This is so much harder than it should be,” I say, twisting my hair into a bun. I jab in a pen to keep the strands in place and sink my chin into my hands. I look at my notebook with dismay; every semi-usable business name on the list has been crossed out.

It turns out that naming a personal lubricant company is harder than I anticipated. For starters, there are a ton of companies out there with the obvious names all taken—ones containing “passion,” and “glide,” and “silk” in them. Second, I want to make a brand that’s not so obviously sexual—one where if your grandmother saw a bottle of lube on your counter she might think it was a nice lotion instead of something to rub on your crotch. Easier said than done.

A warm breeze from my open window drags life into my kitchen, rustling the pages of my notebook and Precious’s leaves. Jackson’s got a shift at Hooligans later tonight and he’s wearing what I think of as his bar outfit: a tight button-down shirt that shows off his biceps, a tie, and goddamn suspenders. Combined with his messy, glorious hair, he looks like a hipster prep-school dropout, and I like it more than I care to admit.

Jackson eyes the notebook over my shoulder and frowns. “You’d think as a writer you’d be better at naming things by now.”

I poke him in the shoulder then snatch my hand back. His body is warm and inviting but with Jackson, touching is akin to flirting. No need to give him the wrong idea. I clear my throat, trying to cover my awkwardness. “That’s not helpful.” I’ve already spent hours on this project—walking through the bookstore and looking online at the perfect names of other companies. I even enlisted Abby’s help, given that she’s had the monumental task of naming a person. Despite my iced-coffee bribery, she was no use. “Why don’t you just pick a name you like?” she said, standing up to rescue the poor worm Nico clutched in his hands. But I don’t like anything enough to gamble my future on it.

“We want to be a high-end company, right?” Jackson asks now. “Charge a premium to set ourselves apart?”

“Sure.” I don’t quite know where he’s going with this.

“Well what other kinds of companies sell small amounts of liquid for huge amounts of money?”

“Umm, alcohol?” I guess.

“Yes, that’s one. And Tom Ford has some vanilla tobacco perfume that retails for a hundred and thirty dollars an ounce.”

“How the hell do you know that?”

He shrugs. “A girl I dated.”

“Expensive taste.” It’s not my business that Jackson had a life after I left. In reality, I did too. I just don’t want to think about it. Back before I kissed him, the fact that he dated other people never personally affected me. But it’s harder to ignore now—everyone he chose instead of me. It’s just another reminder of why I need to focus and get myself out of here.

“Actually I didn’t think it smelled all that great,” he says, and I smile a little. “Anyway, one thing all those snooty perfumes have in common is that their names are always in French or whatever.”

“I like where you’re going with this.” We spend the next few hours translating words into French and then back again: slippery, glissant; silk, soie; wet, humide; glide, glissé.

“Penchant,” I say and Jackson looks up from his laptop. “The need to do something,” I read from the definition.

“I like it,” he drawls. “It’s the same spelling in English and French.”

“Exactly,” I say, happy he gets it. “Less likely for people to misspell when they’re searching for us.” I pause before I delivering the kicker, “And penchantforpleasure.com is an available domain.”

Jackson’s smile could crack ice. “I love it, Natalie.” My stomach tightens and I struggle to draw a solid breath. He loves it. “Penchant for Pleasure. Do it. Buy the website before you do anything else.” It feels like the best ten dollars I’ve ever spent.

For the next few days, Jackson and I build a website. It’s just got Penchant’s name and a mission statement on it, but it gives me enough credibility to start calling potential lube suppliers to ask if we can work together. Eventually, one says yes to a business call with Delilah Overbrook from Penchant and it’s scheduled for a sunny weekday afternoon. Another victory—if I can make it on time.

“Jesus, Jess, you’re twenty minutes late.” I scowl as my coworker saunters in from her lunch break, sunglasses pushed up into her hair. I don’t know what was worth being late for. It’s Swan’s Hollow. There’s no place that cool to go.

“Get a grip.” Jess crosses her arms over her chest. “It’s not like anything’s happening in here. The place is dead.”

“Not the point.” If she had been here I would have had a chance to talk to Jess about Delilah and I could have also made it to my meeting on time. As it is, Jess running behind means I’m running behind. And today, of all days, I can’t afford to be late.

I hang up my apron and grab my purse. “Some of us have other places to be.”

“Hot date?” Jess laughs.

I don’t have time for a snappy comeback so I just leave her by the register and dash out the door. Time to make Penchant a reality.