of money often are, her hair smooth and her manner not quite bold, more self-assured and forthright. Accustomed to getting what she wants is the ideal way to say it, both at work and in rooftop bars in foreign cities.

She’s about my age, gorgeous, and… available.

“You would be correct,” I say, not sure of an appropriate response. “I’m here at least once a month, often more.”

“I’m Helena,” she says, and we shake hands, her grip firm as I expect from a power player. She radiates executive energy. And giving zero fucks about what other people think about her energy. Except for maybe me. For tonight, maybe two nights, depending on her travel schedule. “I’m here for a few days on business.”

“Here on business” is like a code for hot, brief, no-strings fling. Or maybe I read too much into it. Maybe it’s small talk.

She puts her hand on my elbow and drags it slowly up my arm to grip my bicep in a long, lingering caress. It would be churlish to pull my arm away, but I break eye contact and inspect my Scotch. I should want her touch, to touch and be touched after so long without, but I don’t. Not in the slightest.

“Henry,” I say, because my mom drilled manners into the herd of us from our first breaths. With so many of us, it was essential that we were well-behaved. “My name is Henry.”

“American,” she says with a smile. “How nice.”

It’s not a real smile. It puts me in mind of those insects that get devoured after they impregnate the female—or while they do the deed. Like she wants to consume everything I have to offer.

“Do you have plans for this evening, Henry?”

Do I have plans for this evening?

Now, that’s a loaded question, isn’t it?

Do I want to fuck a stylish, articulate, British woman who will likely ride me half to death before she flies off in a few days, never to be seen again?

No doubt she’d be a fun time. Break my two-year-plus fast, get my needs met for free, clear out my carburetor, so to speak.

Dip my nib in some expensive ink.

Or I could pay to talk to Kait.

Kait. Who is probably faking how much she likes talking to me. Who is probably married with four kids and one on the way. But somehow, paying Kait seems less salacious, less dirty than what’s being freely offered here. And I’m not sure how to feel about that. But I know that Kait gives as good as she gets and hesitates every time it’s her turn to take. And gushes when I send her a present, even if it’s not expensive.

I tell myself she hesitates because she’s sweet. I don’t let myself wonder if she hesitates because she’s careful and protecting the cover story built for me. I’m not sure choosing to pay for intimacy instead of accepting it for free makes me principled. It might make me cowardly.

So I take the easy way out. For a guy who negotiates hundred-million-dollar and occasionally billion-dollar mergers, I am nonconfrontational. Or maybe that’s the secret in and out of the boardroom. I’m subtle, reserved, unlikely to say what I’m thinking unless I’m with Julian, or family, or on the phone with Kait.