Mr. Wrong Number(24)

“Yeah.” I tilted my head and made my own intentionally assholish face. “That’d be great.”

“What happened to your knees?” His eyes were still on my face, but apparently he’d already noticed the matching strawberries on both legs.

“I was helping an old lady cross the street.”

“Liar.” His eyebrows went down. “How would that cut open your knees?”

“Um,” I started, not even sure why I was lying about this, “I had to save her and it required a diving maneuver.”

“Really.” He looked like he knew I was making up stories, but he also looked like he should be on a Nike poster with the words Just Do It painted across his sweaty body.

“Yes, really.” I narrowed my eyes. “You wouldn’t know because you’d never risk your fancy clothes by helping an old lady.”

“You don’t know that.”

I just shrugged.

“So . . . you’re not going to tell me what happened, then?” He seemed like he really wanted to know.

So I said, “I don’t think I will, actually.”

I turned away from him, gripping the front of my towel as I walked to my room, and right as I reached the door he said, “Tell me what it says, Marshall.”

I glanced over my shoulder and he still looked serious, but one side of his mouth had hitched up into a half smile as he pointed at the tattoo on my back. I shook my head and said, “Not a chance, Beck.”

I shut the door and scrambled into clothes, and a few minutes later I heard him turn on the shower. I wasn’t sure what’d happened between us in those few crackling moments, but it’d clearly irritated him and had most likely been a product of my imagination.

After all, I had been spending way too much time fantasizing about my anonymous pal. My flirtations with Mr. Wrong Number had most likely boosted my libido to an unhealthy level, resulting in me feeling electricity where there surely was none.

It was Colin, after all; you couldn’t have electricity without warmth, right?

And on a random side note: Where the hell had Mr. Wrong Number gone?





Colin


    Miss Misdial: Dude, where’d you go? I’d be offended if I wasn’t 100% confident that I’m too entertaining for you to ghost.



Dammit.

I dropped the phone on the table, leaned back in the uncomfortable kitchen chair, and stacked my hands on top of my head. Now that I’d had some time to think about it, I was a little surprised I’d never noticed the similarities between Misdial and Olivia before. Every word that “Misdial” had texted—the language and attitude—sounded exactly like Olivia, though Misdial had sent a lot of unexpected content.

I’d lain in bed for hours the night before, scrolling through Misdial’s texts and picturing Olivia saying all of those things. I’d felt confused, mashing the two together, and I’d ultimately decided to delete the entire conversation and forget it ever happened. Olivia Marshall was Jack’s little sister, and the rest was irrelevant.

Which was fine theoretically, but after seeing her wear my towel like a little black dress, I found myself distracted by whatever the hell she was doing in the office. When the blow-dryer turned on, I was preoccupied with the idea of what she was wearing. Still the towel? And after it shut off, as hard as I tried, I couldn’t focus on anything other than the question of what the hell is she doing in there.

Because she banged, she thumped, and she made sounds as if she were literally climbing the walls of my office, all while I tried to do my work at the kitchen table.

As if she heard my thoughts, the office door opened and there she was. Today she was wearing a white sundress with a pair of Chuck Taylors, which was a ridiculous combination but so incredibly Olivia that it looked good on her. The dress hit her in all the good spots, and she did the bun-in-hair, glasses-on-nose combo that I pretty much always appreciated.

Yeah, I definitely had perverted librarian issues.

“I’m going to go work at the coffee shop in the Old Market, so you can have your office for the day.” She hitched a bag over her shoulder and gave me that look. “Just don’t mess it up.”

“I’ll do my best, oh generous one.” I tried to keep my eyes on the Excel spreadsheet in front of me, but I couldn’t stop myself from looking at her as she walked by on her way to the door. I’d always known she was attractive, but all of a sudden it was as if the universe was shoving her in my face. Great legs, perfect ass, eyes that squinted when she smiled, and the most adorable tattoo of a tiny typewriter on the back of her neck where it would usually be covered by her hair.

And that perfume. It was one of those scents that punched you in the gut and filled your head with dirty thoughts.

“I can’t find my key, so if you go somewhere, will you leave the door unlocked?” She opened the fridge and looked inside, making her skirt rise by an eighth of an inch. Shit—what the hell is wrong with me? I watched her grab one of my organic apples as she said, “I’m sure it’s hiding in my purse.”

“Um, no, I will definitely not be leaving my house unlocked.” Such an Olivia thing to say. “Maybe you should stick around until you find the key.”

She rolled her eyes. “No, I don’t want to do that. I’m going to go.”