Holy shit. I look up from the computer with a smile. It’s an hour after my shift at Holy Grounds and Jackson has already filled my inbox with enough information to, well, launch a business. One email contains a web course on e-commerce and another details the process of getting products sourced. A third message includes no fewer than three podcast episodes about online businesses and five articles about online marketing and advertising.

“Just for starters,” he’s written, which makes me laugh.

But the best part is the time stamps on the emails. He’d written them before I even left my shift at Holy Grounds. If he had all of this stuff lined up, it means he’s really serious about doing this business together. I’m going to take that as a good sign.

I sit at the kitchen table with a mug of warm lemon water clutched in my hands, reading through information for the course and watching videos on my tiny laptop screen. I inherited my dad’s academic brain, even if my dropout status doesn’t quite show it. As I bend over my computer and jot down ideas, my years of straight-A achievement show through. I take detailed, organized notes. I am the perfect student. It’s actually kind of a shame that, as good as I am at school, I never finished.

I spend a few blurry hours filling my notebook with ideas, until I have to admit my brain’s tapped out for the day. Before I head to bed I load all the podcasts onto my phone so I can listen to them on my way to work.

In the morning I walk to Holy Grounds instead of taking the car, giving me extra time to listen. It’s kind of nice to be outside, the sun filtering through the trees, daffodils pushing up through the damp soil. Despite the fact that Jess calls in sick again, leaving me to work the morning shift alone, the natural high of all this new information lasts all day. Thank you, Jackson.

I’m not even fazed when Mrs. Keaton saunters into the coffee shop, Porkchop tucked under her arm even though the sign on the front door clearly says No Pets Allowed.

“Frappuccino,” Mrs. Keaton says, even though we’re not a Starbucks. “But only do half the syrup. And no whipped cream.” She pats the front of her shirt. “Getting ready for bathing suit season.”

I’m pretty sure she hasn’t worn a bathing suit in nearly a decade. I almost, almost, want to give her three pumps of syrup just so she drinks the empty calories, but she’s the type who would send a drink back. I fill her order correctly and line it up on the counter.

“So what are you doing in town, Natalie?” Mrs. Keaton bats her eyes at me. She’s wearing false lashes—although who the hell knows who she’s trying to impress—and one corner has come loose from her eye. She looks like a deranged butterfly.

I force a smile even though she looks me up and down like I’m a piece of meat. She’s salivating for gossip but I’m not giving her any.

“Just picking up some hours over the summer,” I say sweetly. If she finds out about what I’m doing when I’m not in the shop, I’m pretty sure I’ll never live it down. I’ll be forever known as that perverted lube girl. And while I may be a lube girl, I’m not a pervert. So there.

Mrs. Keaton ignores the fact that Porkchop is licking the edge of her cup. “Haven’t seen you home in a while.”

I glance at the dog’s tongue and my stomach turns. “Oh, you know.” I run a towel over the counter, avoiding her gaze.

“Hmm.” She shrugs. “Anyway, have you heard about some new girl named Delilah?”

My blood freezes. It’s not just that it goes cold, it’s that it actually stops moving. My heart skips a beat and my hands feel tingly and far away.

“Delilah?” I repeat. How could she know? I cut my eyes to the back room even though Jess isn’t working today. Could my coworker have overheard my conversation with Abby? If she knows about my business she could tell everyone. One wrong word could kill this thing before it even starts.

I shake my head. “Haven’t heard a thing.” I force myself to smile at Mrs. Keaton long enough that she can’t consider me rude, then head back to the cash register to wait on another customer.

Thirty minutes later my phone pings and I dig it out of my purse, cell phone policy be damned. The latest text message from Jackson tells me, Clear your schedule for Thursday.

My pulse picks up. It’s still strange to see his name on my phone, but I can’t say I’m not secretly excited. I admit, begrudgingly, that he’s exceedingly handy to have around, and I want to put some of my newfound knowledge to use. Still, I’m not quite prepared when I open the guesthouse door on Thursday.

Jackson looks at my surprised face with worry. “We did say two o’clock, right?”

“Yes.” I open the door wider for him.

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

“You got glasses.” They do something different to his face, make him look more solid, more real. And he looks really good.

“Ahh, yes.” Jackson rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “It sucks getting older.” And then lower, down by my ear, he whispers, “Don’t tell anyone.” His breath on my neck heats everything from my bellybutton down. Then he walks in, setting a laptop case on my kitchen table and heading straight for my refrigerator. He pulls out two beers without asking and settles in like he owns the place.

“You ready to go over what you have so far?” Jackson doesn’t comment on the way I’m still clutching the front door for dear life, my knees weak, my pulse shouting at me to make bad decisions.

Am I always going to be recovering from him? He’s like some goddamn affliction that turns the world upside down. But I can’t let myself forget that he’s hurt me. I need to keep my guard up and my mind clear. The problem with me and Jackson has never been about me not liking him. It’s been about me liking him so much that I can forget that I need to protect myself. Jackson Wirth is a recipe for heartbreak.

I shut the door quietly. “Yes,” I say. “I’m ready.” I ignore the beer that he’s set out for me and instead fix myself a cup of coffee before I take the seat across from him. “I’ve done some keyword research and I think silicone lube is the way to go. Lots of people are searching for it, and it’s a superior product to begin with.”

“You know from personal experience?” Ugh, the stupid grin on his face.

I feel my skin heat but I try to glare at him anyway. “I’m not going to justify that with an answer.”

“There’s nothing to be ashamed about,” Jackson says. “In fact, if this is going to be your company, you’re going to need to be its biggest champion. Lube mogul and all of that, right?”

It’s a good point but it makes me furious and embarrassed. It’s like the morning senior year when I sunk into his car with a head cold. I reached into his glove compartment hoping to find a tissue, and found the foil packages of some condoms instead.

“Find what you’re looking for?” he asked.

I held up the condoms and said nothing.

He looked at them and then at my face before he shrugged like it was an inevitability, like it was no big deal. He was so matter-of-fact about this thing that seemed so huge and meaningful to me. Jackson Wirth was having sex when I couldn’t even dream about it yet. And I was so jealous that I didn’t know that part of him. Somewhere out there was a girl—or, dammit, some girls—who didn’t know that Jackson liked peanut butter on his waffles or that his favorite thing to do at Wirth & Sons was color-code the books by the cash wrap, but who knew this part of him that I didn’t get to know. Jackson was mine in so many ways but not this one.

I shoved the condoms back in the glove compartment and promised myself it would never affect me. But of course it had.

I glare at Jackson now. “Have you used lube?”

Jackson shrugs. “Sure I have,” he says like it’s no big deal to be discussing our sex lives in the middle of an afternoon over coffee and beer and business paperwork. He waggles his eyebrows. “Vibrators, too.”

I don’t want to think about who he’s used lube with, or condoms, or vibrators. I bite down on my lip.

You’re not sixteen anymore, I remind myself, but somehow being around him makes me feel that way anyway. The idea of Jackson having sex is still just too much.

I clear my throat. “So do you agree with my assessment?”

“Yes,” he says. “Silicone is the way to go.”

“Good. So our next step is to put together a list of potential suppliers and then start calling to see if we can get quotes for price and lead times.” I slide my notebook over to him. “There’s a list of the best lubes I’ve found so far. We need to sort out the silicone ones and get contact information for the manufacturers.”

Jackson scans the list, running his finger down the page as he reads. When he gets to the bottom, he flips the page, looking for more. Whatever he sees on the next page makes him laugh.

“Who’s Delilah Overbrook?”

I snatch back the notebook. “You’re looking at her.”

“What?”

“As awesome as this potential business is, Jackson, no one can know it’s me. I need a business lady name I can use when we operate.”

“Why would anyone care who you are?”

I tick off the reasons on my fingers. “Number one, I work at a pretty puritanical little coffee shop. It’s bad enough that I’m Jewish. If Mr. Spence finds out I’m selling lube, I’m pretty sure I’ll get fired. Also, I don’t want anyone in town gossiping about this. Two, if this doesn’t work out or if I decide to get a different job one day, I probably won’t want potential employers Googling me and finding this.” I sigh. “And three, I don’t want to be the loser starting a lube company in my parents’ house. I don’t know if my dad would appreciate it.”

“I think he’d be pretty impressed that you’re starting a business to begin with.” Behind his glasses his eyes get sad and I wonder if he’s thinking about his dad and the business he hasn’t stepped up to run. “But if you want to be Delilah Overbrook, fine.”

“Well what’s your name?” I ask, remembering the details that Abigail had told me. “It’s like a stripper or porn name—the first name of your first pet and the name of the street you grew up on.”

Jackson squints his eyes for a minute then grins. “Skippy Sawmill.”

“Skippy?” I giggle. “I thought your cat was named Max.”

He shakes his head. “I had a parakeet when I lived in Los Angeles.” In California, land of the sun, in Jackson’s life before Swan’s Hollow. He fell into my life so seamlessly that sometimes I forget there were sixteen whole years before I knew him.

“Oh my god, you had a parrot?”

“Skippy.” Jackson’s voice drips with disdain. “Yeah. He was a real bastard, too. Didn’t like anyone except for my dad.” He takes a swig of his beer. “He’d sit on your hands, right? He seemed all chill and normal, but then he’d start pecking the shit out of you for no reason. The little asshole drew blood more than once.”

I imagine a young Jackson being terrorized by a bird no bigger than his palm and it makes me laugh until I have to wipe tears from my eyes. “Jackson, you never told me!”

“Sure, laugh at my pain,” Jackson says but that sadness is gone from his face and the crinkles around his eyes are happy ones.

“It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Skippy Sawmill.”

“You know I’m not actually going to use that name, right?”

“Whatever, Skippy,” I tell him. “We’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

“Like what?” he asks and I smile at him widely.

“Like, we’ve got a business to name. And we’d better make it good.”