Mr. Wrong Number(26)
But just as I was considering it, Harper responded.
Harper: I’ll meet you at M’s. My uncle is the bartender, so I’ll call and get us a table. Seven o’clock work?
Wow. Maybe not so high maintenance at all.
Me: Seven is perfect. See you then.
Olivia
In spite of my shaking hands, I finished an article about the upcoming opening of a new bistro in the Capitol District and I started drafting another 402 column. I hated how shaken up that creep had made me. Hated it. I considered myself a relatively strong person, but as soon as I’d noticed him following me, I’d been terrified.
Thank God for pepper spray.
Men would never understand the utter bullshit unfairness of the fact that they’re just built stronger. Small men, tall men, lazy men, soft men; the reality was that most of them—if they wanted to—could overpower me. They’d never know what it was like to not be able to walk alone without being on watch, and knowing that always pissed me off.
Pricks, the lot of them.
I’d been counting on Mr. Wrong Number to read my story, jump in, and make me feel better, but he was still AWOL. Which was starting to make me more stressed than I cared to admit. Because the issue was twofold; first, why was he AWOL—had I done something? And second, why did the thought of him ghosting totally devastate me? I didn’t even know him, for the love of God, so how could his silence cause me such indigestion?
But the writing today—oh, how amazing the writing felt.
I experienced what could only be called a buzz whenever I was creating a new piece. Whether it was an article on diapers (done that) or a words-of-my-heart short story, I was alive and thrumming and filled with an indescribable electric verve as I worked to put it all together. I assumed when I was creating that my brain pumped out the same juices as a runner’s high, and it made me a word junkie who pressed the feeder bar with the voracious appetite of a freshly trained lab rat.
I spent the entire day lost in that blissful escape, not stopping except to eat a bagel at lunchtime and to get very necessary coffee refills. I quit just in time to squeak into my late-day appointment at the plasma donation center, so I was able to walk home $400 richer, which made me feel better about everything. Will and Dana would be dropping off the boys at seven so they could have their anniversary dinner, so as long as both my roommates had Saturday night plans, I could have some auntie-nephew bonding time with those kid haters being none the wiser.
But because of my luck, Colin was home. He walked out of his room the moment I came in, and gave me a nice smile—a genuinely kind smile—and said, “Marshall. How was the writing today?”
I didn’t really know how to respond to his question, and then there was also the issue of his looks. He was clearly getting ready to go out, and he looked crazy hot. Sexy. Like a billionaire playboy who was about to wine and dine a supermodel.
“Great, actually.” I took a sip of the blended coffee I’d brought home and said, “I got a lot accomplished.”
He looked like he was waiting for more, for something bigger. His eyes flicked to my drink as he started tying his tie, and he said, “Do you have any idea how much sugar is in one of those?”
“I do. I also know that I will never have abs like yours if I keep drinking these, so you can spare me the lecture.”
He gave me one of those half smiles he doled out on the regular and said, “I knew you’d noticed my abs.”
“For the love of God, Colin, I imagine they can see those things from space.” I shook the cup to loosen the bits frozen together in the bottom. “Not noticing them would be like not noticing trees are green.”
“Thank you.”
“No, no, don’t get a big head because I was just stating a fact. I don’t actually like them, if I’m being honest. Abs like yours aren’t really my thing.”
He gave a little chin nod, but his arrogant grin told me he didn’t believe me. “Noted.”
I dropped my bag on the floor and leaned my elbows on the counter. “I actually think they’re a little gross, but everyone else seems to dig them, so what do I know?”
“Gross?”
“I mean, no offense. They’re just really . . . um . . . overdeveloped, I guess you could say.”
He frowned at his tie. “You’re calling my abs gross.”
“I mean, not gross gross—it’s just me.” I smiled and loved the fact that I was irritating him so much. “I’m sure those things bring all the girls to the yard.”
“They do.”
“I know, sweetie.” I pouted and clucked my tongue at him, and he flipped me off. “Combine them with all of your rich-boy accoutrements, and I bet you’re positively buried in females.”
Both of his eyebrows went down. “Not that I want to have this conversation with Jack’s little sister, who is clearly trying to piss me off, but even without the rich-boy accoutrements—what the fuck even is that—I do just fine.”
“What kind of car do you drive, Beck?”
“Don’t do that.”
“Tesla? Benz? Beemer?”
“Nope.”
“Audi?”
His jaw clenched.
“I knew it!” I grinned at him, all lit up inside from the knowledge that I’d been able to get the best of him for once. “That car is a major rich-boy accoutrement, and you know it.”