Page 11 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

“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?

CHAPTER FOUR

HENRY

“SLEEP LIKE A BABY TONIGHT” — U2

“Henry, you look like death on a scone,” Julian says after giving me a head-to-toe survey and finding me lacking, which feels generous, given the circumstances. “Why didn’t you go straight home from the airport?”

“I need to sign that document you said I need to sign.” Ugh. Too tired to think straight, but I won’t be able to rest if I have undone tasks hanging over my head. It’s easier to suck it up before I try to sleep.

“I didn’t mean you couldn’t go home first. When was the last time you got some rest? Why do you resemble deep-fried dog shite?” He has a way of making even vulgarities sound posh—it’s the British accent.

“And I’m so tired I accidentally ordered an Uber to the office instead of home.”