Mr. Wrong Number(6)
Jack: At the Old Market. Why?
Yes! Alone time.
Me: Just curious. Have fun.
I went down to my car, grabbed the trash bag full of high school clothes, and headed upstairs. I’d been so emotionally shredded the night before that I hadn’t had a chance to get comfortable and explore the place. I hummed as I rode the elevator, feeling a little more like a functional, thriving adult than a cheated-on loser for the first time since Eli thanked me for introducing him to his soul mate.
When I got inside, I dropped my keys on the table by the door and dragged my garbage bag into the office. I dumped everything out onto the floor in the corner, digging through the pile until I found what I was looking for: the soft green plaid flannel pants I’d slept in every night in high school and my paint-stained CAT hoodie.
It didn’t matter that it was June. The apartment was freezing, so the outfit was like wearing a blanket. I burrowed into its softness, slid my feet into a pair of mismatched socks, and threw my hair up in a ponytail. Two quick flicks in my phone’s Bluetooth settings, and I was headed for the kitchen.
“Alexa, play Hit It Mix.”
“Sex Talk” started and I cranked the volume, bouncing a little across that swanky apartment. I’d made the playlist as a joke for Eli, filling it with nasty songs I knew he’d find offensive, but apparently I was tougher to offend because I fell in love with the potpourri of upbeat, über-sexual songs instead.
And now that he was the biggest bastard in the world, the playlist was my theme music.
I did a few pirouettes on the sleek kitchen floor, getting maximum spin in my socks, before wandering over to the windows that overlooked the city. I was obsessed with that part of the apartment. I could stand there—in front of those huge floor-to-ceiling windows—and watch the world for hours.
“Want a beer?”
“God.” I turned around, my hand on my heart, and Colin was standing in the doorway of his bedroom, one side of his mouth slid up in a smirk. He was wearing a black shirt and a pair of jeans, his hair still perfect in its Ivy League style. “I didn’t know anyone else was home.”
He pointed toward the speaker above him in the ceiling. “I kind of assumed.”
“I thought you were with my brother.” I felt my cheeks get hot as Megan Thee Stallion started singing exactly how her man liked it. Super loudly.
I nearly screamed, “Alexa, turn off music!”
Colin’s eyes were smiling and he crossed his arms. “So, beer . . . ?”
Unaccustomed to his congeniality, I asked, “Are you offering, or just taking a poll?”
“Offering.” He made a face like he knew he deserved that and said, “We’ve got a beer fridge in the laundry room.”
“Um.” I tucked my hair behind my ears and said, “Yeah. Thanks.”
He walked over to the door next to the bathroom, and when he went inside, I adjusted my hoodie so my bralessness was less apparent. I assumed he’d bring out a beer, but instead he yelled, “You should probably pick your poison. Your brother likes a lot of weird shit.”
“Oh.” I walked over to the tiny laundry room, where he was leaning down into the fridge and presenting me with—wow—just the finest ass. I mean, his posterior looked as if he was forever doing squats and lunges; perhaps that was his sole method of mobility. Maybe Colin lunged everywhere he went.
He glanced over his shoulder. “See anything you like?”
Good God. I cleared my throat, pointed, and managed, “Is that a Vanilla Bean Blonde over by the Mich Ultra?”
“Yep.” He straightened, gave me the blonde, and grabbed a Boulevard for himself. I exited the laundry room with him following behind me, and I wandered toward the kitchen, where I knew the bottle opener lived. “Thanks for the beer.”
“Sure.” He went around to the other side of the breakfast bar, opened a drawer, and pulled out the opener. Colin held it out to me and said, “By the way, I owe you an apology.”
That captured my attention. I grabbed the opener and asked, “For what?”
His eyes were serious when he said, “For what I said about the fire this morning. I was an asshole about it, and it’s really none of my business.”
I popped the top and lifted the bottle toward my mouth. “And . . . ?”
A flash of irritation crossed his face before he said, “What does ‘and’ mean? You don’t accept my apology?”
“I just don’t get it.” I noticed his hands were nice—Stop it, Liv—as he opened his beer. I watched his throat move around a swallow, and I said, “You’re actually apologizing to me?”
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
“Well, yeah, but you’ve always been a jerk to me and you’ve never apologized.” I finally took a sip of my beer then, looking at his slightly confused expression over the bottle.
He sounded outraged as he said, “I’ve apologized.”
“Nope.”
“Well, if I haven’t, it’s because it’s always been in good fun.” His eyes moved over my face, like he was trying to reconcile the whole of our lives together. “We’ve always messed with each other. That’s kind of our thing, right?”
Did he actually think that? That his Liv-is-a-moron attitude was just our friendly wordplay? For some reason that irritated me, the fact that he didn’t even know that I didn’t like him; I mean, shouldn’t he know?