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“Wieners Circle. Did you want to place an order?” I answer with the first thing that came to mind. I’m nowhere near the place but how could he know that.

“Where are you, seriously?” He seems genuine, but I can’t let down my guard. Despite the slight flush in my cheeks as his voice becomes more comfortable and vulnerable than snarky.

“When have we ever been serious?” I say, avoiding the subject. I regroup. “Point taken. I’m on my way home. I work better on my couch sometimes.”

“I have the same thing, but it has to be at my dining room table. Or this café down the block from my house or…” His voice drifts off, as if he’s going to say something else and thought better of it.

“Or what?” I ask.

“Nothing. Just those two places.” He doesn’t want to share. Why would he? This is the most civilized we’ve ever been. His voice is smooth and rough at the same time like a really peaty Scotch. He’s a study of opposites, dangerous and completely safe because he’s far away from me.

I say, laying down my gauntlet, “I write in cafés, too.” I’m walking and talking to the man, and realize we’re revealing actual things about ourselves. I can’t have that. I let the silence go on and it’s more comfortable than I’m comfortable with.

I break our moment. “Anyway. Why did you call?”

“The truce you started to mention is a good idea.”

“Agreed.”

“You’re fucking kidding me. Bette Miller agrees with Hayden Corelli. We should timestamp this,” he kind of yells.

I say with a smile in my voice, “Do we need to draw up papers or something? File it with the authorities?”

“Nah, we can handshake it.” He sighs.

“I’ll write it up anyway.”

“Fair enough. Truce. Shall we set the rules?” he asks.

I’m two blocks from my apartment and my phone dings. My mom is calling. I send her to voice mail. Normally I wouldn’t, but this call is so odd and intriguing. My mind often conjures an image of Hayden Corelli. Sadly, his eyes are always Danny’s. But his body is bigger and so are parts of him I’d never ask about. His BDE, big dick energy, is overwhelming most of the time. I just hope I’m serving BPE right back.

“Are you flirting with me, or do you really mean to call a truce?” I ask honestly.

He responds, “If I was flirting with you, you’d already be panting.”

And we’ve taken another turn. Not sure I know what to do with this, so I volley back, “Is that so?”

“What would I be doing if you were flirting with me?” he says.

“Which I’m not,” I stress.

“Of course.” His voice drops almost an octave. “Wouldn’t dream it possible.”

I open my door and toss my things on the kitchen island. I don’t know what game he’s playing, but I’m intrigued. I’m going in. Hopefully it will scare him off and I don’t have to think about him for a while.

“Well, if I were flirting, which we’ve established I’m not, you’d already be stroking your dick, dreaming of what I could do to it.” I do NOT know where that came from. Holy shit. What am I doing? I’m on a path now. I should stop this path. I take my coat off and turn in a tight circle. I keep shaking out my hair, as if that will take it back. That was not what I intended to say.

He growls a little. “Solid, Miller. That’s some solid dirty talk. Do you need me to send some back or are you all set?” I’m flustered is what I am. I’m baffled. I need to get this back on track.

“Rules of engagement,” I say, trying to get back to the truce.

“So, now we’re engaged?” His voice is low and throaty, and now, in a shocking turn of events, I’m wet. How the fuck did that happen? I hate this man and now I’m picturing fantasy Hulk servicing me on his knees. Shit.

“I’ve already made that joke. Just as I suspected none of your work is original.”

“I can think of lots of original things I’d like to say to you.”

And this pops out of my mouth: “Or do to me.”