It was a great evening, thank you. A smidge too much tequila but that’s how a lot of these nights go. No one at the bar worthy of kissing, but I gave Benedick a smooch and he didn’t seem to mind.

A response came almost immediately.

To: Stacey Lindholm

From: Dex MacLean

Date: January 1, 1:16 a.m.

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Happy New Year

I take it back. I don’t know if I want someone there kissing you. Who the hell is Benedick, and why did his mother name him after a Shakespeare character? I can’t believe this. You’re out there getting kissed while I rang in the new year at the kitchen table with my uncle Morty.

A warm glow bloomed through my skin, almost as intense as the tequila buzz that had subsided about a half hour ago. Dex was jealous. This was wonderful.

I flipped to my camera and scooped up a sleepy Benedick. He barely moved as I took a selfie of the two of us, me planting a kiss onto his fluffy head. He’d lived with me long enough that he was used to me demanding photos; sometimes he even seemed to enjoy his little bursts of Instagram fame. If a cat knew what Instagram was. I deposited him back into my lap, where he purred and snuggled into my belly as I cropped the photo, brightening it since the fairy lights were kind of dark. I started to switch back to my email, but after a moment’s hesitation, closed out of the email and opened up my contacts instead. I’d never sent Dex a text before, because texting had felt too intimate. I wasn’t sure if it was the lingering tequila, the lateness of the hour, or the buoyant knowledge that a man who looked like Dex was actually upset that someone else might have been kissing me. Whatever it was, I was feeling intimate. Besides, pictures from phones sent better via text than email. So I selected his number and attached the picture to a text.

Meet Benedick. He’s an excellent kisser. Or kissee, really.

I held my breath as I hit Send. Was he even anywhere near his phone? He could have been emailing me from a laptop. Maybe he wouldn’t get it till morning. But no: the message was marked “read” almost immediately, followed by those dots that indicated he was texting back.

Of course. Benedick to your Beatrice. Okay, I’ll allow it.

A slow smile spread across my face, and the warm glow intensified. He remembered my Faire name. Maybe I wasn’t just another wench in another town to him.

He sent another text: Much cuter than my date. Followed by a photo of a tall glass of beer. Something dark.

I approve of your date as well, I texted back. Though there’s plenty to be jealous of there too, you know.

Oh really? How so?

I caught my breath as I realized what I’d texted. I’d been thinking about that tall glass. His mouth on its edge, the tip of his tongue licking foam off his lips. And I’d been jealous. Of a glass of beer. Maybe this was getting a little too intimate. But what the hell.

I wish I could have kissed you at midnight. Is that a bad thing to wish? My fingers were uncertain on the keys, and it took two tries to send the text. Was that too much? It shouldn’t be; I’d slept with the man, for God’s sake. But our emails over the past few months felt more intimate than anything I’d shared in his bed. I’d been getting to know the man he was inside, not just how he liked to have sex. Through our emails, I felt like I’d met him for the first time all over again. But while we’d shared the secrets of our hearts, we hadn’t talked attraction, either from our past encounters or the new intimacy blooming between us. Kissing him now would feel like kissing him for the first time, and I ached for it.

My last text was delivered, then it was read. Then my phone was silent, and dread swirled in the pit of my stomach. I’d gone too far. I’d ruined it. But then the dots came.

No.

No? I scrunched up my face as I read those words. What the hell did that mean?

But he wasn’t done. More dots.

That’s a perfect wish. Because I wish it too. More than anything.

My breath caught. Oh thank God.

He was still typing. Times like this, especially when it’s late at night, I think about you more than I probably should. Think about how your hair would feel between my fingers. Think about how your lips would taste. Your mouth. Those are the things I think about when it’s this late at night, when my mind goes crazy with wondering and wanting.

I pressed my palms to my suddenly very warm cheeks and kicked my legs out from under the blankets, disturbing the cat. When had this room gotten so warm? But if he could confess those things, so could I. I dug my phone out from the blankets to see he hadn’t finished. Sorry. Probably shouldn’t have texted all that. Maybe had one beer too many.

I giggled as my thumbs flew over the keyboard. A couple tequilas too many over here, but that’s okay. I know what you mean. I was just thinking how new this all feels, getting to know you this way. And how much I want you to kiss me for the first time all over again.

There was a longer pause before he answered. I want that too. More than you know. Good night, Anastasia. Happy New Year.

Happy New Year, Dex.

I went to sleep with a smile on my face and a purring cat curled around my head. This new year was starting off pretty damn well.

Eight

January brought enough snow that some days I had to leave for work a good fifteen minutes earlier so I could scrape off the car and warm it up. On those days I didn’t have time for my mother to call when I was on my way out the door. Which was, of course, exactly when the landline on my wall rang. Mom’s direct line to me when she wanted to talk.

“Ugh, Mom!” I tried to let out all the frustration in that one growl under my breath before I picked up the phone so she wouldn’t hear it in my voice. She knew my schedule; this was not a good time to talk. I blew out all the negativity and picked up the receiver.

“Hey, Mom.” There. My voice was nice and light and breezy. Typical Stacey. “I’m on my way to work, can’t really talk. Can I drop by tonight?”

“Hey, Princess.” I froze at the sound of my dad’s voice. He never called; he wasn’t a phone guy. We usually communicated by him telling Mom to tell me something, and me telling her what to tell him back. So his voice on the phone was the first alarm bell in my head. The second was the hesitant, tired way he spoke. He’d said only two words, but he sounded just like he had the day he’d called me from the hospital, that first time that Mom had . . .

“Dad? What’s wrong? Is everything okay?” Forming words was harder than usual. My mouth didn’t seem to want to work right.

“Everything’s fine. We’re at the hospital—”

I dropped my backpack purse to the floor, and I was lucky I didn’t fumble the phone as well. “If you’re at the hospital, everything is not fine. Is it Mom?”

“Yes, but don’t worry. She wasn’t feeling right last night, so we went to the emergency room. They took her right in, and—”

“Last night?” I screeched. “And you’re just calling me now?” I started mentally flicking through the schedule at work. Was it a full day? How screwed would they be if I called in, and how much did I care? Not too much, I decided, and not at all.

“You know your mother.” Dad’s voice broke through my scrambling thoughts. “She wouldn’t let me call you until morning. She didn’t want you to worry.”

“Okay, but I’m worried now. Look, let me call in to work real quick, and I can be at the hospital in about fifteen minutes.”

“No, no. Don’t do that, your mother will kill me. I wasn’t supposed to call you till they’ve finished running tests. Just go to work, and keep your phone on you if you can, okay? I know you’re not supposed to . . .”

“Oh, the hell with that,” I said. “I’ll keep my phone in my pocket, and they can fire me if they don’t like it. You call me the second you hear something, okay?”

I barely remembered the drive to work. My mind was five years in the past, replaying that first phone call from my dad from the emergency room. He’d tried to downplay Mom’s condition and his worry, but that time he hadn’t stopped me from joining him at the hospital. That itself was what made me go to work that day. Mom never wanted me to worry, but Dad had a hard time going through this stuff alone. We’d clocked lots of hours together, side by side in waiting rooms. Once Mom was okay we went back to basically talking through her, but during a crisis he needed me.

So the fact that he didn’t need me today was encouraging. But I still took my phone out of my backpack when I got to work and turned it to vibrate. I was about to slip it into my pocket when instead I unlocked it. Before I had a chance to think about it, I sent a text to Dex. Mom’s in the hospital. I wasn’t sure why I did it; we didn’t usually text during the day. Our time was at night. But I felt like I had to tell someone, and no one else in my immediate circle knew my history with my mom’s health. Not on the level that I’d told Dex about it. So I sent that text and then slipped my phone into my pocket.

Almost immediately it vibrated and I dug it out, expecting it to be Dad with an update. But to my surprise, it was Dex. Oh shit. Is she okay?