Page 39 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

“He thinks you’re pretty fabulous. Whatever you’re doing, I hope you keep it up. He’s overdue. And a little FYI, his eyes are the color of lime-green peridots in sunlight with hints of blue, and they are incredible.” There’s a rustle of fabric and hangers when she pauses. “Ugly is relative to Deck, who gets panties in the mail from fans.”

She sighs, then grumbles under her breath at Henry before speaking. “The navy wool Dior military-inspired overcoat screams ‘I merge and acquire like a fucking beast.’ The French cuffs are a win. Do you have acceptable cufflinks? Are you capable of determining if a cufflink is acceptable? Mom gave them to you? That’s fine, she has taste, unlike the rest of you. That black shirt is a hard no unless you’re becoming a mob lawyer.”

“Help me, Kait.” Henry’s fake sad voice would be heartbreaking if I believed a thing he’s saying. “You’ve done nothing to save me. Nothing.”

Saoirse interrupts. “I didn’t pick out these barrel cuffs. Hideous. Stop choosing for yourself.”

Feeling inspired and a little wicked, I say, “Hey, Saoirse? What are Henry’s middle names?”

“Oh, it’s Henry⁠—”

“Saoirse! If you want our day to end right now, finish that sentence,” Henry grumbles. It’s close enough to a growl that I resist the urge to say out loud how incredibly hot it is.

“Call you later?” he says to me, softer and sweet. A long zipper pull punctuates his words. “ShaSha, this hoodie is fantastic. What if I promise not to wear it to work?” If Henry has a lying voice, this is surely it.

“Bye, Saoirse, it was lovely talking to you.”

“Let’s hang out soon, Kait.” Saoirse’s words are a knife in my heart. “Henry, no sweatpants, even if they’re Calvin Klein. We’ve only got two hours until we need to be at the salon, chop-chop!”

“Salon?” Henry asks as the call disconnects.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

HENRY

“LET’S SPEND THE NIGHT TOGETHER” — THE ROLLING STONES

I do the whole blow-dust-off-the-album thing, then fuss with the needle, and just like that, life is good. Music fills my living room, along with the crackle that only vinyl produces.

Ooof. I’m too old to kneel on the floor for long. I move to my chair and sink into the thick cushions. “You may not realize this, but I have an awesome chair too. In fact, my chair is the superior chair.”

Indignant, Kait says, “I’m giving this phone back tomorrow. We can’t be friends.”

“I don’t think so. You’d miss me too much. Anyway, I’m in my fantastic black chair, which is better than your inferior blue one.” I lean back and close my eyes, letting her voice and the music wash over me.

“Disagree. I am sitting in a glorious velvet delight the envy of all other furniture. The bestest sitting place in the whole wide world. Yours wishes it was this amazing.”

I love it when she’s feisty. I can’t get enough when she’s like this.

“Mine is black leather and metal, and it’s cool. Very cool. Uber cool. Your blue velvet aspires to be this awesome.” I wouldn’t know cool if it bit me in the ass, but I’m pretty sure this is stylish.

“Mine has never appeared in a children’s show, but it’s famous,” I say. “Declan used to have this vintage poster of a guy sitting, and his sound system is so amazing that his hair is being blown back in the wind from the speakers.”

Kait’s settling in—the velvet always gives her away—and I take a sip of coffee before I admit, “I dreamed of being the guy in that photo. I have a print of it on my wall, above my speakers. Anyway, the guy’s sitting in a black leather Le Corbusier. When I got my first lawyer paycheck, I bought one. I didn’t know how to pronounce it, but I had to have one. When I’m stressed-out, sitting here and turning up the music until I can feel it helps.”

“Okay, I’ve googled. I know this photo. It’s remarkable. I can see why a music-obsessed kid would be fascinated.”

“After a few years of burning the mergers-and-acquisitions candle at both ends, I bought a sound system that can make audiophiles weep with joy and plopped the chair in front of it like the photo.”

“Sounds lovely,” she says, softer than I’m accustomed to hearing her. Unsure. “Henry, are you really okay with what we did the other night?”

Woah, abrupt change of topic.

I’ve never heard her like this before. Feisty? All the time. Sexy, always. Funny, every time we talk. With a shrunken voice like she’s afraid and wanting to hide? Only since we’ve had phone sex.

I don’t hesitate to answer with complete honesty. “Yes. Unequivocally. You?”

Please don’t regret this. Please. I’m begging.