A/N: A very sweet guest reviewer asked if the last chapter (#36) was intended as a flashback. So I just wanted to clarify that it wasn't; it was set on the same evening that Gillian asked Alec for a divorce, and shortly after he left the house. This chapter follows along chronologically as well. It is set in the hours after Cal and Gillian finish their flirtatious phone call, while they're both (separately) trying to sleep.

Thanks again to everyone who sent feedback, messages, or followed – I appreciate it so very much! Hope you will enjoy this chapter, as well.

For the fifth time in as many minutes, Cal's eyes popped open in the darkness and he turned to stare at the clock. It simply would not move. At all. Midnight had bleed into two o'clock with ease… which in turn bled to half past three, and still he couldn't sleep a wink. It was maddening.

Scotch usually calmed him; made his limbs relax and his body settle so he could sink into the comfort of his mattress and just… be. Just breathe, in and out, and let sleep creep in naturally. But not this time. This time, everything felt… off.

It was cliché (and a bit pitiful at his age) to have a bedtime routine, and he knew that, but still… he had one. Unsurprisingly, Gillian was at the center – had been for months, really. Since long before he'd ever known what it felt like to hold her, or kiss her, or touch the curves of her body with eager hands, or…

No.

His lips pulled tight with frustration, and Cal groaned. He needed to stop that – to stop picturing her. Right away.

Because that? His overactive, always colorful imagination? It wasn't helping anything at all. Quite the opposite. In fact, "that" was nearly the entire reason he was still awake at quarter of four, imagining all those tiny details that he'd almost been able to feel beneath her clothing, before they'd been interrupted.

Stupid rings. Stupid phone. Stupid conscience.

So there he was; fidgety and restless and tucked beneath layers of unnecessary blankets, when what he really wanted to do was tuck himself into the curve of her spine, drape one arm across her hip, and allow the heady, reassuring scent of her body to lull him into relaxation.

Cliché and pitiful, indeed.

The pitiful part came from timing. Because, really… he felt a bit like an animal. It had been less than eight hours since Gillian sent Alec Foster (that sodding bastard) out the door with his suitcases and his wounded pride, thereby taking the first steps to end their marriage. And there Cal was, imagining all the ways their phone conversation could have gone, so that she would've wound up in his bed, rather than miles away from it. Yes, the words "too soon" were a ridiculous understatement; he knew that.

But…

He also knew that self-control was not his forte. That even though he'd meant every single word about waiting… being a 'good boy,' or, as she called it, a 'gentleman' was not something he did well. And he had little doubt that if she called him again (or texted, or emailed, or sent something in Morse code, for Christ sake), then he'd be likely to answer it very, very enthusiastically.

And preferably naked.

What was he thinking again? Oh, yes. Routine. His pitiful, clichéd, Gillian-centric routine; the one that drew his imagination to her face, and her laugh, and her gentle smile, and her… everything. She was his favorite relaxation method – his mental 'comfort zone' – and had been for much longer than he'd ever allowed himself to readily admit. Not until that night. That night, on Gillian's sofa… after Zoe ripped his heart out and he finally held still long enough to realize that maybe she'd had a point. Hence the alarm bells he'd heard in his brain, when he'd woken up entangled with a woman he'd long insisted was only a 'friend' (Jesus, what an understatement). The ones that rang louder in that restaurant, when Gillian told him about her miscarriage and her asininely selfish husband. The ones that made every instinct in his body turn into a slideshow of exactly how and when he wanted to hurt Alec Foster for even daring to speak to his sweet Gillian in such a cruel way. Yes, he remembered it distinctly. Somehow, she'd been his Gillian even then.

Quarter past four.

Blinking in the darkness, Cal cursed the coffee he'd downed prior to the Scotch. And the chocolate that had served as a midnight snack. That's right: chocolate. Normally, he hated the stuff. But he'd been aimless and alone, wandering the house in search of… something… and suddenly, there it was: her ice cream in his freezer. Maybe it was just his way of staying attached to her or something (yes, he knew that sounded idiotic) but nonetheless, he'd robotically scooped heaps of the stuff into a bowl and flopped down on the sofa with a grunt, hoping to relax. His pitiful, Gillian-centric routine: The Chocolate Version, apparently. And when that didn't work (of course it didn't) he turned to coffee. Just because – and this was the pathetic part, again – it was Gillian's, too.

There he was: a grown man who stocked his kitchen with coffee and ice cream that he bloody hated, just because she loved them, and he loved her. Funny. A full circle path of logic, by way of dessert; no wonder Zoe had always been so irritated when he brought those things home.

So he bought them because he loved her, and he consumed them because he missed her, and because he could not indulge what he really wanted. Which was Gillian herself. Hence, the sleepless night filled with nothing but the thoughts of Gillian's skin, and her scent, and her voice, and her long legs, and… bloody hell. Bloody, sodding hell. Now he'd really done it. As soon as the image of those legs hit Cal's brain, everything south of his waistline began to come alive so quickly that his body literally began to ache.

That's right: ache.

It settled fast and furious – low in his pelvis, with a heat and a force that quickly began to spread like wildfire, thanks to his overworked, under-sexed imagination. And finally, when he was just about to give into temptation and 'handle' the situation himself, he heard it.

His phone.

At half past four in the morning.

Bloody hell, it was actually ringing. Glorious, magnificent ringing. And trust him, if it hadn't been right there on the nightstand, Cal would've quite literally vaulted through the room to find it, while thanking his bloody stars that finally, finally, they might have a chance at their "next time."

After all, who else would be calling him so early? It had to be Gillian. It just had to be.

Right?

In hindsight, he should've expected it. The day that had started with Zoe's tirade, which then led straight away into his first and second interludes with Gillian, which then ended with her asking Alec for a divorce – so to say that things had gone "according to plan" would be an absolute lie. There was no plan. No 'blueprint' way to handle things at all.

At all.

No, pre-dawn phone calls certainly weren't on any plan. Neither were raging hard-ons, or sexual frustration, or wanker-ish soon-to-be-ex-husbands, or any of the thousand other things that could have been waiting on the other end of the line. Cal's hopeful, sleep-deprived brain had just assumed it was Gillian. That she was calling to tell him she caved… and she couldn't wait… and she needed him, right then and there. Hard, fast, sweet, slow – in every possible way – and bloody hell, he planned to deliver.

So he grinned like an idiot, quickly shimmied back into his jeans (a cross-town trek sans pants while sporting an extremely proud erection was likely to earn him unwanted attention from the neighbors), and didn't even think to actually look at his phone before he answered it.

But… just a split second after his breathless, "I'm so happy you called, love," shattered the silence, Cal realized that he'd been very, very wrong. Because the voice he heard on the other end of the line – the irritable, sarcastic, petulant voice – wasn't Gillian at all.

It was Zoe.

Bloody hell, indeed

For the tenth time in as many minutes, Gillian's eyes popped open and she turned to stare at the clock. Midnight had bled into early morning with ease, and there she was: sleep deprived and restless at a quarter past four. It was ridiculous.

Wine usually calmed her; made her mind relax enough to sink into bed and just… be. Just breathe, in and out, until sleep crept in naturally and everything fell blissfully peaceful around her. But not this time. This time, everything felt… off.

It was cliché (and slightly pitiful at her age) to have a bedtime routine, but still… he had one. Predictably, Cal was at the center – had been for months, really. Since long before she'd ever known what it felt like to taste his skin, or explore his mouth with hers, or touch the solid lines of his body with eager hands, or…

No.

As her fists clenched tightly with frustration, Gillian groaned. She needed to stop that – to stop imagining him. Right away. Her overactive imagination wasn't helping anything at all, and was – in fact – nearly the entire reason she was still awake, mentally mapping Cal's body like it was a treasure map. X marks the spot, indeed.

There she was; tucked beneath layers of blankets when what she really wanted to do was feel him nestled against her spine… feel the comforting weight of his arm draped across her hip… and allow his heady, inviting scent to lull her gently into sleep.

Cliché and pitiful, indeed.

Self-control had always been one of her fortes, but it was certainly not one of Cal's. And even though she'd agreed with everything he'd said about waiting… Gillian had little doubt that if she called him again (or texted, or emailed, or sent a telegram, for pity's sake) then he'd be likely to answer it very, very enthusiastically.

Preferably while she was naked.

What was he thinking again? Oh, yes. Routine. The one that drew her thoughts to his face, and his impish grin, and his… everything. He was her mental 'comfort zone,' and the only person who'd ever been able to reach her – the real her – behind the walls she'd built. He'd broken them down, reached in, and guided her out… step by step, inch by inch, until every facet of her imagination screamed in protest that she still needed more.

More of his touch… his mouth… his hands. More of his lips, and his passion, and his…

No.

No, she could not do that. She could not fixate. She could not call him. And she certainly couldn't drive to his house in her nightgown and casually climb the stairs (and his body) to take matters into her own hands – the idea alone was crazy. Fun? Yes. Satisfying? Definitely yes. But still…

She couldn't. It was settled. They'd agreed to wait.

Trust her, Gillian was beginning to hate that word. 'Wait.' It just felt… evil. And cruel. So… rather than linger in her empty bed, frustrated and sweaty and achingly alone, she sat up (cursing under her breath as she moved) and decided to tackle her list head-on. Right then and there, before sunrise. Temporary insanity by way of sexual depravation, apparently.

Did she have a plan?

No. Not even close.

Because quite frankly, none of this had been planned. Divorce… infidelity… drugs. They were all unexpected and painful. But they'd led her to a place filled with more hope than she'd ever felt before, and finally – finally – it felt like she was living her own life again. Like she was the one in charge of steering it toward the path she wanted to walk. And of all the unexpected bumps she'd encountered so far, the best one, without a doubt, had been falling in love with Cal.

Gillian was smiling as she stood in the shower; smiling as she brewed her coffee and buttered her toast. Smiling as she chewed… as she read emails and tried to find a recommendation for an attorney of her own. And she was positively beaming when success came at seven o'clock, by way of an early-morning referral sent in a message from her old friend Brian Cunningham.

"Good for you, Gill," he'd written at the end. "Never liked that husband of yours, anyway. You deserve nothing but the best, and I hope that the man who finally wins your heart will understand exactly how lucky he is."

At quarter past seven, she grabbed her cell phone and typed a quick text to Cal. "Won't be in this morning," she hastily wrote. "Decided to tackle those interruptions one by one. Attorney first, agency second. Will check in soon. Maybe we can meet for lunch. Miss you. -G."

With a little luck and a few productive hours, Gillian hoped to have the largest two items on her 'list' well underway by lunchtime. She'd start the divorce paperwork… change her application status at the adoption agency… and be back at the Group by early afternoon.

At least, that was the plan.

But she was too distracted to notice that even though her message had been sent to Cal's phone, it hadn't been read yet. In fact, it hadn't been read at all, because – and she didn't notice this, either – his phone was turned off. That's right: off, at seven o'clock on a weekday morning. Less than an hour before she would've normally seen him at the office. Less than eight hours after they'd last spoken and left things rather… steamy… between them. No, her attention was fully focused on the stack of personal files under her arm and the giant coffee mug that was tucked into the crook of her left elbow.

Coffee first, attorney second, agency third. In that order.

And bless her distracted, list-tackling heart, Gillian most certainly had no way of knowing that step number three – the agency - would be the game changer. The big one. The one that would take all of her best efforts to 'steer her own life' and flip them on their ear.

To be continued...