Jackson pushes aside my spreadsheet to plop two tomato, basil, and mozzarella sandwiches on my kitchen table.

“Look at you with your fancy chart,” he teases, sinking into the chair next to me.

The page in front of me lists the lube judgement criteria that we’ve deemed most important: friction and stickiness and how long an application lasts. Lead time is on there, too, along with cost.

Yesterday I squirmed on my dad’s couch, picking at the rip across the knee of my jeans while I watched him write a staggeringly high number in his checkbook.

“What classes are you taking, again?” he asked, clicking the pen shut. He ripped out the check and I pocketed it quietly.

“World-building in fiction and online marketing.” The lie burned through me. I dropped my eyes to study Gayle’s rug, convinced that if I looked at his face for a minute more I would blurt out the truth.

My dad rested his hands on his knees, leaning forward. “I’m so glad you’re taking another stab at school, Natalie. I hope you know we’ll always support you.” I sincerely doubt my dad would support me buying lube instead of course credits with his money, but I only had enough rainy-day savings to fund part of the order on my own. The fact that he’s so proud of me for going back to school just makes me that much more ashamed of dropping out in the first place. And feel that much more guilty for not being honest about why I asked for the cash.

Liar, liar, pants on fire. At least I’m setting aside part of my weekly Holy Grounds paycheck for him. I will pay my dad back. Hopefully before any damage is done.

I push the image of my dad’s smile out of my head and glance at the chart in front of me. “It’s for science,” I say, and Jackson laughs. After a week of receiving quotes and custom samples from different suppliers, today’s the day we’re actually going to test the damn things. On our hands.

“Whatever you want to call it, babe.” My breath catches on that word. Babe. Jackson continues without mentioning it, opening up his sandwich to take a bite. “Is it me,” he asks around a mouthful of cheese, “or did your tree move?” He nods his chin toward Precious, who’s now languishing by a window close to the bedroom door.

“Yep, it totally walked across the room last night. Never seen anything like it.”

Jackson gives me an indulgent smile. “Next time try to videotape it. You could make a fortune on YouTube.”

“It’s my backup plan. In case Penchant doesn’t pan out.”

In truth I’ve been dragging the fig tree from window to window in my latest scheme to nurse it back to health. For about a week now, I've been moving Precious during the day, letting it follow the sun from corner to corner. To me it’s starting to look better. To anyone else it probably still looks like a lost cause. But dammit, I’m trying.

Jackson and I sit in companionable silence and polish off our food. When we’re done and have thrown the sandwich wrappers in the trash, there’s nothing left to do but do the thing.

“Okay.” Jackson removes the safety seal from the first bottle. “Option number one is from ‘Did you know my dad’s a rocket scientist, Inc.’”

I roll my eyes and hold out my hands.

Jackson squirts a small amount onto my palms, then lubes up his own. The liquid warms up quickly in my hands and I try to imagine how it would feel…other places. My face heats and I squirm. I hope to god that someday when Penchant has a product out in the world that people apply it to their intended zones. Not that my hands aren’t extremely well moisturized at this point.

Jackson and I stand at my kitchen sink, rubbing our hands together and grinning like fools. This is ridiculous and hilarious and I’m loving every moment of it because who would have thought this of me? I’m not a college dropout barista with a shitty ex-boyfriend. I’m Delilah Overbrook, lube-business owner. I’m CEO, bitch. This is my game to win.

I’m washing my hands between the third and fourth bottles when my phone rings and Abigail’s name flashes across the caller ID.

“Lube central,” I answer the phone.

Abigail laughs. “Good to know?”

“It is good to know, lady. There’s nothing like the smell of lube at lunchtime. What’s going on?” Across the room Jackson eyes me and I motion for him to open the next bottle.

“Is there any chance you can watch Nico tonight? My sitter got food poisoning and had to bail, but I have plans.”

I bite my lip and look across the room to see Jackson twisting off the bottle cap. “I was planning to work tonight.”

“At the coffee shop?” Abby asks.

“Lube stuff.”

“Please Nat? It would be a lifesaver.”

I pause. It’s probably the first time in a long time she’s asked me for anything. Since landing back in Swan’s Hollow I’ve been the one who needed a shoulder to cry on. It’s been Abby helping me instead of the other way around.

How could I be so selfish? I shake my head. A few missed hours of work aren’t a huge deal, especially if it means I can hang out with my godson. “Tell you what, Ab. If you don’t mind bringing him here I can just work after he’s asleep.”

“It’s a deal,” she says. “See you in a bit.”

I rejoin Jackson at the kitchen table and to his credit he doesn’t ask about the call. For some reason, though, I feel the need to explain.

“I’ve got to stop at five,” I say. “Godmother duties.”

“That makes you sound eighty.”

“I may be eighty, but I can still hang with the five-year-old crowd.” I stick out my hand. “Now give me some lube.”

Jackson obliges with a smile. “I love when you talk dirty to me.”

“I know, you perv. Now let’s get back to work.”

Thirty minutes later I scrawl the last note on my spreadsheet. We have a close tie between two favorites and have added a few new categories to the spreadsheet, including smell. The things I never thought I’d have to consider.

“Why don’t we take a break from your assessment?” Jackson suggests. “Look at how some of these products are actually marketed?”

I look up to catch the heat of his gaze. I swallow hard. “What did you have in mind?”

Jackson flashes me a wicked grin, playful and dead serious all at once. “We’re going to look at porn.”