The following weeks are a blur of activity. By day, I’m at the hospital, and every night, after my sister comes home, I meet with Max.

He’s ridiculously exciting. I haven’t been able to think of much else except for that kiss. I walk around in a constant state of haziness, thinking of his mouth on me. I’ve never been so hyper-focused on something that I let other things go, but now, I’m living life in la-la land. I don’t care when Cara comes home late. I don’t mind when the children scream their heads off and act like animals. No, I dance around like someone . . . like someone in love.

And I know it’s ridiculous. Max doesn’t do love. But maybe that’s not even what I want from him. No, I’d just settle for his hands, his body, on mine.

But he said it was a mistake. Since then, he’s been all business. His hands on my body? Probably won’t happen ever again.

I shouldn’t even want that. I know how he operates, how he can’t keep it in his pants. He said that to me, point-blank. I know if I fall for him, I’ll get attached. I may already be getting attached. And the closer we get, the more I’ll get my heart broken when the inevitable breakup comes.

Cara comes home after I get the children into bed, and she’s surprised that Max isn’t there. “Where’s your stud?” she asks.

“He had a business meeting,” I say, distracted.

Then it hits me. To her, he’s Max the doctor, not a businessman.

“Er, at the hospital,” I add.

She grabs an apple off the table, as I study her. For the first time, the little things Max mentioned become clear. It’s like he’s opened my eyes, because her shirt is askew, and there is a red rash on the pale skin of her neck. I try not to be too obvious when I lean forward and sniff. “Still working on the project?”

She nods and looks away. Liar.

“You’d better get an A, considering how hard you’re working,” I fish. “What’s it on, anyway?”

“Oh. Um. European Hegemony in the nineteenth century.” She manages a smile. “Really boring.”

I nod, wondering how my dear little sister has ever gotten so good at keeping a poker face. Not from me, that’s for sure—I can feel my face overheating. Maybe Max is right; she’s embarrassed to talk to me about sex since I’ve always been so overtly virginal. But from the size of that hickey on her neck, she didn’t let potential embarrassment stop her. I wonder who the boy is. I wonder how far they’ve gone. And then, for the millionth time, I wish I had my parents.

When she retreats to the bedroom to go to sleep, I lock myself in the bathroom and strip as I run the warm water in our small bathtub. I’m in desperate need of me-time. I pull out my phone and notice a text from Talia: Are you ready to spill yet?

I take some tub toys out of the bottom of the tub and swirl some bubbles into the bath, I type in. I’m actually glad I have someone to tell. Yep.

Good. What’s his name?

Talia’s my best friend, and I know she’ll take this to the grave, if I ask her to. Max Winchester.

OMG. Seriously?

You know him?

EVERYONE knows him. He’s beautiful. And… the richest guy in town, practically. YOU ARE SO LUCKY!

My body lights up with tingles as I think of that kiss. Relax. It’s not like we’re dating.

I can think of worse things than getting paid to be with him. In fact, I’d probably pay to be with him.

I swallow. I pull my Columbia sweatshirt over my head, then unfasten my bra. I step out of my leggings and panties and stare at my naked body in the mirror. I’m not hideous. In fact, if I hold myself the right way and suck in my little tummy, I even look sexy.

But is anyone worthy of the perfection that is Max Winchester? Maybe that’s the reason he can’t find a woman to meet his standards—she doesn’t exist.

I coil my hair in a messy bun atop my head and type in, Well. It’s strictly business. I meet his father next week.

You should try to work in some pleasure. I would.

Oh, I know exactly what type of pleasure Talia would work in, but that is not what I want to do. No, the further away from that night at the Suitors Club I get, the more I realize that auctioning off my virginity was just plain . . . horrible. I don’t think I would have ever been able to go through with it, even if . . .

Well, maybe I’d have been able to go through with it if it had been Max.

My mind dwells to the kiss again, and I stop myself before I can get carried away. No. I’m nervous enough as it is!

Suit yourself. Message me if you ever decide to cross that business line. I want details.

I sigh. Not happening.

Let’s do lunch tomorrow?

Okay. You know where to find me.

Talia is good about that. She works in an office across from the Children’s Hospital, so we’re often meeting up at the hospital cafeteria for a quick bite to eat. Sometimes, she’ll even come up with me to visit Joey, but she hasn’t done that for a while, since Joey has gotten progressively worse and has had to keep away from visitors. But the first few treatments have gone well, from what the doctors are telling me. He’s been tolerating them well, and that’s a good sign.

I place my phone on the bathroom counter and slide into the frothy warm water, savoring the feel of it relaxing my muscles. I stretch my body out, lean against the porcelain edge, and place a wet cloth over my tired, bloodshot eyes.

Just then, my phone buzzes. Annoyed, I lower the washcloth and look at it with one eye. Curiosity gets the best of me. I scoot forward and check the display, thinking it’s just Talia. I nearly choke when I see Max’s name. I swipe the phone off the counter so fast I nearly send it toppling into the water.

It says just one word. Hey.

I stare at it. So is that just Hey, casual? Or Hey, I’m bored? Or Hey, I want to get in your pants?

It could be anything.

But one thing it isn’t? Professional.

So far, we haven’t exchanged anything like flirty texts before. In fact, beside that five-minute period where he’d thrown caution to the wind and kissed me, it’s been a bunch of sad-trumpets, how professional and courteous he’s been. Even after the kiss, the past few times we’ve met, he’s stayed well on the side of proper, never even flirting with crossing the line. He’d said it was a mistake, and it was.

But even if it was a mistake, it had felt so so so good. The way our tongues had entwined. The way his body felt against mine. It was almost too good.

And this text? It has possibility.

What does he want? I poke in, Hey. What’s up?

Just checking to see how my fiancé is doing. This is the first night all week I haven’t seen your smiling face.

I stare at those words. What does that mean? Is he saying that he misses me? Or is he teasing me? Or… maybe Dan is there, watching over his shoulder as he texts.

Yes. That’s probably it. He said he had a meeting with people, and Dan must have been included, since there is the major possibility he’s taking over the whole company.

I decide I’ll jump into character and milk it for what it’s worth. If he questions it, I can just tell him that I thought we were playing engaged. I type in, I wish you were here.

Where is here? What are you doing now?

I look down at my naked body and blush. I’m taking a bath.

I take in a deep breath as his next words come up: Now I really wish I was there, too.

My jaw drops, and I sit myself up straight in the bathtub. He really is flirting with me. Maybe. If Dan is there, maybe this is all for appearances. After all, his fiancé is supposed to be kinky and with an insatiable appetite for sex. I think for a moment about how to keep this going, and type in: What are you doing?

At a bar in the city. Still having that meeting. Dan won’t shut the hell up.

I blink. It occurs to me at that moment that Dan can’t be staring over his shoulder, or he wouldn’t have said that. He may hate his brother, but he is trying to play civil, at least.

I want to squee aloud. He really is flirting with me. And . . .

I type in: Poor you. Are you drunk?

Possibly. Getting there.

Oh my gosh. I have a drunk Max Winchester booty-texting me. This could be very, very interesting.

I’m honored you thought to text me in your time of boredom. So do you want me to keep you entertained?

I watch those three dancing dots. If you send me pictures of yourself in that bath, I will be very entertained.

I feel myself getting all hot and bothered of the thought of him seeing naked pictures of me. But . . . hell no. Even drunk, I wouldn’t be able to do something like that. No thanks. I don’t do that.

He sends me a little frowny face. And then: Are you really a virgin?

I swallow and type in, with shaking fingers: Yes.

No man has ever licked your pussy?

I always thought Max would be direct when it came to sex, taking what he wanted, when he wanted it. My heart is beating out of my chest. The thought of Max, smiling wickedly up at me from between my legs, his breath, warm on my cunt? Wouldn’t I just have a heart attack before that could happen?

My hands continue to shake as I type in: You were the first man I ever kissed.

I wait, trembling in the water, now feeling a sea of goosebumps everywhere, as he comes back with: Goddamn, Lily.

I don’t know what that means. Is that bad? My finger hovers over the keypad, but I’m not sure what to say.

Finally, I see that he’s responding. A moment later: Would you have wanted me to go further?

There is only one answer to that. Yes. A million times, yes.

Him: How far?

I take a deep breath. And then I type in the truth: I don’t know. I’m sure your fiancé would know, but I don’t.

Him: Are you nervous?

Me: A little. Okay. A lot.

Him: You know, there’s nothing to be afraid of now. This is all pretend, right?

I look away from the screen, my head about to explode. I’m having a dirty text conversation with none other than Max Winchester. Even if he says it’s all pretend, after that kiss, I know at least some of it is real. The way I’m feeling right now, so hot I’ll need a shower after this bath? That’s real.

Me: Right.

Him: Yes. You know I said I need my fiancé to be kinky. So tell me what you’d do to me.

I know I need to stop this. I know this can’t continue on like this. This is a business deal, and if my heart gets too far into it, the other parts of my body will never recover. Despite every brain cell in my head telling me to stop, one part of me has taken control, driving my movements. It’s the desire, powering me forward.

But as much as I want him, I don’t know how to put it in words. My imagination is spiraling, but all that comes to mind is vague. Him, me. Naked, together.

Me: I’m not sure

Him: Then let’s work on that.

Me: What would you like to do with me?

He, clearly, doesn’t have that trouble.

Him: I’d start by getting into the tub with you. You know you have the most beautiful tits, the perfect size, so soft and perky. I take them in my hands and flick my tongue over one of your nipples, and the other. You like that because your sweet little nipples instantly get hard. I start to suck on your tit, my tongue working it in circles.

Him: Then I kiss my way down your navel. You lift your hot little ass out of the water. And now your naked cunt is right in front of me and I’m between your legs. I start to rub your clit gently

Oh, my God. I read the words again and again, my finger absently circling my clit. Despite being in the cooling water, I’m getting hot, so hot I palm my phone and fan my face with it. It doesn’t help. The thought of him, being there, tugging and licking my nipples, kissing his way down my body?

Him: I put your legs over my shoulders and drag you up to me, then I lift your pussy up to my face. I’m licking my way down to your clit, stopping there, running my tongue on it, then I take it into my mouth and suck it, and god, you taste so good . . .

Him: And then my tongue delves into your hole and god, you’re so sweet. And then I’m fucking you with my tongue, in and out, and you’re trembling and so I fuck you harder. You feel it baby? Feel my tongue going all the way up your slit? God, I love eating you, baby. I could eat you all day long.

Him: Are you touching yourself, baby? Are you rubbing the place where my tongue wants to be? You’re so fucking hot, baby. I’m grabbing your tits and burying my face in your pussy and my tongue is going in and out of you, feasting on your juices. God, you’re so sweet.

But he doesn’t need to do another thing. The building feeling culminates and suddenly I can’t take it anymore. I’m thrashing in the water, sending it spraying all over the bathroom as my body pulsates again and again.

Still shuddering, I pick up the phone and type in: Oh, my gosh. I . . . oh my gosh.

Him: Did you come?

Me: I think so. I’ve never felt that way before.

And it’s true. I can barely find the ability to get my fingers on the right key. If that was coming, why the hell didn’t I do it to myself sooner?

The answer: I needed someone like Max to make me want. I’ve never wanted in this way before.

Him: God, I want to be there with you.

But the moment my body stops trembling, something new trickles in. Fear. This is pretend. He said it himself. And I just got off on a pretty piece of fiction that my pretend fiancé texted to me. He’s not even here. How could I let someone who isn’t even mine mean that much to me?

Me: I’m embarrassed.

Him: Read it over again. Because the next time I see you, I’m going to do it all to you, in person.

I blink. That’s purely the alcohol talking. He’s drunk, and horny. I need to get a hold of him, before he thinks that’s really what I want. Because I don’t. I think.

Me: What happened to professional?

Him: Fuck professional. I want you. I’m coming over.

I hold in a breath.

Me: You know you can’t. My family’s here.

Him: I don’t care. I need to be with you.

Me: No. You need to be with someone. Anyone. Because you’re drunk.

Him: No.

Me: You’ll forget all about this in the morning.

Him: May

I wait for more, but nothing comes. May what, exactly?

I think of sending him another text, but I don’t know what else to say. I mean, he had to be drunk off his ass, to say those things to me. I can just imagine him falling asleep in his scotch, mid-text.

“Sweet dreams, Max,” I whisper under my breath. I lift myself out of the water and wrap myself in a towel. I can’t think of anything else to say. I think we’ve said it all.

Max Winchester was just drunk-texting me.

And he made me come.

As I sit on the edge of the bed, I shiver, and a hollow feeling carves out my center. It was wrong. The kiss was a mistake. Our worlds are too different to ever unite. This is just business. I need to keep that in mind.

Even so, my body is like a runaway freight-train, powering down the tracks at full-speed, oblivious to reason. My body wants him to do it to me again. All of it. Next time, in person. Because if it was that good via the phone, it would clearly be mind-blowing with his hands, his mouth, on me.

I just have to remember that Max doesn’t do relationships. Anything he gives to me will be as meaningless as that text-conversation. It will leave me feeling empty, ashamed, and worst of all, alone.