Mr. Wrong Number(20)

I pulled a lighter from my pocket and lit the candles I’d placed at the center of the table. The whole tableau looked gorgeous, from the pretty white plates to the flickering pillars to the ivory cloth napkins, but it was the dusky lowlights of the city just outside those ginormous windows that made the scene stunning.

When I turned back around, they were both staring at me in shock. Specifically, they were staring at the lighter in my hand, two frozen dudes who appeared to be holding their collective breaths.

“Oh, my God, would you two relax? My one fire was more than enough.”



* * *



? ? ?

“TO ME, AND to my fantastical new job.”

“Holy balls, Liv, you’ve toasted yourself like ten times.” Jack leaned back in his chair and said, “Why don’t you save a little for when the job actually starts?”

I didn’t care what Jack thought, because Colin was giving me a smirk and I was tipsy-happy at that moment. I said, “First of all, my debut article is in the process of being edited, so technically I’ve already started. Second, I’ve got to take celebration where I can get it, bro.”

“Yeah, good point.” Jack raised his glass, as did Colin, and we clinked yet again.

I let the wine warm the back of my throat and I said, “Let me ask you something, Beck.”

“Oh, so we’re doing the last-name thing. Okay.”

I rolled my eyes and giggled. I was a giggler when I drank. “Were you shocked that I got a job so fast?”

“What?”

“You’re just so . . . um . . . I’m-perfect-at-everything-and-you’re-a-screwup Colin Beck that I’m guessing you were terrified I’d be living here for a year or longer.”

He swallowed—damn, he had a sexy throat—and said, “I never doubted that you’d be gone in a month.”

Jack snorted. “You didn’t? Man, you had way more confidence in her than I did.”

Colin’s mouth twitched and he stared into his glass. It seemed like he wasn’t going to answer, but then he said, “It had nothing to do with Olivia. We had a thirty-day agreement, and as such, the agreed-upon exit date was thirty days from her arrival.”

I could tell by his face that Colin wasn’t talking about me. This was business Colin, the guy who wore thousand-dollar suits and had no patience for breach of contract.

Jack started laughing. “You would’ve kicked her out?”

I said, “I would’ve shanked you both before I stayed longer than a month, so it doesn’t matter.”

They laughed, and I was glad I’d cooked them dinner. Colin had visibly loosened up when I told him I’d be moving out soon, and it was the first time I’d really hung out with Jack since moving back.

It’d been—dare I say it—a fun evening.

My phone buzzed and I glanced down at it.


Sara: So did you get the job?



“A good hostess never texts at the table,” my brother teased.

“Your phone vibrates so loudly.” Colin pointed and said, “You might as well turn the sound on, the way it buzzes. Is it broken?”

“That’s why mine is always on silent,” Jack said.

Colin said, “Same.”

“No, it’s not broken.” At least I didn’t think it was. I responded to Sara, and every time she sent a text back, Jack and Colin made fun of it. They soon lost interest and started talking about sports, so I tuned them out.

Gulping down the last bit of wine in my glass, I picked up my phone and texted: What’s up, Wrong Number?

As if knowing I’d just mentally disengaged, the timer on the smart TV kicked on for the Cubs game, so the boys drifted into the living room. I set my napkin on my plate as my phone buzzed.


Mr. Wrong Number: Just finished eating.

Me: Exciting night?



I glanced over at Jack and Colin, who were already sitting and staring at their phones in front of the TV.


Mr. Wrong Number: Not at all, which is why I’m happy you’re texting.

Me: I’m not exciting.

Mr. Wrong Number: I believe we ended last night with you telling me that you prefer a good up-against-the-wall bang. Call me crazy, but that’s hella exciting.



I snorted a giggle and glanced up. Jack and Colin were both looking at me, Colin with an eyebrow raised, and I couldn’t help it; I beamed and giggled again. I thought about trying to explain it away, but instead just waved a hand.


Me: Wow—right back at it, are we?

Mr. Wrong Number: I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t spent a fair amount of time today thinking about your response.

Me: And therein lies the joy of anonymity—I don’t have to be embarrassed.

Mr. Wrong Number: Hell, no, you don’t. Own that shit.

Me: Wouldn’t it be great if you could be straight-up honest about these things with an actual partner? I mean, some people say they are, or claim that it’s healthy to speak 100% truth, but that’s total bullshit. Because if you care about someone, you’re not going to look them in the face when they’re gently kissing you and say “can you knock it off and just bend me over the counter, babe?”

Mr. Wrong Number: Not a fan of kissing?



I thought about that before responding. I liked kissing, but I liked hot, wild, I-might-accidentally-draw-blood kissing. Gentle kisses made you love-drunk. They made you think and feel and get lulled into believing you were in love, that both of you were, when in reality it was just two mouths mating with each other.