What would he do if I called him? Would he laugh at me? Would he think I was daring or pathetic? Sexy or lonely? Bold or foolish?

The old guilty Jackie part of me says foolish, but the newer me, the one who loves laughing and playing and just being silly, knows that Kai liked me, so he’d say bold. And sexy.

Especially sexy.

I grin into the palm of my hand, smiling so wide that my cheeks hurt. But even better than the smile is that surge of happiness inside. The feeling of joy and an abundance of hope.

Things will work out. One way or another. Things always work out.

Late the next morning, I climb into my car after a visit to Crowne hardware with a client who didn’t have a clue what she wanted and didn’t like anything I suggested. This is one of those clients who seem to enjoy rejecting everything, which means endless shopping trips and endless (futile) searches. I know I bill by the hour, but still, I have so many clients and so much to do that I need to check things off my to-do list even if my client doesn’t.

It’s raining as we leave Crowne, and my client zips away in her Lexus sedan as I struggle into my SUV with the client’s enormous spec book. Climbing into my seat, I bang my head on the side of the door, squeeze the binder past the steering wheel as I curse the rain, curse my client, who will call me tonight and want to moan about today’s limited choices, and curse my new wanderlust—because all I want to do is hop on the first plane out of here. Preferably one heading to Hawaii.

Obviously I can’t do that. I’ve too much work, and William’s got a book report due at the end of the week, and I don’t think he’s even started reading the book.

My cell phone rings as I shut the car door. I dig in my purse and retrieve the phone before the call goes into voice mail. “Hello?”

“What are you wearing?”

My breath catches. Kai. “You’d be sadly disappointed.”

“Try me.”

“A suit, a trench coat, and wet high heels.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“Mmmm. What are you wearing?”

“Nothing.”

His husky laugh sends tingles through me, and I grip the phone tighter. “Nothing?”

“I just woke up.”

“What time is it there?”

“Nine o’clock.”

“You’re not working?”

“It’s my day off, and I’m just lying in bed thinking about you.”

I grow hot all over, rub a knuckle nervously above my upper lip.

“Had a very sexy dream about you, too.”

I can hardly breathe. The heat grows, gathering in my face, making my cheeks hot, my skin burn. “You did.” My voice is all but inaudible.

“You were naked.”