There. I click on a link for a studio in Mission Hill and let myself drool for a minute. The apartment is gorgeous—full of old brick and high ceilings, towering windows letting buttery light pour through—and it’s close to the T. It’s also way more than I can hope to afford on a barista salary.

I sigh, a trickle of sweat charting a course between my breasts. As much as I’d love that studio, it would take a miracle or a loan for me to make rent each month. Even though my dad might be able to lend me some cash, I can’t stomach the idea of asking him for money. I can imagine the conversation—Gayle standing behind him, saying what did I expect if I was going to be a dropout. It’s not a cheerful thought and it’s all the more reason I need my own business. If I can actually pull it off.

A FedEx truck rumbles to a stop in front of me with a squeal of brakes and a huff of exhaust. Across the street a dog barks at the intrusion, frantic, as if the truck’s arrival portends doomsday rather than being an everyday occurrence.

The driver emerges from the bowels of the truck with a box in his hands. “Natalie Bloom?”

“That’s me.” The package feels so much lighter than it should, given that it’s got my whole future wrapped up inside it. I accept it with eager hands, barely waiting for the driver to pull away before I slice open the tape with the edge of my car keys.

The box holds a treasure of lube bottles—silicone and water-based, organic and hybrids. All the better to figure out what kind I want to sell. I look like I’m about to host a gang bang, and the irony that I’m single for the first time in four years isn’t lost on me. But here I am anyway.

“What’s that?”

I whirl around to find a breathless and shirtless—very, very shirtless—Jackson Wirth standing over my shoulder. He’s wearing running shorts that expose strong, tanned calves and, once again for the record, no shirt. That particular garment is tucked into the waistband of those low-slung shorts.

Holy shit. I slam the lid closed on the box.

Every sign—from his running shoes and his distractingly sweaty body to the water bottle clutched in his hands—points to the fact that Jackson ran here. I consider the impossibility of it. Jackson had once told me, “I’m not lazy, I move on purpose,” which was another way of him agreeing that he was lazy. Yet here he is, having apparently…jogged.

“Did you run here?” It’s hard to reconcile the two Jacksons in my mind. Should I be annoyed or pleased that he’s here? It’s his town, really. He has more right to be here than I do. But he’s standing on my front porch like a slobbery, proud puppy. What the hell do I do about it?

Jackson takes a long swallow of his water before answering. “I mean, I didn’t run to your house specifically. You were just on my route.” Jackson has a route. Okay. “So what’d you get?”

“Nothing.” I shift the box away from him but I’m sure he’s gotten an eyeful. He makes an annoying grin.

“It’s not what it looks like.” I glance down at the package. A box of silicone lube with bold red letters peeks out from under the cardboard flap, along with a shiny strip of condoms that the brand must have thrown in for free. Damn.

I feel my face heat. How can I still get so stupid around him? “It’s just a business delivery.” I stand to push past him.

“Business or pleasure?” Shit. He knows exactly what’s in the box.

“This isn’t for me,” I protest. “I mean, it is. But it’s not like that.” I shove the box under my arm and go to march past him.

God, why is he in my face all of a sudden? Why is his chest so broad? It’s like trying to push past a goddamn ox. An ox who smells like salt and sweat and the gym in a way that’s surprisingly good.

I edge around him and make it to the gate that leads to my guesthouse.

“I want to hear about this secret business,” Jackson says.

“No.” He doesn’t get to know any of my secrets. Not anymore.

I’m about to say more when my dad’s neighbor, Mrs. Keaton, walks by with a balding rat terrier trotting at her feet.

“Come now, Porkchop, what do we have today?”

I’m not even sure if she’s talking about the contents of the dog’s bowels or the fact that a half-naked Jackson and I are standing nose to nose on the sidewalk. It could go either way. The woman has a blatant disregard for all the Bible verses in Holy Grounds about keeping your tongue from evil, or whatever, and she runs on tales of heartbreak and traffic tickets the way I run on coffee and books. She’s just as happy to hear a good rumor as she is to spread one, which is precisely why we cannot have this conversation in front of her.

Jackson leans his elbows on the gate, opening his mouth to say something else to me. The last thing I need is the entire town knowing my business, and whatever Jackson’s going to say next could ruin me. If a rumor’s going to spread, I’d rather it be about me and Jackson than me and an indecently huge pile of lube. I need this business to have a fighting chance.

My heart kicks up with anxiety. “Just. Ugh. Come in,” I say, cutting Jackson off at the pass.

I give one last glance at Mrs. Keaton’s gossip-deprived face before sweeping open the gate. Jackson, warm and sweaty and shirtless, follows me as I plunge into the guesthouse and slam the door shut behind me.