I clutch my cell phone to my ear, certain I haven’t quite heard right. “Oh my gosh, really?” The thirst in my voice makes me cringe, but after eight phone calls and eight resounding no’s, I don’t quite believe it. Way to sound professional, Natalie. My heart thumps as I hold my breath.

The sex shop employee on the other end of the line chuckles, her voice kind. “Yes, you can absolutely come in to discuss a launch party. We like working with local manufacturers.”

I try to muffle the sound of my happy dance. Elbows and toe taps and head bobs, oh my. “Thank you,” I say before hanging up. Squeezing in phone calls after my Holy Grounds shift has finally paid off. It may have taken me eight phone calls to finally figure out how to pitch my idea to the bored employees and busy owners of the sex shops of Boston, but at nine thirty at night I’ve finally gotten the answer I’m looking for.

Delilah Overbrook always comes through.

I push back from the kitchen table, my body buzzing. Shadows crawl across the room and all I can think is that I’m glad sex shops stay open so late at night. I needed this victory, needed to go to sleep with a smile.

“See that?” I ask Precious, dumping a capful of vitamins into its pot. “Gayle doesn’t know jack shit. One freaking foot in front of the other. So to speak.”

Great. I’m now officially the crazy lady who talks to her plants. I laugh at myself and sweep my hair into a bun. Should I call Jackson? He’ll almost certainly appreciate this news more than my tree, but so far we’ve talked mostly through text messages. Calling him now, after the sun has set, seems strangely intimate. Still, I’m bursting with my good news, and I already have my phone in my hands. I dial his number.

After a few rings, the line goes to voicemail. I glance at the clock and frown. Jackson’s probably working, but disappointment still knocks into me when he doesn’t pick up. Don’t read into it. I hang up without leaving a message.

I brush my teeth to distract myself from the silence, pacing from one end of the guesthouse to the other. I stop only to spit out my toothpaste, then I keep going. I need to keep this bubbling energy at bay. Maybe there’s something to Jackson’s fitness thing after all, because my mind keeps whirling, keeps spitting out more and more ideas for this launch. Maybe I should do this more often when my nerves kick up in my chest—just walk my way through it. Maybe the physical release will also help me let go of the emotions that rattle around inside of me so much. It’s worth a try. Somehow right now being on my feet feels necessary, despite the fact that my muscles still scream in protest after yesterday’s hike.

Jackson finally calls as I’m jotting my thoughts in a notebook, and the sharp noise of the phone makes me realize how quiet it’s gotten outside. The lights in my dad’s house are off, streetlights winking through the branches of the trees outside. It’s the witching hour and Jackson Wirth is on the line.

I walk into the bedroom and crawl under the covers. I feel like a teenager hiding out to make an illicit phone call. I guess it’s not that far off.

“Skippy Sawmill, at your service,” he says when I pick up. I give a little squeal of delight and Jackson laughs on the other end of the phone. Bar noises echo in the background—drunken laughter and the sounds of music and clinking glass. Someone at Hooligans is having a good time. “Guess that was the right thing to say.”

“It was,” I tell him. “Because number one, I told you I was making Skippy Sawmill a thing. And number two, I have a special request for Skippy.”

“Oh yeah?” The noise around him gets quieter, like he’s moved into a back room. I can picture the shirt he’s wearing, the stubble on his jaw. I would never admit it to him, but his voice rumbling in my ear makes me crave his touch.

I puff out a breath of air, scattering my thoughts. “Can you clear your schedule for Tuesday? I need you for the whole day.”

Dammit, I didn’t mean to say that word. Need. I don’t want him to think I need him. Just, it would be nice if he was there.

Luckily Jackson doesn’t comment on my choice of words. Probably he doesn’t overthink things like I do. For him it’s all rolling with the punches. “Are you propositioning me?” His voice sounds like he’s smiling.

“If you’re lucky.” I keep my voice light and flirtatious before I deadpan: “But probably not.”

Another laugh. “Ok. I’ll make it happen.” He drops his voice dangerously low, sending a shiver through my body. “Any other requests?”

“Actually, yes.” I smile up at my ceiling. “Wear something sharp, ok? Skippy Sawmill needs to look damn good.”

“Anything for you,” he whispers into my ear. I rub my feet together under the covers to divert my attention from his words. He needs to stop saying things like that. He needs to stop sounding like I mean so much to him. There’s no way it’s true. “Where are you, anyway?”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Why aren’t you here with me? You have an open invitation.”

“Of course I have an open invitation,” I tease. “You work at a public bar.”

“You know what I mean.”

I do. I wriggle deeper into the sheets. “I’m at home.” Let’s see if Jackson will put his money where his mouth is. “I’m in bed.”

Jackson sucks in a sharp breath. It’s a very good reaction. “Jesus, Nat. You can’t just say that to me.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because I’m imagining being in bed with you. And the things I would do to you.”

Yes, please, all the things. Heat pools between my legs. “Tell me a story,” I whisper.

He chuckles quietly. “Okay. What are you wearing? Help me set the scene.”

Oh my god, are we really doing this? My face burns. “Sleeping shorts and—”

“Wirth!” someone shouts on Jackson’s end of the line.

He groans. “Gotta go. To be continued.”

Darn. That night, there are a lot of reasons I can’t sleep.