Mr. Wrong Number

My alarm went off, and everything inside me wanted to ignore it and sleep in.

But I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t risk jeopardizing all of the big-girl, adult things that were finally happening in my life by going back to my undisciplined ways. I had to keep the New Olivia thing going.

Besides, I could always nap on Colin’s bed after he went to work.

I put on cutoff sweat shorts and a Just Do It T-shirt with a swoosh that had worn completely away, brushed my teeth, and pulled my hair back in a ponytail. Five minutes later I was riding the elevator down to the lobby, adjusting my earbuds while clicking on my favorite running playlist.

And then I was off.

The morning sun was just starting to come up and the city streets were quiet; it was a perfect morning to run. And the running itself actually felt good for once. I was killing the game, jogging four whole blocks without stopping, when I nearly ran over a dude who was tying his shoe. I came around the corner like a shot, really feeling my stride, when all of a sudden—boom—there he was in the middle of the sidewalk. I tried to sidestep with a graceful, deer-like leap, but ended up tripping over my own feet, sprawling out over the sidewalk, and landing on my knees.

Hard.

“Shiiiiit,” I hissed through my teeth.

I looked down at my knees and they were both skinned and starting to bleed like I was a fallen kindergartener at recess. And they hurt so screamingly bad that I wanted to bawl. I rolled over so I was sitting up, and tried not to moan.

“Oh, my God—are you okay?”

I looked up and blinked fast as a handsome face and a backward hat looked down at me. I muttered to myself, “Seriously? Are you freaking kidding me?”

Apparently he heard me, because he smiled. “It’s no big deal; people fall all the time.”

How wonderful to fall like a clumsy oaf in front of a guy who looked cute and nice. I climbed to my feet, jumping up and smiling like my kneecaps didn’t feel broken and my palms weren’t scraped. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding.” He had on sunglasses, but I knew he was looking down at my knees, one of which had a stream of blood running from it.

“Nah.” I waved a hand in the air and made a ridiculously perky face. “I bleed easily. Like all the time. It’s seriously no big deal. Um, have a good day, I guess.”

I turned away from him and just started running, throwing my hand up in a wave as I did my best to disappear from his sight. I sprinted down the block, desperate to put as much space between him and me as possible, but after about twenty seconds he caught up to me.

Dammit, he started running alongside me.

I didn’t even look at him. “What are you doing?”

“Running.” There was a smile in his voice as he said, “Do you always run this fast?”

Keeping with the whole compulsive-liar thing, I said, “Yep. It’s okay if you can’t keep up.”

“Oh, I can keep up.” I did glance at him then, and he was grinning when he said, “Last one to Starbucks buys?”

I didn’t have any money on me, but I wanted a coffee more than I wanted to breathe. I could see Starbucks, so I decided to go for it and said, “You’re on.”

I took off, running as fast as my legs would carry me. Thank God there were no people around at that early hour, because I was hard-charging down the sidewalk. I could hear the guy’s footsteps beside me, so I knew he was keeping up, but I couldn’t afford to look over at him or I’d fall down again.

I flew down the block, and when we finally got to Starbucks, I slammed my hands into the door like I was safe on base in a neighborhood game of hide-and-seek. “First!”

I touched the door only a millisecond before the dude, but winning tasted good. He smiled like he didn’t mind losing and said, “A deal’s a deal. Guess I’m buying you a coffee.”

I smiled back at him, panting and feeling like my lungs might explode. “I guess you are.”

We went inside together and ordered, both of us breathing heavy, and he went to the restroom while I waited for our drinks. I slyly watched him walk away, and the view was pretty good. Nice stride—confident steps, prominent calf muscles, rounded derriere; so far, so good.

Side note: This was the weirdest way to meet a guy. I mean, we hadn’t even exchanged names yet officially—even though I heard him tell the barista that his name was Paul—but we were together at a coffee shop. I pulled out my phone and texted Mr. Wrong Number, who must’ve crashed hard the night before because he’d gone radio silent on me after dinner.

Me: Get this. I went for a jog, tripped over a dude tying his shoe and I ate it, complete with bloody knees. But now hot runner dude and I are getting coffee together, which begs the question. Soul mate or serial killer?

“Here.” He came back with a wet, soapy paper towel in his hand that he extended to me and said, “Clean up your knees before they get infected.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Really with that, Mom?”

He smiled again and got bonus points for good teeth, grabbed both of our drinks, and gestured with his head for me to follow him to the outdoor seating area. “Really.”

He had my coffee so of course I followed him, exiting the cool air-conditioning and grabbing a table out in the hot, humid summer morning. I wasn’t sure I cared for his bossiness, but I was definitely going to drink his coffee while I pondered that decision.

He picked a spot, and as soon as I plopped down in a chair, I kicked my right leg up onto the empty seat beside me and started wiping my knee.

“I’m Paul, by the way.” He gave me a nice smile, and I noticed that a fairly thick gold chain rested somewhere under his T-shirt.

“I heard.” I returned the grin and pointed to myself. “Olivia.”

“I heard,” he said, his smile growing a little bigger.

I cleared my throat and said, “By the way, did I apologize for almost trampling you?”

He gave his head a slow shake. “You did not.”

“Well, I’m sorry. Although the coffee is delish, so perhaps it all worked out just right.”

He smiled at that, a nice big grin, and said, “You might just be spot-on about that.”

•   •   •

I WAS NO less taken with Colin and Jack’s showerhead that day than I’d been the very first night I arrived. It was glorious, like hot summer rain, and it made me never want to get out. So much so, in fact, that I tended to take luxuriously long showers and completely lose track of time.

That morning was no exception.

I’d run home—nearly collapsing from oxygen deprivation, of course—and the apartment was quiet when I went in. Either the boys were both still asleep or they’d both already left the house, but neither mattered because that delightful shower was available.

As I washed my hair and carefully shaved around the enormous wounds on my knees, I felt pretty good about the whole run-in with Paul. I mean, the dude turned out to be a total nonstarter. I was meeting him for brunch tomorrow, but only because I’d agreed to it before learning that, one, he’d never heard of Ruth Bader Ginsburg, and two, he and his buddies loved the wings at Hooters.

Combine those factors with his ridiculous necklace, and it was like the trifecta of meninist bullshit.

But it still felt like a win. I’d managed to charm a handsome guy after eating pavement in front of him, and I must’ve been marginally interesting that morning because he’d asked me to brunch.

I still had some kind of mojo, right?

After I got out and wrapped myself in a towel, I opened the bathroom door and nearly ran over Colin.

“Ohmigod!” I put my hand over my wet, towel-wrapped chest and looked up at him. Man, he was tall. “How do you keep scaring me?”

And how do I keep running over boys?

He grabbed my upper arms to stop me from tackling him, but his tense jaw and burning blue eyes made my body hyperaware of exactly where each of his fingers were on my skin. I’d barely dried off, so there was water all over my arms and my hair was dripping, but I managed to feel hot in spite of the goose bumps that covered me from head to toe.

Because Colin’s tanned, sweaty, über-defined naked chest was also right there. And just below those beautiful pecs were the sinful abs that could only be described as perfection. I knew I needed to force my eyes back up to his face, but it was hard because there we were, inches apart, both slick and baring a lot of skin.

“My apologies for interrupting you at my house.” He let go of my arms and I saw him flex his fingers before his hands dropped to his sides. Seriously? He was flexing his hand like he was Mr. Darcy at freaking Netherfield? He gave me a dickish smile and said, “How dare I?”

I clutched at my towel and matched his dickish tone. “You know what I mean. That’s twice that I didn’t even know you were here.”

He made an intentionally assholish confused face. “But you . . . know I live here, so . . . ? Next time should I schedule my day with you, just so you know where I am?”

“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.”

“Well, okay, then; hope you don’t get locked out.”

She let out a breath. “You seriously won’t leave it open for me?”

“No, I seriously won’t leave my house unlocked when no one is home.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Beck, can’t you—”

“Liv.” I held up a hand to get her to stop talking. “I doubt I’m going anywhere, so I’m sure you’ll be fine, okay? Just go.”

She took a bite of the apple, chewing and looking at me as if she expected me to say more. When I didn’t, she just said, “ ’kay, bye,” turned around, and walked right out the door.

Shit.

I had to pull myself together; it wasn’t natural for Olivia to get the best of me. The only thing I’d ever had a handle on, when it came to her, was that I had the upper hand. She was a mess; I was in control. She did stupid things, and I mocked her for them. There was no room for this sudden Misdial entanglement to redraw the lines of our acquaintance and have her on top. No way.

Although now that I was thinking about it, she’d once told me that she liked being on top.

Thoughts like that were going to kill me.

I tried working in the office, but it was different now. Even though she’d cleaned up (by dragging all of her stuff into the closet and closing the door as far as it would go), the room no longer felt like my workspace. It felt like the room where Olivia slept. It smelled like her perfume, and God help me, a lacy black bra was hanging on the back of the doorknob.

Once I finally refocused and started actually being productive, my phone buzzed.

Miss Misdial: Okay, clearly you are dead or in a coma. I should probably respect that, especially if your mother is holding your phone and wondering wtf this is all about, but I’m selfish. I need a texting buddy, and I’m going to just continue texting into this void regardless of whether you ever respond.

“Holy hell.” I sat back in the chair and stared at the phone; so much for productivity.

Miss Misdial: I’m at a coffee shop, and Mr. Earbuds next to me keeps singing along to that old Marvin Gaye song “Sexual Healing.” It’s on repeat, apparently, because we’re on the fifth go-round, and I’m not sure how to proceed.

I wanted to respond, So heal him already, so badly.

Miss Misdial: I feel like you’d say something ridiculous right now, like “dude, why haven’t you healed him yet,” but that’s a negatory; he’s giving off strong I-will-scream-at-you vibes. I think I shall get out my pepper spray and fiddle with it while I work, just so he knows I’ve got it.

Holy shit, if Olivia played with her pepper spray, she’d blind herself in minutes.

Miss Misdial: On second thought, we both know I cannot be trusted with the care and handling of pepper spray. I shall move along to another coffee shop, where men who mutter “get up—let’s make love tonight” are not afoot. I bid you adieu, Mr. Wrong Number. Oh, and you too, Mother of Wrong Number, should you be canoodling with his phone while he remains comatose. Ciao.

I got up and walked over to the windows, my favorite part of the apartment, and stared down at the city. I needed to get my head right. If I couldn’t get my brain to dump Misdial in a heartbeat, perhaps I could get Harper to help my brain.

I scrolled to her contact information and sent her a text.

Me: Remember that time we said it might be fun to go to dinner?

I didn’t expect her to respond quickly, but my phone buzzed almost immediately.

Harper: You’re seriously asking me out six months later? I’m pretty sure that was New Year’s Eve, Colin.

Me: Maybe it took me this long to get the nerve to ask.

Harper: Or maybe it took you this long to remember my name.

It was almost funny how spot-on she was. I’d meant to text her the night I’d accidentally texted Misdial—fuck, Olivia—and I actually hadn’t been able to remember if Harper was her first or last name. We’d met at Billy’s Bar on New Year’s Eve, and she was a knockout but registered as really high maintenance, which was why it’d taken so long for me to consider reaching out.

Desperate times and all that. I texted: Let me take you to M’s tonight, HARPER O’RILEY (see?), and I guarantee you’ll have a good time.

The phone buzzed.

Miss Misdial: Update. Sexual Healing followed me for three blocks, and when I whipped around and confronted him with my pepper spray, he told me I wasn’t that pretty and I should blow myself with my pepper spray.

Holy hell.

Miss Misdial: So now I’m obsessed with his meaning; what could he have possibly meant by that? A. He thinks I have a penis and should fellate myself while somehow utilizing the pepper spray in the self-inflicted oral sex act. B. He forgot the word “up” and wants me to explode. C. He got the word “blow” confused with “bang” and is suggesting I insert a canister of pepper spray into my vagina.

I started laughing; I couldn’t help it. Seriously, how could I not? She was beyond ridiculous. It took everything in my power not to add D. He was using the word “blow” in place of the word “spray,” and simply wanted you to blind yourself.

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.”

“Sounds like someone is jealous.”

“Big-time.” I lifted my drink and said, “So what are you doing tonight? Board meeting? Philanthropic kegger? Political fundraiser?”

“I’m having dinner with a friend, not that it’s any of your business.”

“A friend,” I asked, my eyes glued to his throat as he worked the knot of his tie up to the collar, “or an I’d-like-to-hit-this friend?”

He coughed out a small laugh and shook his head. “Yet to be determined. She’s an I-think-she’s-attractive-but-who-knows-if-she’s-batshit-crazy kind of friend.”

“Oof.” I crossed my arms and noticed the wall clock behind him. I was down to five minutes before Will showed up with the boys. “Well, you better get going so you’re not late.”

“I’ve got plenty of ti—”

“No, you don’t, because you need to buy her a bouquet of flowers on the way.” I grabbed his keys from the hook on the wall and held them out. “Get going.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Why? What are you doing?”

I gave him an exaggerated eye roll. “Oh, my God, nothing, you paranoid freak. You need to get to dinner, and I’m looking forward to having a little peace and quiet. Sue me for trying to make it all happen.”

His eyes moved over my face, hot blue and commanding of my attention, before he relented. “I’m going to go now, but only because I feel like you really need some time alone. Enjoy the quiet, okay?”

And just like that, he left. Whew. That was close.

Will showed up three minutes later and dropped off the boys.

Which was exactly what I needed. We played with trains for a little bit, and then we lay on the floor and watched Paw Patrol.

I texted Mr. Wrong Number small bursts of conversation with the goal of lighting up his phone enough to finally get him to respond, but also didn’t really expect a response at this point, which I hated to admit I was disappointed about.

Me: I’m assuming you’re dead now, Wrong Number, but I’m going to need some confirmation.

Me: Paw Patrol is making me wish I was dead.

Me: What kind of a town relies on a teenage boy and his animals to save them?

Me: Rubble is my favorite Paw Patrol dog, FYI.

I literally gasped when my phone buzzed and I could see that it was from him. I think a tiny part of me actually expected a text from his mother informing me of his coma. I clicked on the message and held my breath.

Mr. Wrong Number: Sorry, can’t talk. On a date.

On a different day, I probably would’ve let him off the hook. Virtually any other time would’ve ensured my dutiful obedience. But after the pepper spray run-in with the creeper, I was done with men and their shenanigans.

He was going to engage in some conversation, dammit.

Me: On a scale of 1-10, is she a brilliant conversationalist?

He didn’t respond until twenty minutes later.

Mr. Wrong Number: I only have a sec because she had to go fix her contact in the bathroom. The answer to your question is that she’s a very aggressive conversationalist, if that makes sense.

Me: It does.

Me: How well do you know Miss Date?

Mr. Wrong Number: Talked to her for 10 mins at a drunk party.

Me: Well. You could always give her the Ultimate Dating Filter Screen. Cut your losses if she fails.

Mr. Wrong Number: Please explain.

Me: Okay. For example. I like to suggest doing something really bonkers that would require my date’s effort. Like, “We should drive to the airport, park just outside the end of the runway, and watch the planes from the hood of the car.”

Mr. Wrong Number: How the hell would that help me right now?

Me: Because in my opinion, there are two types of people. Those who are so happy to be spending time with you that they’re down for anything, and those who are not. If she says she can’t because of her hair or her shoes or because she has to be up early in the morning, she isn’t a girl who will ever just roll with it.

Mr. Wrong Number: That makes a weird kind of sense.

Me: Do it. I dare you.

Mr. Wrong Number: I’ll be back.

I set down the phone and watched about thirty seconds of Paw Patrol before the boys wanted me to turn on Frozen II and get them snacks. I popped some of the popcorn Dana had stuck in their diaper bag, and then the three of us shared it on Colin’s fancy leather couch.

Thank God he wasn’t home to see that.

Colin

“I can’t believe our buildings are so close!”

I couldn’t, either. I just couldn’t believe it. I said, “Small world, right?”

“Ohmigod, we could totally walk to work together when it’s nice out.”

“I don’t think you’d like my hours.” We stopped in front of my door and I got out my key. “But who knows?”

I had no idea why I was bringing her home. I’d never really been the kind of guy to bring a girl home on the first date, definitely not since college, so it was a mystery why I was introducing Harper to my residence at this point. In the back of my brain alarm bells were going off, drawing arrows to the fact that Olivia was going to be in the condo, but my brain had been misfiring a lot lately, so what the hell did it know?

I unlocked the door, pushed it open, and immediately saw Olivia standing on the couch.

“Into the unkownnnnnnn!” She was scream-singing along to the animated movie on the TV while her two nephews ran around the living room, shrieking out the lyrics, as well. “Into the unknowwwwwnnnnn!”

The little one saw us and stopped running. Olivia, however, kept bouncing on top of my couch in her stupid Cookie Monster pajama top and green plaid flannel pants.

“Shit.” I hadn’t meant to mutter it out loud, but the damned top brought to mind Olivia’s ass in her Eat the Rich underwear.

“Who is this?” Harper asked, smiling down at the kid.

“My unwanted houseguest’s nephew.”

Olivia heard that. Her head whipped around and she dropped to a sit before scrambling to her feet. I shut the front door and she gave us an embarrassed smile. “Um . . . don’t you just love Frozen?”

Colin said, “More than life itself.”

She pushed her wild hair out of her face. “I thought you were out for the night.”

Harper, ignoring our exchange, walked into the living room and went straight for Olivia. “I love it. I used to listen to the soundtrack in my car all the time.”

“Shut up—me too!” Olivia gave my date a full-on grin before saying, “I’m Olivia, by the way. Colin’s unwanted houseguest.”

Harper gave me a bitchy glare before saying to Liv, “I don’t know, I think you seem like a delightful houseguest.”

I dropped my keys onto the counter and couldn’t believe it. Uptight, judgy Harper was smiling and chatting away with Olivia as if they were best friends. Shouldn’t she be jealous or have questions or just be generally irritated by Olivia’s presence?

“Anyone want a drink?” I asked as I walked over to the liquor cabinet, not really interested in their answers. I was done.

“I’d love a vodka cranberry,” Harper said, barely pausing her conversation with Olivia.

“Ooh, can I have a little bit of the smiley mustachioed-man tequila?” Olivia didn’t even look over but said to Harper, “I had it my first night here and it is surprisingly smooth.”

“Really?” Harper turned back to me and said, “Can I change my order?”

As they performed a damned infomercial script about the smooth tequila, my ears started roaring. Because—holy shit—was Olivia talking about—

“Are you talking about the Rey Sol?”

She looked over, clearly irritated that I’d interrupted. “I don’t remember what it was called.”

I reached for the bottle and sure enough, it was half-gone.

I turned around and said to her, “You opened a sealed bottle of someone else’s liquor?”

She blinked. “So?”

“So who does that?”

Her eyebrows went down and she looked defensive. She put her hands on her hips and said, “I didn’t think it was a big deal, I can just get you another one.”

“You’re going to replace my four-hundred-dollar tequila?”

Her mouth dropped open in shock. I thought she was going to apologize, but instead she said, “Oh, my God, who is stupid enough to spend four hundred dollars on a bottle of booze?”

I felt my neck getting warm. “Regardless of the price, you should—”

“And that bottle is so cheesy. Who would think it’s a good idea to put a face on a bottle of expensive tequila?” She looked at Harper before pointing at the bottle and telling her, “It’s the opposite of luxury. A bottle of Mad Dog has more elegance. I mean, seriously.”

I took a deep breath, pinched the bridge of my nose, and said, “Let me get this straight. You drank half a bottle of tequila by yourself on your first night here?”

“Oh.” She dropped her arms to her sides and did something with her mouth, like she was biting the inside of her cheek, before she mumbled, “Well. No. I spilled some in the sink when I was trying to get it open. I actually only had one glass.”

So Olivia had poured half the bottle down the drain. And not just any bottle, but the ceremonial bottle my sister bought for me the day I graduated from college. The bottle we’d agreed not to open until I went a solid ten years without caving and going to work for the family business.

“How the hell do you dump out half the bottle when you’re opening it? Explain that magic to me.”

“Um, I think I’m going to go.” Harper hitched her handbag higher on her forearm and said to Olivia, “It was nice meeting you.”

I tried not to grit my teeth as I asked, “Are you sure—”

“Thanks for dinner, Colin,” she said while not even looking back at me. She was all forward motion as she hit the entryway and exited the apartment, the door slamming hard behind her.

“I have to go potty,” the older kid said, and Olivia replied while glaring at me, “Okay, make sure you wash your hands.”

She picked up the little one and continued looking at me like I smelled bad.

“What?”

She tilted her head. “Aren’t you going to go after her?”

“Why would I?”

“Why would you?” She said it like I was a moron. “Um, because she was your date and you kind of acted like an A-hole . . . ?”

“First of all, no I didn’t. I was an A-hole to you, not her.”

She snorted. “Over an ugly bottle of booze.”

“Over a ceremonial bottle you had no business opening.”

She gestured for me to hurry to the point. “And second of all?”

“Second of all, it wasn’t going to work out with her anyway.”

“How do you know that? Harper seemed great.”

“I just know.”

“Oh, that’s right. Colin with the robot brain knows all.”

“I might have a robot brain, but that’s a hell of a lot better than being an irresponsible, free-spirited freeloader.” I wanted to add who talks to strange men, but I wasn’t supposed to know that. It’d been driving me crazy all day, though, thinking about some creep following her around town.

Her nostrils flared and she tucked her hair behind her ears with a violent jerk. “Free-spirited freeloader. That’s . . . really nice, Colin.”

Just then there was a knock at the door, and the moment was swallowed up by Will and his wife, thank God. The boys ran to the entryway and seemed thrilled to see their parents, though three minutes later they were crying and hugging Olivia and begging their parents to not take them home.

I talked to Will for a second, but then I did the smart thing and disappeared into my room.

Olivia

“Olivia?”

I heard him through the door—that ass weasel—and his voice was quiet like he didn’t want to wake me if I’d already fallen asleep. I kind of wanted to ignore him, but the masochist in me was curious as to what else he could possibly have to say.

“You may enter.”

The door slowly opened and he looked down at me. His face was still serious, but I imagined every fiber of his being wanted to mock me.

Because I knew I looked ridiculous.

I was sitting on the air mattress, my back against the wall with my legs stretched out in front of me, cradling the enormous vat of pretzels that I’d stolen from Jack like someone was going to steal them from me.

“Listen, Liv—”

“Nope.” I shook my head and pointed at him, gesturing toward his torso. “Can’t do this. It feels like some kind of a patriarchal joke, you standing above me with your abs and pecs out like a Greek god while I subserviently gaze upon you from my spot on the floor raft like a peasant. Either sit down at my level, or we’ll talk in the morning.”

One eyebrow shot up. “Okay.”

He came over, disgustingly hot in his bare-chested state, and dropped down beside me on the air mattress with a force that nearly catapulted me across the room.

I hadn’t wanted to stare up at his Calvin Klein–clad package while he spoke to me, but I’d imagined him taking a seat on the chair by the desk, or perhaps on the floor directly across from me.

Taking the spot right next to me hadn’t entered my imaginings.

“Now.” I cleared my throat and didn’t look down at his leg that was touching my leg. I had no interest in chatting with the guy who’d managed to say out loud what I’d always known he thought, so I turned my face to him and gave him my own eyebrow raise. “Did you need something?”

“Yeah,” he said, “I want to apologize.”

“Spare me.”

“Just listen.” His jaw had the slightest hint of a shadow on it, and I hated that it looked good. He swallowed and said, “We always do our whole snarky banter thing, but I was a jerk and I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry, but we both know you meant it.” I looked down at the pretzels resting between my thighs and traced the lid with my finger.

He sighed and leaned his head back against the wall. “Part of it.”

I looked at him then, waiting to see if he was going to explain, and he looked at me. The way his head was leaned back made me notice his throat again—how could a throat be hot?—and that wildly distracting Adam’s apple. His blue eyes were all I could see when he said, “You tend to be a little . . . free-spirited sometimes, but I don’t think you’re a freeloader. And I’m totally impressed by this thing you’re doing with your life. You landed a great job already. You’re working out. Hell, you and your boyfriend just broke up and you’re—”

“What do you know about the breakup?” God, did everyone somehow know what’d happened? Not about the fire—the whole country knew about that—but about Eli cheating and discovering his soul mate, who happened to not be me.

“Just that he didn’t help you move and you were burning his love letters.” He straightened and turned toward me a little, making the air mattress squeak. “But my point is that you’re actually getting your shit together and it’s kind of impressive to watch.”

“Oh, joy, I’ve impressed Colin Beck.”

That made him slide into a smirk. “Feel good about it, sunshine.”

I rolled my eyes but I couldn’t help but smile. “I’ve never known anyone as arrogant as you.”

That made him full-out smile like I’d just complimented him. “Now say you forgive me.”

“Fine. I’ll give you a pass on this one.”

“You just couldn’t use my words, could you?”

“Nope.”

“Fine.” He moved his hips back and forth, shaking the air mattress as he said, “I have no idea how you sleep on this thing.”

“It’s fine. Not all of us are used to fancy Purple mattresses, so we can deal better than you.”

“Wait a minute.” He crossed his arms, which totally made his biceps pop, and he caught me in his blue-eyed stare. “How do you know my bed is a Purple?”

“You just seem the type.” I rolled my eyes, hoping to be convincing.

“And my blanket smelled like perfume the other day.”

“So? That’s better than it smelling like sewage, right?” I stared at his narrowed, accusing eyes, my chin up, but something in my face must’ve given me away.

“Holy shit, you slept in my bed when I was out of town, didn’t you?” He looked horrified but also a smidge entertained as he sat up straighter and waited for my answer.

“Oh, my God, no, I would never do that.” I tucked my hair behind my ears and muttered, “I’ve just taken a couple naps on it, above the covers.”

“A couple naps.” He nodded his head and pursed his lips. “Above the covers.”

“Get over it—it’s not like I wore shoes on it or anything. This thing just sucks,” I said, bouncing a little on the raft, “and your perfectly made bed called to me.”

He just looked at me with a sarcastic half smile on his face, not saying a word, like he knew everything about me and was both amused and irritated by his knowledge.

“Oh, come on—you never would’ve known if I hadn’t told you, so just forget about it.” It must’ve been because I was tired, but I had to bite the inside of my cheek to stop a giggle from escaping. “It never happened. I was just kidding, actually.”

He gave me a slow head shake and a begrudging smile. “I’ve never known anyone as bratty as you.”

“Look in a mirror, Beck.” I crossed my arms, matching his stance.

He made a noise—in either agreement or frustration—and climbed to his feet. It was odd; somehow Colin was able to pop right up, sticking the landing of air mattress disembarkment, whereas I usually stumbled and bounced a little before gaining my footing.

He gave me a weird look as he hovered by the door, like there was a lot going on in his head. He glanced at the wall above me before lowering his eyes and saying, “So I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”

“I guess you will.” I set the pretzel vat on the floor next to my bed and leaned down to take off my shoes. I unlaced the first sandal and said, “I’ve got a nine a.m. brunch date, actually.”

His eyes seemed to focus more intently on me when I said that. “Oh, yeah? How’d you meet Mr. Brunch?”

“Running.” I pictured Paul’s face and wished I would’ve canceled. “He was there when I rescued the old lady.”

“Is that right?” He crossed his arms and said, “So why didn’t he rescue her instead of you?”

“Because I was entirely capable, sexist.”

“I saw your knees.” His eyes dropped down to my legs, and my stomach dropped down to the floor. “Didn’t look like you were that capable to me.”

“Whatever.” I dropped my shoe onto the floor. “Are you going anywhere tomorrow afternoon, by the way?”

“Why?”

I shrugged and said quietly, “I might need a nap.”

He shook his head but I could tell he wanted to smile. “Come on, Marshall. What if I want to nap on my bed?”

“I won’t stop you.”

He immediately smirked and his eyes got that rowdy spark. “Really.”

Oh, damn. I’d meant it to mean suit yourself or do what you want I don’t care, but it totally came out as a feel-free-to-nap-with-me purr. I tried to sound unaffected as I took off my second shoe and said, “Really. As long as I’m on your pillow-soft bed, I don’t care what you do.”

His eyes raked over me, from the top of my head to my little bare toes, and I felt it like a physical touch. He let out a big exhale, shook his head like he didn’t know what was happening, and turned and left, closing the door behind him.