Chapter 5 – Rule #3 Never talk about sex first. #3
“Nope. Finest, bestest, number uno unicorn. It’s not a quality measure; it’s a rarity thing.
We have one guy who likes to call and moan when we say hello, then hang up like fifty times in a row because actual humans answer our phones, so he’s unique but not someone I hope will call.
You, on the other hand, are pure gold. Or should I say Sterling silver? You’re my favorite.”
“I’m your favorite unicorn? That’s kind.”
“No, favorite caller.” I haven’t thought about it in those terms before, but it’s true.
He does get special treatment. Henry never waits for his turn in line.
Even if he’s third, I talk to him first. Owner’s privilege.
“Although that might change. I have an important question for you. Well, two, actually.”
His footsteps are quiet in the background. Pacing? “Okay, I’ve braced myself. Lay it on me.”
“One, what’s your middle name, and two, Miracle Whip or mayonnaise? There is a correct answer.”
He stops pacing. “Uh, no, and mayonnaise?”
“You officially remain my favorite caller.”
He doesn’t speak for a moment, starts, then stops.
“I’ve never had a favorite caller before, yet here we are,” I say, glad he can’t see my face pinking up.
“I’ve never had a favorite phone sex operator before, but here we are. There’s no one I’d rather spend hours talking to than you. Julian, closest friend and the other half of my office, says my voicemail message should be ‘why are you calling when an email or text will do?’”
I pretend I’m not all atwitter at his words. “That’s all quite interesting, Mr. Sterling, but again with the avoidance. Your honor, the witness is avoiding the question. Permission to treat the witness as hostile?”
“Hate to break it to you, babes, but it’s frowned upon to treat your own witness as hostile. It can be done, but it’s a little unusual.”
Babes. I like it.
“Why won’t you tell me? Is it a terrible name, like Henry Gertrude Sterling? Or Henry Booger-Fart Sterling? Hyphenated, of course.”
He lets out a bark of laughter. “No, it’s more you always get your way, and I’m doing men everywhere a service by depriving you of something you want for a change.”
I hope this doesn’t get out. I can’t have a bunch of men getting their way all the time. What would be next, Michigan and Ohio State fans holding hands and singing Kumbaya before the big game?
We talk for an hour—without a big reveal of his middle name—chatting happily until he’s tucked in.
“Call me soon?” I ask. Needy is not a good look for me, but that doesn’t stop the words from exiting my mouth.
His answer is a soft murmur, a little slurred. He doesn’t need me, but I listen for a few minutes to be sure. It’s the best part of my job, this quiet moment spent listening to Henry drift off.
It turns out he doesn’t have the ability to just charm me; his superpower extends to other women too.
Three days later, I go to our mailbox to get our packages and mail some things.
It isn’t until I get back to the office that I find one in the stack addressed simply to Kait.
It’s from Chicago. Henry. He’s a details man; he confirmed the spelling on one of our first calls.
I slice at the packing tape with my car key, too impatient to find scissors.
Inside is an elegant blue box with silver trim and a matching bow.
I pull it out, swiping the packing peanuts back into the shipping box.
Half expecting a French tickler or some sort of sex thing, the well-established standard of gift giving around this joint, I gently lift the lid.
Hit with a wave of almond, rich but delicate, my mouth waters as I take in an array of pastel treats he must have hand carried back from Paris.
Henry Sweet Pea Sterling took time out of his excruciatingly busy workday to send me a present, and I’m moved to tears by his thoughtfulness.
Guys send shit I’m afraid to touch all the time—we open our mail here with those thick yellow dishwashing gloves—but they don’t send thoughtful, expensive gifts.
Callers cannot be trusted. It should be a rule.
But this? This is a gift for me. Not a cupless bra for Kait’s giant fictional rack, or “for me” but to suit their kink.
No, this is a delicate pastel rainbow of Parisian macarons, dozens in perfect rows, four of every color.
Baby blue with blueberry, sunshine yellow with lemon curd, maybe?
A cream one that must be vanilla, judging by the tiny brown specks.
They’re almost too gorgeous to eat. Almost.
Taking a tiny nibble of a pink one with a jam-like layer between the cookies, I moan as the flavor melts on my tongue.
Framboise rouge. The cookies are crisp yet chewy, with a thin layer of raspberry between.
Digging through the packing peanuts, I find a printed menu and a wee envelope the size of a business card.
Kait is handwritten in a bold, masculine script on the front. Inside, a note.
Dear Kait,
Please find enclosed a treat for you and the ladies at the office.
XO,
Henry—Top Secret Middle Names—Sterling
I fan myself with the tiny card, and then for some inexplicable reason, I hold it to my heart.
Biting my lip, I shake my head in an attempt to make the smile go away before someone sees.
It doesn’t work. I float through my day, beaming and listening to everyone gush about Henry being a prince among men.