Mr. Wrong Number

The minute I woke up the next morning, I grabbed my phone and pulled up the newspaper online. Seeing my column in print with the cool professional logo made it feel official, almost as if someone else wrote it. I read it three times before jamming my bare feet into running shoes and running down to the c-store on the corner, where I purchased five copies of the newspaper. I had no idea what I’d do with all of them, especially since no one actually knew the column was mine, but it somehow felt important for me to collect them.

I was so excited that I had to text Mr. Wrong Number, even though he hadn’t responded to any of my texts since brunch the day before.

Me: I know you don’t know any of the details and you’re suddenly mute, but I don’t even care because I’m so excited! Remember that opportunity I told you I landed by lying?

I waited ten seconds before texting: Oh, that’s right—you’re not there. Well, anyway, that opportunity happened and today is the first day!

I didn’t wait around for a response, because I knew he wouldn’t text back.

When I got back to the apartment, Colin was sitting at the breakfast bar, reading a copy of the paper while eating a bagel in a pristine gray suit and a black-and-white-dotted tie. He looked like GQ and smelled like sin, and he raised his eyes when I walked in.

I was his hero—which made me feel like the world’s most incredible writer—so I gave him a little smile.

Jack was eating a bowl of cereal over the sink and said, “I’d tell you that we already have a subscription to the paper, but they only give us one and clearly you need more.”

I shut the door behind me and toed off my shoes. Shit. How to explain my stack of dailies? Thankfully I didn’t have to because Colin set down his bagel and said, “I read your piece about the new restaurant. Nice job. Made me hungry for steak.”

“Thanks.” I gave him a grateful look and was excited that I had something tangible running that day. I’d been so excited about the 402 that I’d totally forgotten about the bistro intro. “Perhaps my parents will finally believe that I’ve got a job now that there’s a byline.”

He picked up his cup. “They’ll be so proud.”

Jack made a derisive snort; he knew my mother.

“That I wrote a five-hundred-word piece about a restaurant that puts bourbon in every dish? Hardly.” I reached over and snagged Colin’s bagel, taking a tiny bite of the burnt side. “But they’ll be appeased for now.”

I set down his bagel and regretted my decision as Colin watched me closely. That was clearly some sort of healthy peanut butter, and it made me want to scrape off my tongue with my finger, but that would totally destroy the badassery of my move, so I had to swallow it down without gagging.

He said, “Hey, I read that 402 column you mentioned, by the way, and you were right.”

My heart started pounding. Not because it was my secret identity and I didn’t want Jack to catch on, but because Colin read the words that mattered to me. I kept my eyes on his bagel, half-scared and half-desperate to know his thoughts. “Yeah?”

He shoved the last big piece of bagel in his mouth and chewed before saying, “Yeah. I couldn’t care less about parenting, but that article was hilarious.”

I tried, I really did, but I couldn’t stop myself from beaming. “Told you.”

Jack dropped his bowl into the sink and grabbed a half gallon of orange juice, unaware of our unspoken conversation.

Colin gave me a mischievous grin—a twinkly-eyed conspiratorial smile—before dusting off his hands and walking his plate over to the sink. While he rinsed it off, he asked, “So are you working here today or at the coffee shop?”

“Here, I think.” I was too afraid of Hooters-loving runners and sexual healers to hit the coffee shop so soon. “But I won’t invite any kids over today, scout’s honor.”

His eyes squinted as he glanced over and said, “Didn’t you get kicked out of the Girl Scouts?”

Jack muttered, “After the second week.”

“Shut up, Jack.” Man, I’d forgotten about that. “It wasn’t my fault that girl hit her head on a pipe and passed out. All I did was innocently bounce my Super Ball. The rest was a series of chaotic accidents.”

That made Colin slide into a grin. “A walking, talking, chaotic mess, even back then.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t you have a job to get to?”

“I do.” He went into his room, and emerged a few seconds later with a buttery-soft leather messenger bag over his shoulder. I didn’t know how he managed to look so flawless, so perfectly gorgeous, but my stomach got a little light just looking at him.

“You look like a banker, Beck.”

He raised an eyebrow and smirked. “And you look like you’ve completely given up, Marshall.”

“Well,” I started, letting my eyes stroll over the edges of his face and the soft curl of his bottom lip, “Have a day, then.”

He turned his attention toward the exit and said, “You have a day, as well.”

With that, he left, and I stood frozen, staring at the door for a solid thirty seconds. Wondering what it would be like. What he would be—

“What the hell was that?” Jack was staring at me with his nose scrunched up like I stunk. “You guys don’t hate each other anymore?”

I shrugged and took his orange juice. “We do, just not as much as before.”

•   •   •

THINGS GOT SCARY good after that.

The column took off. Over the next couple weeks more billboards went up, ads ran, and overall—holy shit—it seemed like the public kind of really liked my pieces. I mean, yes, there were definitely plenty of people who thought the 402 Mom was mouthy and too sarcastic, but the majority seemed to dig her.

I couldn’t believe it.

I was so professionally satisfied, it was as if a match was lit under my keyboard. The combination of real-life reviews and interviews under my actual name, crossed together with the utter creative release of the 402 columns, left me marveling at the fact that I was getting paid to do that for a living.

Like, seriously? It was unbelievable.

When Glenda sent me flowers to congratulate me on our success, I cried for an hour. Partly because I had such intense guilt for deceiving her, but mostly because I was so unbelievably happy that it stressed me the hell out.

Because it was me, Olivia Marshall.

Smooth sailing was not sustainable.

The only complaint I had was that Mr. Wrong Number had disappeared completely. I still texted him as a way to talk to myself, to throw my ideas out into the void, but I was pretty sure he was gone forever.

Why did it even bother me? He was a stranger, for the love of God. My shit was finally together-ish, so I should’ve been good, but at night, when I couldn’t sleep, I lay in bed and wondered what’d happened. Was it me? Was I annoying? Was I too much?

Or was it him? Was he married? Murdered? Running for political office?

I was starting to accept the fact that I’d never know, but there was a tiny part of me that just couldn’t seem to get over it. Like, I missed my stranger friend, which was stupid but it couldn’t be denied. Thank God everything else was suddenly clicking, or I might’ve been completely devastated.

Colin

“Marshall.”

Olivia looked up from her computer. “What?”

She was curled up on the sofa, wearing those stupid flannel pants and staring at the laptop with her glasses halfway down her nose. Her hair was up in what I could only guess might’ve been a bun at one time, and she was gnawing on the end of her pen.

“What’re you doing?” It was midnight, Jack had gone to bed, and I was barely staying awake as I watched the news. Liv, on the other hand, looked hyper-focused. “Your fingers aren’t flying so I’m guessing you’re not writing.”

“Nope.” She uncurled her legs and stretched them out on the ottoman. “I’m looking at apartments. I’ve gotten so comfy in your condo that I kind of forgot all about finding a place, and I’m mere days away from you physically removing me from the building.”

“I’m not a monster. I’ll let you stay a whole extra day if you’re nice to me.”

She threw me a look and said, “I don’t need your favors. I just need to find a decent place that doesn’t require too big of a deposit.”

“Still building up your cash stash since the fire?”

“Bingo. I make enough to pay the rent, but don’t have a crap-ton to put down.”

“Could you maybe borrow from your parents?”

“I’d rather live on the streets.” She kept scrolling through apartment listings as she said, “I borrowed a hundred bucks from them the night I came back, and my mother has literally mentioned it every time we’ve spoken.”

“Did you fail to pay them back?”

“Nope—I know the way she works, so I actually paid them back a hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Didn’t buy their silence?”

“Not even for an hour.”

That made me laugh, because her mom was a real piece of work. I adored Nancy, but the woman reminded me of a Seinfeld character. I sat down on the arm of the sofa next to her and looked down at Olivia’s computer screen. “One Hundred Eighth and Q? I thought you loved living downtown.”

Since moving in, I was pretty sure she’d spent more time staring out at the city than doing anything else. She was like me in that, her absolute adoration of downtown life.

“I can’t afford it, moneybags; everything down here is crazy expensive, so I’m afraid it’s the burbs for this girl.”

“This building has loft studios; did you look at them?”

“I think so . . . ?”

“Here.” I pushed her over and sat down beside her, stealing her laptop.

“Hey!”

A few clicks, and boom—there was my building. I hovered over the studio floor plan. “See? They’re studios, but the loft is like the bedroom so it feels more like a one-bedroom.”

“Look at those high ceilings.” She squinted and leaned closer, her body leaning against mine as the smell of her shampoo—my shampoo—came at me. “Wow, those are amazing!”

I just shook my head; her excitement made me miss Misdial. Even though it was Olivia and I saw her every day, I missed what I thought it’d been.

“And not too expensive. I’m sure they require a crazy deposit, though.” She frowned.

“You should just apply; you never know.”

She gave me side-eye and nudged me with her elbow. “I can’t believe you want me to live in your building so badly.”

I reached out a hand and pushed, toppling her over on the couch. “I was being nice, but now that you mention it, perhaps having your Liv luck in the building isn’t the best idea.”

“Nope, it’s too late now. I’m sending in an application.”

“Please, God, no.”

“Oh, I’m here.” She grinned and pushed my leg with her foot as she stayed horizontal. “If they accept me and I can afford it, I’m going to be here all the time. In fact, I think I’ll request an upper floor just so I can drop stuff down onto your deck.”

“Typical.”

She sat up and pushed up her glasses. “I might even train pigeons to crap on your fancy patio furniture.”

“As if you could.”

“You don’t know.” She yanked back her computer and clicked on the “Apply Now” link. “This is pointless, but I’m doing it just to make you regret trying to help me.”

That made me laugh. “Why, exactly . . . ?”

“I have no idea.” She grinned, and something about the intimacy of the smile she was giving me made me notice her full lower lip. “It’s just the knee-jerk way I’ve always related to you.”

“I get that.” I got up, adding distance between us because the last thing that I needed was to fall under the spell of her funny charm and forget all about who she actually was. Jack’s sister, Jack’s sister, Jack Marshall’s little baby sister, dipshit. “Call the office in the morning and talk to Jordyn. She’s great and can give you a tour.”

“Jordyn, huh?” She waggled her eyebrows in a ridiculously cheesy way. “Sounds hot.”

“And incredibly pregnant.” I turned off the TV with the remote, dropped it on the coffee table, and said, “G’night, Liv.”

My bedroom door was almost closed when I heard her say, “Sweet dreams, Colin.”

And just before I plugged in my phone to let it charge overnight, I shot off a quick email to Jordyn in the leasing office. I wasn’t meddling, because Olivia was definitely not my problem, but if she needed a recommendation in order to get an apartment she loved, I was good with doing that.

Besides, I still owed her for the kick-ass letter.

And hell—the quicker she found a place, the quicker she was out of my hair, anyway.