The night I meet Mason Robichaud, I get home from the Happiness Bar at around ten-thirty. My body is still thrumming with frustrated desire as I climb the stairs and dig out my keys to open the front door.

Harriet and I live on the second floor of a converted Victorian house, on the edge of a rowdy university neighborhood. The two of us moved here after we graduated from Springville State, combining our resources on this apartment to save money because we both had dreams of striking it big.

Harriet’s an aspiring musician in a couple of local rock bands. She’s a bassist and backing vocalist for The Tupperware Party, and is also part of a folk-punk duo called The Toads. I met her my sophomore year, when we got thrown together as roommates because neither of us had anyone else. Looking at the two of us, you’d think there weren’t two more unlikely roommates in all of Springville. Whereas I’m tall, brunette, and more of a jeans and cami type when I’m not having to dress up for work, Harriet’s short and petite, with a heart-shaped face, large, dark eyes, and a shock of spiky, electric blue hair. Her clothing tastes run toward ripped fishnets, combat boots, and shapeless men’s T-shirts so large she wears them in place of dresses. She’s the kind of girl that old ladies click their tongues at and say, “If only she’d make an effort, she’d be so pretty.” But Harriet doesn’t give a fuck, because this is the way she wants to look. And besides, she’s freaking gorgeous just like this — even if grandmas on the street take a few steps back when she passes. What can I say? The look works for her.

Harriet’s not home when I get back. She’s probably still out at her gig. After my strange encounter with Mason Robichaud, I’m too keyed up to go to bed. Instead, I stay up for a while and binge watch some episodes of Parks and Recreation as I wait to get tired enough to go to sleep. But even though it’s one of my favorite shows, it’s not enough to keep my mind from buzzing with thoughts of Mason. I keep picturing the infuriating way he cocked his head to look at me, the corner of his mouth going up in a lazy, sexy smirk.

The look he gave me at my car, right before he kissed me…

How soft yet demanding his lips were…

My heart starts pounding at the memory. The kiss Mason gave me was more intense than any I’ve ever had in my life. Hell, those few seconds backed up against his car were more hot and arousing than any encounter I can ever remember with a member of the opposite sex. He set all my nerve endings abuzz, sending an electric current between the two of us that even now, my skin can still remember. The second he touched me, I would have done practically anything to have more of him.

Including stuff I would probably have regretted afterwards.

Good thing he stopped, Anna. Right? Right?!

I should be grateful he had more will-power than I did. But the fact is, I’m not. Mostly, I’m just frustrated, and kind of embarrassed. Because I was not about to push him away. And I think he knew it.

I’m not the kind of girl who just… has sex with some total stranger in a parking lot.

But God, with him it would have felt so good…

My skin is hot and tingly, like it’s ready for him, even though he’s not even here. I shift uncomfortably on the couch, very aware of my lady parts, which are still waiting in vain for Mason’s touch. Shit. I need to do something to get my mind off him.

Or something to get your body… off…

Inadvertently I glance toward my bedroom, where my trusty vibrator is hidden away in a bottom drawer of my dresser. I haven’t used it in a while, but right now it might be the only thing that gets Mason out of my mind for good.

I start to stand up from the couch, reaching for the remote to turn off the TV, when the front door opens. Hurriedly, I sit back down and pretend to be absorbed in the show as Harriet walks in carrying her bass guitar case.

“Hey,” she nods, kicking the door shut with a booted foot.

“Hey,” I say back. “How was the show?”

Harriet sets the case down in the entryway and makes a rude sound with her lips. “I’ve gotta find another band,” she complains. “Brody is more interested in prancing around the stage and getting laid by groupies than he is in actually playing the music. I’m sick of covering up for his mistakes because he can’t be bothered to learn the fucking songs.”

Brody is the front man and lead vocalist for The Tupperware Party. It’s true, I definitely get the vibe he’s more interested in being A Rock Star than he is in being a musician. He’s got the looks for it, and the voice, but he’s not much of a guitarist. Unfortunately for Harriet, he’s the one who started the band. She’s been complaining about him almost from the get-go, but she has yet to finally take the plunge and leave. Probably because The Tupperware Party is one of the best-known indie bands in Springville. And also because she has a crush on the band’s drummer Grant, though she won’t admit it.

Harriet goes to the kitchen and grabs a bottle of beer from the fridge. “How was your night?” she asks, plopping down beside me.

I shrug. “Uneventful,” I lie. “Though I did manage to lock my keys in my car.”

She snorts and takes a drink. “How did that happen?”

“Long story.” I press mute on the TV. “And I broke my phone.”

“Sheesus,” she mutters, shaking her head. “You should have come with me tonight instead. So, your scouting expedition didn’t pan out?”

It’s a testament to what a good friend Harriet is that she feigns interest in my professional life. She cares nothing about football or anything else sports-related. “Why would I watch two to three hours of people running around crashing into each other for an inflatable ball?” she scoffs whenever anyone asks her. But to her credit, she still cares about my career goals, and always treats them as just as important as hers.

“No,” I answer. “Although I did end up…”

I stop mid-sentence, not knowing if I should continue. I’m not supposed to be talking about Mason. I promised him I wouldn’t. But… I rationalize with myself, I’m not saying anything about his potential contract. Plus, I’d bet anything Harriet doesn’t even know who Mason Robichaud is.

Still. Better safe than sorry.

“I did end up meeting someone who unlocked my car for me,” I finish lamely. “A guy.”

“A guy?” Harriet’s antennae are instantly up. “Do tell.”

“A guy,” I say sarcastically. “You know. A male member of the species. A human with both X and Y chromosomes.”

“Don’t you get smart with me, little lady,” she scolds, shaking her finger at me like a mom. “You know what I mean. You said ‘a guy’ with a tone.”

“What tone?” I say innocently.

“You know damn well what tone.” She cocks her head at me and gives me a knowing look. “You said guy, but your tone said super-luscious sex machine.”

“Oh my God, it did not!” I protest.

Harriet rolls her eyes at me. “Whatever. Sure you didn’t. So, did you exchange numbers? Is he going to call you?”

“No, and no,” I respond. “It wasn’t like that.”

Even though I wanted it to be…

“Huh.” Harriet frowns, looking like she’s not totally buying it. “Okay.”

I drop the remote into her lap and stretch my arms wide, faking a yawn that thankfully turns into a real one. “Well, I think I’m gonna go to bed,” I tell her. “Sorry, all of a sudden I just got really tired.”

She’s still not looking convinced, but apparently she decides not to push it. “Sounds good,” she says with a shrug. “You getting up early?”

“Nope. Day off tomorrow.” Normally, I get up at insane o’clock on days I have to be in front of the camera bright and early.

“Cool. You wanna go get breakfast?”

“Brunch,” I correct her. “I want to sleep in.”

She shoots me a grin and gives me a thumbs up. “I’m up for that. ‘Night!”

“‘Night.”

I go into my room and get undressed, then turn out the light and get into bed. I lie there in silence for a few minutes, listening to Harriet change channels. Finally, she seems to settle on a show, and volume on the TV goes up.

Sliding out from under the covers, I go to my dresser and quietly open the bottom drawer. Reaching inside, I fish around until I find what I’m looking for.

Back in bed, I do the only thing I can think of to get Mason Robichaud out of my head.

It almost works.