Pushing away from my desk with a heavy sigh, I round the couch and sit down, grabbing the TV remote. I know for a fact that the only thing on right now is daytime soaps, but that’s better than nothing.

I’m halfway through the episode, completely captivated by these fictional people and the drama-filled lives they have, when my phone rings from where I left it on the desk. I round the couch, picking it up and seeing Tyler’s name flashing on my screen.

Shit. He wants to actually talk to me. Not text. Verbally communicate.

I stare at my phone, the weight of it getting heavier in my hand as I hesitantly hover over the accept phone call button.

What if his voice sucks? I’ve imagined what it sounds like—low and rumbly, like a sexy storm in the distance, but I could be way off here. He could sound like some pervy version of Dr. Willis, or worse, a chick.

I take a chance and go for it, swiping across the screen and putting the phone up to my ear. “Hello?”

“Tessa, hey, it’s Tyler.”

I nearly fall over when the smooth cadence of his voice comes through the phone. “Oh, thank God.”

“Thank God?” The sound of his soft laughter fills my ear. “Are you that happy I called?”

“No. I mean, yeah, I just… you have a really good voice. I was worried you wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, so do you. I really didn’t want to get hard at work, but that might be unavoidable.”

Blushing, I chew on my bottom lip and lean against my desk. “So, what’s up? Are you calling to bail on me?”

“What? Fuck no. Are you kidding? I just realized I haven’t heard your voice yet. It’s been bugging me all day.”

“And now you’re going to be serving beers to men while you sport wood. I hope you’re working at a gay bar.”

He laughs again, fuller this time. One of those laughs that makes you throw your head back and clutch your stomach. “Jesus, you’re something else, you know that? Why do I feel like I’ve met my match with you?”

I smile. “Maybe you have. Not a lot of men can keep up with me though.”

“Maybe I’ll be the first.”

You won’t be.

I swallow, shaking the unwanted thought out of my head. “Yeah… yeah, maybe. So, we are still on for tomorrow night, right?”

“Are you trying to rush me off the phone?”

“What? No, I just assumed… Sorry, I just—I figured you wanted to confirm plans and get back to work. I didn’t think you were calling to just talk to me.”

“Do guys never call you just to talk to you?”

“Not in a really long time.”

“Well, I just did. I’m on my break, and I don’t want to talk to anyone else. Is that okay with you?”

“That’s okay with me.” I pull out my desk chair and sit down, bringing my knees against my chest. “What do you want to talk about?”

“You.”

I blush again. “Okay… What about me?”

“I don’t know. Everything?”

I laugh, picking at the chipped off nail polish on my big toe. “Everything, huh? How long is your lunch break?”

“I can stretch it a few minutes.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm?”

“Yes, hmm.”

“Your hmm is very cute.”

I drop my head against my knee, sighing. “Oh, man.”

“Is there a problem?”

“No, I love this part. The flirty beginning stage, when everything is new and perfect.”

“Hmm.”

“Don’t hmm me. That’s my line.”

“You own the word?”

“Yes. I’ve been told I’m very cute when I do it. So I call dibs.”

“Well, I think the man who complimented you should have some ownership over that word. He made you smile, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” I answer, reaching up and pressing a finger into my one lonely dimple that sinks in my left cheek.

“Then it’ll be our word. We can both say it, but only to each other. Deal?”

“Hmm.”

He laughs. “I’ve been staring at that picture you sent me a lot. I really like your lips.”

I drop my hand into my lap. “Wow. I could go so dirty with that right now.”

“Yeah? So could I, but I’m at work and no longer alone in the break room.”

“Not a fan of public masturbation? It’s all the rage.”

“You know this from personal experience?”

I shrug. “Nah, I’m more of a ‘get off on a complete stranger’s text messages’ kind of girl.”

“Lucky me.”

My smile spreads, along with the heat that’s burning up my cheeks. “I’ve been staring at your picture, too. You have really great hair.”

“It needs to be cut.”

“No. Don’t cut it.”

“No?”

I shake my head. “No. I like it hanging in your face like that. You look like…”

“The guy from that TV show with the motorcycle club?”

“Uh, yeah, exactly. Are you told that a lot?”

“All the time. I’ll keep my hair long, but I’m not getting my back tattooed like him. I hope you’re okay with that.”

“Yeah, I’m… I’m not really a fan of tattoos.” Or at least, I don’t want to be.