Page 57 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

“I’m not as bossy as you make me sound.” She’s laughing, amused, not offended. The icy edge has vanished.

I imitate her voice, talking fast like she does when she’s excited. “Henry, you need to be naked when I arrive because I’m the boss of you.” I switch back to my own voice. “I can absolutely hear it now.”

Her burst of laughter is my reward. “I can’t even deny that it sounds like me.” She’s thoughtful for a second, then, quieter, asks, “Henry, what if we meet? Will it be a friend thing?” She sounds smaller and quieter, like some part of her is shrinking away, and she’s not even left the job yet.

“Of course it will. We’re already friends, the best of friends, we just don’t spend any time together in the same place. I tell you everything, I miss you when I don’t talk to you. How could we not be friends?” I mean it. Every word.

“You’re absolutely right.” She sounds content with that answer. Almost.

“Kait,” I speak gently, softly. “We’ll be friends. But will we be the kind of friends who…” My thoughts drift off. Would I risk the extraordinary friendship we’ve built to have more with her? Could I, the guy who never gets it right, have everything with this woman?

“The kind of friends who what?”

“Sorry, uh, thinking about how much I would enjoy having dinner with you one day.” I was going to ask if we’ll be friends who kiss all the time. Will we be the kind of friends who finally meet for coffee but end up making out in the parking lot because we can’t stop ourselves? Will she be attracted to me, the outside, as much as I’m attracted to her, sight unseen?

“Say it, babes. I want to hear what you’re thinking.” It’s wonderful to be listened to, knowing the other person is giving you their full attention, but sometimes it’s maddening. She never lets me get away with anything.

I fall silent. Afraid, to be honest.

“Henry, will we be the kind of friends who stay in the cone of candor today?”

“Can we not be that kind of friends today, pretty please?”

“Henry…”

“Fine. Yes, we will stay in the godforsaken crotch of credibility today. Just like every day.” I groan. The doghouse of directness, I don’t care what you call it, for the first time ever, I want to cut our call short. I drag my fingernails over a new itch at the back of my neck.

“I want to hear your unvarnished thoughts, Henry Sterling. It’s really, really important to me.” Now she’s invoked the really, really clause. I hate itching; it drives me up a wall. “Focus, Henry,” she says, her voice lower and huskier than usual. “Will we be the kind of friends who text and talk, share Spotify lists that occasionally feature non-UK artists, Henry?”

“I could make some exceptions to my standard friend contract for someone truly special, but K-pop is a deal breaker.”

“Will we be the kind of friends who skip dessert because we want to get home, get in your bed, and spend the entire night figuring out exactly what makes you moan the loudest? Those kinds of friends?” Yes, yes we should be the naked kind of friends.

“Babes, if we meet and we both want something intimate, I would be amenable to a friends-with-benefits situation.” I’d have her in my life, with no reservations, in any way she’s willing. I’ll be her dog walker if that’s the only way she wants me. No one wants long term with me, and starting a thing to have her walk away like everyone else has would gut me, so I have to keep it realistic for the sake of my own mental health.

“Friends with benefits, got it.” A hard swallow follows. “So, uhm, what song is playing when I show up at your office as a surprise, and you and Julian stare at me with your mouths hanging open?” The change of topic is abrupt, and I wonder if I said something wrong again.

“‘Lucky Man.’” Of course.

“What song is playing when you’re sitting in your fancy chair, and I straddle you, and I start to unbutton your shirt so I can kiss your neck, grazing your nipples as I spread your shirt wide open?”

“‘Lips’ by the XX, first choice,” I say, like I haven’t thought about it before. “There are so many songs in my brain.”

“You, me, your chair, and your sound system. Loud, but not so loud I can’t hear all of the sounds you’re making. That’s an image I never want to get out of my head.”

“Kait, I need you to hear me on this: It wouldn’t be a song. It would be a playlist.”

She’s quiet, but her breathing is a little fast, a little deeper than usual.

“But more importantly,” I say, “why are you changing the subject? Is it because I’m finally getting information out of you?” Busted. She’s not the only one who can read the subtle changes of inflections and word choice. “I tell you everything, babes. You ask, and I answer, even when it embarrasses me or is uncomfortable.” She murmurs agreement. “It’s time for you to tell me something. I have questions. Multiple questions.”

She sighs. For being so willing to dive into my soul, she can be guarded sometimes. “What do you want to know, Henry?”

Well, here goes nothing.

“I want you to tell me what you’ve always wanted and no man has ever done for you, and do not say cleaning your apartment again. It’s a serious question, and macarons don’t count.”

I bet she tries to turn the conversation back to spicy so she doesn’t have to share.