Mom holds my phone up like she’s Rafiki from The Lion King, presenting baby Simba to the tribe.

“Hakuna matata,” Amanda whispers.

“Give it to me!” I snap as Mom refuses to give it to me.

“Marie,” Amanda says in a low growl. Damn. She’s channeling Musafa. James Earl Jones couldn’t do a better job with that growl. I wonder if Amanda could do Darth Vader next.

Mom tosses the phone to me like we’re in a game of Hot Potato, and I answer the phone in such a rush I don’t give myself the time to feel anxiety or panic or to freak out like I really should because it’s Declan.

“Hi, Shannon,” Declan says. His voice pours over me like warm hot fudge. I imagine his face, all broad planes and narrow intensity, how his jaw is so lickable and his eyes make me smile when he’s focused on me. The heady scent of spice and man fills me as I pause, body shivering with the pleasure of knowing he is calling me.

He has asked me for a date. A non-business date. Not that last night was strictly business. Hah. But this time he’s clearly and openly interested in me as a woman. Not as an account or a colleague or a marketing coordinator.

The man bought me a corsage.

And now he’s offering chocolate-dipped strawberries and a voice that sounds like hot fudge?

Make me into a Shannon sundae. With a big old banana right in the—

“Hello?” He sounds slightly puzzled, but not unsure. Whatever he’s thinking, my craziness doesn’t deter him.

“Hi,” I say, the word coming out like a happy sigh. I look up to find Mom gawking at me like she can see my ovaries twitching, and Amanda’s doing that pretend-quiet thing where she’s acting like she’s not listening.

Even Chuckles’ ears are perked.

This is what it takes to get me to stand up and walk. My feet feel like they’re floating as I press the phone to my ear and hear Declan say, “I really enjoyed last night.”

All my pain fades. The world seems brighter, suddenly, like there was a layer of fog I couldn’t quite see. It’s gone, dashed away by Declan. This phone call is the highlight of my day so far.

And if he was serious about coming over on Friday…

“What time can I pick you up? And this time, no limo. Though I wouldn’t mind watching you split your skirt up nice and high,” he murmurs. The words make me hot, a steady pulse forming in my belly, throat, and between my legs. The man could talk me into an orgasm without touching me if he keeps this up.

Chuckles wanders over and begins rubbing against my legs. He’s purring. Chuckles doesn’t purr. Declan’s vocal magic is filling the room with pheromones even neutered cats react to.

How can a mere woman like me resist?

My back is turned to Mom and Amanda, who don’t take the hint. I thrash my arm back toward them in a gesture that clearly means Get out of here and let me have my hot-fudge voice orgasm, you twits.

“Are you having a seizure?” Mom asks, alarmed.

“I think she wants us to leave, Marie,” Amanda says. She’s back on my good list. Chuckles closes his eyes and the purring goes up a notch.

“Is this a bad time?’ Declan asks, a smile in his voice.

“It’s always a bad time when my mother is in the room,” I say, my voice definitely not full of chocolate or hot fudge or anything yummy. Mine feels like broken glass and rusty nails as Mom glares at me, clearly wanting to eavesdrop.

“And don’t let her listen outside the door!” I call back as Amanda shuts it. Mom’s groan can be heard by Declan, who gives a laugh so sensual it makes my toes curl.

“Now, where were we?” I ask in a voice half an octave lower and, I hope, as sexy as his.

“We were talking about how I want to come over and get to know you better, Shannon. All of you. Right now.”

My knees go weak and a buzzing flush fills the skin around them, a wave that crests upward and makes me wet and warm again. How does he do that? I’m trying to imagine him right now. Is he wearing a suit? A t-shirt and jeans? He’s so formal and businesslike, hot and sophisticated, that I can’t picture it.

“Right now?” I squeak out.

“Not practical, I know,” he says, the rumble in his tone like a caress. “Friday?”

“Friday works.” I don’t want to sound desperate, but I am free. Haven’t had a date on a Friday night in way too long. “Wear jeans,” I add.

I drool—just a little—at the thought of him in well-worn jeans, hiking boots, and a shirt so loved that it molds to all the edges and valleys in that muscled torso and chest of his. Sunglasses and a wicked grin, with a tan that speaks of time outside and…

“Are we giving each other wardrobe orders now?” His voice drops down into sultry territory, like his tongue is searching for a register you can only reach naked. “Because I have some preferences in that area, too.”

If I were wearing panties right now, they would melt off. Chuckles is making love to my ankles with his fur, and I shake him off. Too much sensation. Too many innuendoes. His purring is disconcerting, because it’s almost as if he’s…happy. Which is impossible. Chuckles’ default is misery. Declan would have to be a Time Lord to be that powerful.

“Yes?” I whisper. Preferences? Mmmmm.

“Hiking boots. And jeans, for certain. You want to wear layers, and bring something that handles wind.” His voice becomes pragmatic. Matter of fact. Friendly and cheerful. The change jolts me.

Wind?

“Wait—what?” This isn’t exactly what I thought he meant when he said wardrobe preferences. I am imagining red feather-lined handcuffs and crotchless panties. Not a catalog shoot for REI.

“I’m packing a picnic. There’s this great hiking spot in Sudbury I want to share with you.”

Chocolate-covered strawberries don’t exactly go together with Sudbury, which is a bedroom community outside of Boston best known for producing Chris Evans. Which isn’t too bad, I guess. If Captain America can come from there, maybe I can find my own superhero on a nice walk in the woods.

“At night?” Six p.m. doesn’t sound like an ideal time for a picnic. Maybe for mosquitoes to dine.

Steve’s idea of a “picnic date” involved eating at an outside table at Tavern in the Square in Cambridge, so this would be my first actual picnic date. Ever.

“There’s a meteor shower on Friday around nine. I thought it might be nice to try to catch some shooting stars.”

“That sounds really nice,” I say, meaning it. Starbursts behind my eyes would be nice, too.

“It will be,” he answers. We both pause. I hear him breathing, a light sound of surety that makes me feel connected. Ten seconds pass and I can feel him smiling. This is so unreal. Declan McCormick isn’t really interested in me, right? I’m klutzy Shannon, the woman he met when my hand was inside a toilet. A toilet! Yes, I had a reason for that. A good one. A professional one. But still.

Toilet Girl.

He’s asking Toilet Girl out on a date. An ominous feeling hits me.

What’s wrong with him? Maybe he’s a creepy stalker type who has a toilet fetish. He made the joke back in the men’s room, but if he was projecting his actual sexual kink onto me in a test to see if I’d freak out, and I didn’t, then maybe he’s got a thing for seeing women put their hands down toilets.

“Shannon?”

I want to ask him. The OCD part of my brain suddenly starts the rollercoaster-on-speed loop-de-loop it does when a new, panicky idea floods my mind. All I can think is “toilet fetish” over and over, and if I don’t exorcise this somehow, I’m going to blurt out the question Do you have a thing for women with their hands in toilets?

Not because I actually believe it, but because the part of myself that absolutely cannot believe that someone so far out of my league is attracted to me is scrambling to go back to that safe, comfortable place where my best friends are Ben and Jerry and my book boyfriend is Drew from Emma Chase’s Tangled.

Damn it.

Deep breaths. One. Two. Three.

“Heavy breathing,” Declan says, shattering my concentration. “I like it.”

Oh, God.

Do you have a thing for women with their hands in toilets?

My mouth opens and I’m certain those words will come out. I imagine him sitting in an old, well-worn, expensive brown leather chair, the kind with brass buttons that dot the seams, and he’s holding a brandy snifter full of the finest liquor. Declan’s wearing well-worn Levi’s and his shirt is pulled out of the waistband just enough to show an inch of perfect, muscled skin right at the navel, a thatch of hair calling out for my hand. His eyes are hooded and have a soft focus to them, the way men get when the blood rushes south and they shift.

They really do. There’s a subtle change in them when sensuality takes over, a warm, predatory taste to their words. The air changes, crackling with sparks and fire. It’s confusing and heady all at once, because those two states shouldn’t be able to coexist.

Yet they do. Yin and yang. Male and female.

Stick and hole.

“What are you wearing?” I blurt out. It’s better than Do you have a thing for women with their hands in toilets? I smack my forehead, hard, and the dull throbbing from my hangover kicks back into place.

Someone calls my name from the other room but I ignore them. Chuckles stops rubbing against my ankles and goes to the door, pawing the bottom. No way I’m letting him out, yet. If I open the door Mom will tumble over the threshold like something out of a bad sitcom.

“Heavy breathing, and now the What are you wearing question?” His voice rolls out like it’s on rails, sliding with throaty nonchalance through more innuendoes than I can count. A fun, humorous sound, like we’re in on a joke together.

He can’t see that I’m dying here, gripped by a set of looping thoughts that race at breakneck speed, driven by a deep fear that this is one big cosmic mistake. I’m torn inside. The reason I mystery shop is that I’m in control. I’m there in secret, watching everyone and everything and—a little bit like a god—the only person whose experience matters in the end. My word is gold, my observations validated, and the whole process is neat. Tidy. Measurable. Documented.

Being felt up and kissed thoroughly in a hallway at a posh restaurant by a man who is so many standard deviations of gorgeous and rich away from me that on a bell curve, he’s a million miles away, makes my mind vibrate so hard with uncertainty that it’s about to shatter.

I make a sound that is supposed to sound like a throaty laugh but sounds more like I’m hacking up a frog’s leg.

“Workout clothes, actually,” he answers. “No shirt, shorts, and socks and shoes. I just came in from a run. I’m sweaty as hell and sitting on my balcony, feet propped up and drinking a huge bottle of water as I watch the morning sun burn off the clouds over the bay.” That’s the longest stretch of words I’ve ever heard from him, and I’m agog.

And drooling.

Shirtless. Sweaty. Burning. A pulsing, throbbing sense pours down, like I’m channeling energy from my pain-filled head to my deeply turned-on nether regions, his casual way of talking about himself and his life making hope take over, dialing down the racing fear inside me, slowing the rollercoaster to a halt and giving it permission to take a rest.

“Oh,” is all I can say, the sound half gasp, half surprise. Half hope.

“And you?” His tone is flirty.

“Workout clothes, too.” If you count giant penguins all over my oversized flannel bottoms “workout” pants.

“What’s your poison?” I know he means what kind of workout do I do, and my brain goes blank. Because I don’t. Work out, that is.

Mom’s profession comes to the rescue. “Yoga,” I say, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

She’s definitely listening in, because I hear a super-loud snort from the other side of the door and she shouts, “The only downward-facing dog Shannon knows is—” and then muffled sounds of indignation.

I really, really do not want to know the end of that sentence.

Bzzz. Someone texts me. I ignore it.

“Six too early for you? Will you be home from work by then?” Declan asks. I finally look at the clock. 9:12 a.m. For a second I think he means today, but he’s talking about Friday.

“Yes. It’s...” My mind is a blur and I can’t get my tongue to work properly. “It’s perfect.”

And then I remember, again, that today is still a work day. Uh oh. Greg doesn’t generally hold us to a tight schedule, but it’s Tuesday, and that means—

“Weekly meeting!” Amanda shouts as she bangs on my bedroom door. “You have twenty minutes to fit in a shower. Get moving!”

Even Declan heard that. “You need to get wet,” he says.

Oh. Well. That did the trick.

“Happy shower, and I’ll see you Friday.”

Click.

Mom and Amanda barge in. “Well?” Mom says.

“Date. Confirmed. Friday at six. Picnic at the state park in Sudbury. He’s bringing dark- and milk-chocolate-covered strawberries,” I say. Might as well give them the specifics.

I walk to the bathroom, but before I can get away, Mom says, “Your mouth is going to have so much fun on that date.”

I wince. Amanda frowns.

“You know what I mean!” Mom says in a tight voice. “Quit sexualizing everything. You people have such dirty minds.”

“You’re the one telling me to get pregnant accidentally by a billionaire to get big child support payments and asking about lesbians and strap-ons,” I say, sarcasm dripping from my voice. “I wonder where I could have gotten it!”

“Your father,” she says definitively. “The man never met a dirty joke he didn’t like.”

I roll my eyes and finish my walk to the bathroom. My shower is quick, thoughts of Declan making me anticipate Friday

Tap tap tap. Someone’s knocking on the door. “Mom!” I shout. “Can I take a shower in peace?”

“It’s Amanda. And Amy.”

They open the door. “We need to talk.” Steam fills the room as the hot water churns in full force. The scent of coconut and almond fills the bathroom as I shampoo quickly.

“It can’t wait until I’m dressed and clean?”

“No.” They say it in unison.

“Then what?” I’m really getting sick of the invasion of privacy.

“It’s Steve.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Texting us both,” Amy says. “And Mom. He even texted Dad.”

“What?” That’s the 2014 equivalent of standing outside my bedroom window with a giant boombox over his head playing some old Peter Gabriel song. “He texted Dad?”

“Dad forwarded it to me,” Amy says, reluctance in her voice. “You need to hear this.”

“Go ahead.”

“Dear Jason,” she reads aloud. “How’s the handicap? I miss you and Marie and our dinners out. Shannon and I had a big misunderstanding but I’m hopeful we can sort this out. I would love to catch nine holes with you this week.”

“Oh, barf,” I sputter.

Silence.

“What else?” I’m distracted, so I accidentally rub conditioner in my armpits instead of shower gel. Yuck.

“He texted me and Amanda and told us we needed to help you get over this unrealistic dream you seemed to have about Declan, and that he saw you desperately throwing yourself at him.”

My stomach actually goes concave. It feels that real, like he’s kicked me in the gut. “He said that?”

“Snake,” Amy mutters.

“It’s not true, Shannon,” Amanda snaps, angry at the very idea. “Don’t you dare get down because that asshole is trying to play this to his advantage.”

She knows me so well.

Both of them hover around me, their presence both helpful and overbearing. I know they’re right. I know it. I do. Really.

So why is it that one cutting comment can undo hundreds of positive ones? Declan just told me he wants to see me. Likes me. Desires time with me. He flirted, he joked, he was casual and loose and we talked like people exploring each other. Testing the waters and the edges of who we are, where we intersect.

That’s a known. His kiss. His caress. His attraction to me. Whether this goes anywhere beyond Friday, no one can take away the touch of his lips against mine. The slant of his mouth as he eagerly kissed me. The feel of his hands sliding against my skin. The power of his body crushing mine in a fevered embrace.

That’s all fact.

Steve’s conjecture has a kind of power, though. It’s the sneaky power of doubt. And damn if that isn’t strong enough to drive out fact, even when it’s irrational.

Amanda and Amy look at me like they’re dealing with a fragile psych patient.

They kind of are.

Both of them have hive mind and just exit the bathroom as if they telepathically decided it. I finish my shower, dry off, and walk out into the bedroom.

My phone buzzes.

Amanda reaches for it and—

“Snake!” she shouts.

“I can’t ignore him forever,” I say with a sigh. Something inside tugs at me, a pull I don’t like. But it’s familiar. Maybe he really has seen the light…?

I think of a door slamming shut. Some self-help book I read last year recommends that when an intrusive thought tries to suck your soul out of you.

In my vision, the door slams.

On Steve’s neck.

Ah. That’s so much better.

I hit “Talk” and then “End.” Closest thing to slamming that door.