A visceral connection has been forged with this anonymous human and I’m beginning to worry. The rational, sensible part of my brain is screaming at me to get out of this assignment before it’s too late; I’m going to mess up what I’ve been hired to do and someone is going to get hurt in the process. The money should be my one and only focus, not falling for the guy I’m supposed to be helping.

The other part of my brain—the part infrequently used and often associated with attraction and infatuation—is hellbent to learn who is on the other side. I’m not sure I can carry on through life without discovering who I’ve been talking to late into the nights, the glow of my screen blinding in the dark bedroom, minutes slowly ticking by as the time of my set alarm comes closer and closer and I don’t want to fall asleep, afraid to miss any sort of communication from him.

“It sure looks like someone.”

I groan, dropping my head into my hands. “Swear you won’t make fun of me?”

“Em, the only time I made fun of you was when you gave yourself bangs. You’re beautiful, but they looked atrocious.”

She isn’t lying. I cried for three days, begging my mom to buy me a wig to hide the disaster on my forehead.

“I think I have a crush on a client,” I admit.

“I’m going to need some more details.”

Nicole knows the strict no-involvement and no-intimacy clauses both parties sign prior to meeting. There’s also the unwritten, moral obligation I follow to keep my private life separate from the business aspect of the job. Over the last few weeks, I’ve failed miserably, the two mixing and bleeding into each other.

“He understands me, like I’ve known him for years, if that makes any sense. He’s thoughtful and kind, asking how my day is and apologizing for sporadic texts because of work. He makes me laugh. I always look forward to what he has to say. We stay up late talking and learning the most random things about each other. Things I never thought someone would be interested in, like which side of a sandwich the peanut butter goes on, and knowing he despises olives with a passion. When morning comes, we pick right back up, like we were beside each other through the night. I’m distracted at work. I can’t focus. All I want to do is talk to him. If this connection had formed from a dating app, we’d be approaching double digit hangouts at this point. It makes sense I’m enjoying him.”

“This sounds like more than a crush.”

“Fine. Maybe it’s a very big crush.”

“When’s your first meeting?” she asks, tapping her red nails against her cheek.

“Sunday.”