Chapter 3 – Rule #2 Never hang up until they run out of minutes, especially if they fall asleep. #2
“I find that extremely odd. Being an adult is pretty essential for me to have an interesting conversation. I’m afraid to ask who or what they are typically requesting.”
“I’ll spare you the visual imagery. I’m happy you favor talking to adults.”
“I do. Absolutely.”
Henry Sterling is a good man. No denying it. One might even say freakishly good since he doesn’t even do phone sex when he calls for phone sex. Unreal. “As do I, Henry. It’s nice to be talking to a proper grown-up.”
“Did I mention that I have my own place, and my vehicle starts the first time I try it, unlike when I was in college?”
“Holy crap. Do you also have a checking account?” A grown man without one speaks volumes.
“The balance is even positive,” he says with a small chuckle. “I paid my bills earlier this week—on time—so I’m winning at adulting. It’s my not-so-awesome superpower, having a checking account.”
“According to my coworkers, mine is buying cookies, even though I’m cheap.” And phone sex.
“My boss would say my superpower is being able to practice law in the US, Ireland, and the UK. Or that I’m the person to call when two parties can’t find common ground during a business deal.”
“Irish Gaelic is sexier, honestly.” Lies. I’m a sapiosexual, and he’s hitting all of my fun buttons.
He rattles off a few sentences, and pure want slides over me. “Damn, Henry, your voice is fine in English, but when you slip into Gaelic, it’s next-level.”
He starts to speak, then stops, tries again, and gives up.
“Henry, is this what you sound like when you blush?” There’s a soft laugh in response but no answer. Please don’t be bashful. Please. I summon an image of him as a troll under a bridge, illiterate and stinky. It doesn’t work. The daydreams I could have about a bashful Henry.
Nah. He’s an international, fancy lawyer—I bet he’s authoritative, cool, and in command. My bashful kink is safe.
“Henry, are you secretly hot in real life?” He is, I know he is.
“No, Saoirse says I’m her ugliest brother.” Interesting. Sounds like the kind of thing you would say to someone who’s hot.
“I have a rule against looking callers up, primarily because the flashy thingie from Men In Black doesn’t exist, and you can’t magically unknow the things people put on social media, but I could make an exception for you, Henry,” I say, then, joking, I ask, “How many of the Sterling boys are models?”
“No, you can’t look up my ugly mug, not unless I get to look you up at the same time,” he says, and he’s right, fair is fair. “As far as models go, only Declan, my oldest brother.”
Well, shit. He’s definitely hot. At the minimum, he’s got a cute face but a devastating body. Or Clark Kent hot, hiding behind giant horn-rimmed nerd glasses, ahem.
“So Declan is the interesting brother? How old is he? Can I get an introduction?” I can’t help but smile as I poke the bear and wait for him to roar.
“Hah! Declan is not the interesting brother. Obviously, I’m the most interesting Sterling. I even make falling asleep interesting.” He laughs. Not arrogant or cocky, more like comfortable in his skin and not afraid to make fun of himself. “What are you doing?” he asks.
“I made a cup of tea.” I blow on it before taking a tiny sip. “I’m sitting in my amazing chair. You know how your bed is perfect, with the right linens and mattress and everything? This is the chair equivalent of your awesome bed. I have a thing for comfy chairs.”
“I’ll decide if it can compete with my bed.”
“It’s a vintage Galerkin Max chair, commonly known as the Blue’s Clues chair.
It’s adult-sized, huge really, a chair and a half with an ottoman, and it’s the perfect shade of midnight-blue velvet.
It’s the Goldilocks of firmness—not too soft, not too hard.
” I never eat or drink in this chair. Today, I’m making an exception.
“That does sound nice, comfy even, but my king-size bed is perfect.”
“I also have a little table right next to me, for books and things that are happiness inducing,” I say. “Big comfy chair, warm blankie, and a book, and poof, I’m a happy camper.” I start again, blurting, “Your voice wins though.”
I’m having a stroke. I must be because nothing wins over reading a good book in my chair. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s work. I’m trying to butter him up.
“This is decidedly unfair. I’ve given you lawyer, Gaelic, Ireland, and absurdly large family, and you give me chair. Chair. What else have you got for me, Kait?”
I use my fake game-show voice. “Kait is a polyamorous pansexual who enjoys long walks on the beach, crotchless panties, and anonymous sex with anyone who knows her phone number.”
“When you use third person, you’re talking about the character you play on the phone?”
“Yes, exactly,” I admit. “Although we’re largely the same.”
“It did not occur to me that you might be required to lie to me.” He sounds thoughtful. “If you were in public and someone said, ‘Hey, Kait!’ would you assume they’re talking to you?”
“I’d stop and look.” I mean, if I heard his voice, I’d stop and look, no matter what he said.
“Are you polyamorous or pansexual?”
“No,” I reply. “I’m straight, heteroromantic, and monogamous. I’ll admit to occasional thoughts about threesomes, but that might be one too many assholes and far too many elbows in real life.”
I leave out the part about the forest and being chased.
For once in my life, I don’t overshare. I say, “Kait is twenty-two. I’m a bit more mature.
” Kait is five three; I’m five six. She weighs one hundred and twelve pounds, and I’m one fifty.
Kait’s blonde and is DTF anything, including aliens, werewolves, and zombies. Me, not so much.
“Got it.”
“I’m really, really single.” And with that, really, really becomes our shorthand for “I’m telling the truth about me, not the character I play” on the phone.
“Single is my default for reasons. For now, we’ll stick with ‘I work a lot,’” he says before yawning twice, and there’s more noise of bed linens before background music starts.
“At the risk of putting an end to our call prematurely, shouldn’t you be asleep?”
“I like speaking with you. I need sleep help. I thought we could do both. We could talk, then you could help me.” He’s cute when he’s sleepy. I bet he’s a cuddler.
We chat about his family and job, our mutual problem of working too much, the feedback from his sister on her cookie delivery, and his obsession with Spotify playlists until he yawns and says, “Would help me fall asleep again?”
Awww, he’s so tired he’s missing words. Why is that charming?
“I’d be delighted, Henry.” No sex talk? Is he the golden retriever unicorn I believe he is? Will the miracles never cease? “What worked last time?” Does my voice work for you the way your voice works for me?
“Relaxing my body helped. When you slipped into Latin, my thoughts drifted away, and that’s the last I remember.”
“I understand. Are you in bed?”
“Yes. Tucked in, wearing shorts and a Rolling Stones T-shirt. Lights off. Air-conditioning on.”
“Next time, we’re going to talk about music, Henry.”
“I’d like that.”
“We’ll start with some deep inhales and slow exhales.” I’m turning into the Pavlov of good sleep. Instead of a bell, a hot guy hears my voice and passes out.
Latin worked last time, but my anatomy textbook is in my car, and I don’t think I can do it from memory.
“Henry, do you speak French?”
“No, Irish Gaelic and a smattering of ‘where’s the bathroom’–level Spanish.”
I grab my high school copy of Le Petit Prince off my overstuffed bookshelf. He won’t know it’s a children’s book. Ten minutes in, and he’s making little breathy rumbles, and then I catch a tiny snore. I pause for a minute, then hang up.
I’m either proud of myself or disgusted, and I’m not sure which.
I call the vanilla office number. “Hey, Hunter, I’m done talking to Henry.”
“Eighty-two minutes? Golly. He must have accidentally hung up as he fell asleep.”
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Not cool. I’ve done it twice now.
Why does the unicorn with the sexy voice make me do stupid things?