“Oh, mah Gawd! Do I answer? Do I decline? What do I do?” I ask the empty room, cream sauce messily dribbling down my chin when I talk with my mouth full.

A car horn sounds outside, almost like a warning from fate, and I take that as a sign to decline the call.

But somehow, as I shuffle my blanket, plate, fork, and phone around, still trying to swallow without choking, I hit the wrong button. “Shit. Shit. No . . . ah, hell,” I hiss as the numbers on my screen start counting up. 00:01 . . . 00:02 . . . and I can hear a voice tinnily coming from my speaker. In full freak-out mode, I stare at the phone in horror and do the only thing I can. I hit End Call.

Smooth, Zoey. Real smooth.

I tap my forehead with the phone, praying that did not just happen. I didn’t accidentally answer and then hang up on Blake, right?

Please, if there’s a God up there, let it be that he just butt dialed me by accident.

My phone rings again in my hands, the electronic beep sounding like ‘ha, ha, gotcha.’ No such luck. I just hung up on him because that’s exactly the kind of thing that happens to me—embarrassing, awful, and awkward.

This time, I do manage to hit decline right away. No, no, no. Why is he calling me? I filled out the paperwork, so that’s a done deal, and after the incident at the beer barn, he should definitely be running for the hills. The ones far, far away from me, like on the other side of the state. Or maybe the next state over.

But yet . . . my phone rings a third time.

He’s hardheaded . . . and dammit, that makes him even more attractive to me. So I hit the green button on my screen, bringing the phone up to my ear.

“Uh, hello?” I say hesitantly.

“Zo, you okay?” Blake asks, urgent concern making it all one word.

“Yeah. Fine. Why?” I say, nervously brushing my hair behind my ear because I always let my hair out at home and for some reason, I don’t want him to think of me as a mess.

“Why?” Blake repeats on a huffed laugh. “Because it sounded like you were getting attacked and then the call disconnected. And then you didn’t answer. I was afraid you were getting mauled by a bear or something!”

I snort out a tiny laugh of disbelief. “A bear? We don’t have bears around here.”

He sighs in exasperation, and it makes me smile. “I know, but that’s not the point. Are you okay?”

He’s actually worried about me, a sensation I haven’t felt in so long that I relish it like a double rainbow or a four-leaf clover. But where he’s calming down, I can feel my entire body thrumming, tuning into his voice.

“I’m good. Just dropped the phone and some of my dinner. Oh, and a pillow.” I put my plate of chicken on the table to reach for the pillow and the fork clatters to the table top.

“What was that?” Blake asks, on alert again.

“A fork,” I tell him. “I’m a mess, but, uh . . . hi?” My voice is too high, too tight, too unsure. I feel like a teenage girl for some reason.

“Hi, Zoey,” he says, cool, calm, and collected.

And flirty.

His voice is deep, hitting me in all sorts of places that a simple greeting shouldn’t be able to do. Despite my best efforts, I’m smiling, even biting my lip a little. “Hi, Mr. Hale.”

I’m not being cute or playing kinky with the mister thing. I’ve got no ‘daddy issues’ in this regard at all. To the contrary, I’m trying hard to put some distance between us because I need it desperately before my body gets carried away with ideas like ‘maybe this time will be different’. It won’t, it never is, and I need to forget the idea that it might be. No dating, no connections.

The more alone I am, the better off everyone is. I can handle the isolation to protect them.

“Blake,” he corrects me again, and I know what he wants. Silence stretches as I debate whether I should give in, but my mouth decides before my brain has a chance to weigh in with a no-fucking-way recommendation.

“Blake,” I concede a bit too softly. I swear his breath wavers, but it’s probably just static in the phone connection, right? There’s no way he can be into me so quickly, can he?

Still, I can pretend that it was my saying his name that had that effect. It’s a dangerous game to play, but as long as it’s just between my imagination and my pussy, there’s no harm, no foul. I clench my thighs together, wishing for more friction.

“Other than dropping your dinner, what are you doing tonight, Zoey?” Blake asks, more casual now that we’ve established there are no bears in my living room.

My right brow jumps up of its own volition. I might not date, but I know what late night calls of ‘what’re you doing?’ mean.

“Is this a booty call?” I bite out. “Your Netflix broken, and you need to chill?”

It sounds harsh and bitchy. The truth is, I shift again in my blanket nest, actually considering it. A one and done, scratch that itch situation might be okay. I’ve never tested it, never even thought about testing it.

But surely, Blake would be okay, as long as I never saw him again?

Or you’d just never know about the zoo-escaped lion that ate him as a midnight snack when he tried to save it . . . here, kitty-kitty-kitty-style. I argue with myself on the odds of a lion on the loose.

“No! No, of course not,” Blake assures me, sounding startled and maybe just a little guilty. “That’s not what I meant.”