Page 5 of Let's Get Textual

My phone lightsup in my hand, and I stop midstride. The screen says Liam, but I don’t believe that to be true now. I quickly make my way to a bench as curiosity fills me and I hit the accept button. “H-Hello?”

“Who is this?” The voice is gruff and not familiar to my ears.

I glance around campus, seeing if I can find someone lurking behind a tree, playing a prank on me. Nothing appears out of the ordinary.

“This is Delia,” I answer. My eyes fall to slits with suspicion, and though the caller can’t see me—or I hope he can’t—I know my tone conveys my qualms.

“Delia?” An electric spark races down my spine with the way the stranger says my name. “What the hell kind of name is that?”

Okay, forget the shiver. Screw this douche.

“The name I was given. Now who in the hell isthis?”

“I think there was a mix-up.”

“No shit, Sherlock. Doesn’t answer my question though.”

The man on the other end of the line snorts. “You have a mouth on you, huh?”

“It appears that way. But—”

“I still haven’t answered your question. Yeah, I heard you. I’m Zach, and you’re not Mr. Warner, are you?”

“Do I sound like a Mr. Warner to you?”

He chuckles again, and I feel it all over my body. I hate that I feel it. “No. You sound much cuter than him.”

“So you think Mr. Warner is somewhat cute?”

“Ah, a sense of humor too. I can get on board with that.”

Something dawns on me: he’s flirting with me, and I kind of like it.

It’s been one week since Caleb and I broke up, and I wish it wasn’t true but the breakup has affected me more than I expected it would. We’ve been cordial in the class we share, even going as far as to meet afterward and grab a coffee, but things have changed. The dynamics of my friendships with others have already shifted. I’m not star third baseman Caleb Mills’ girlfriend anymore; I’m just Delia, journalism major and all-around normal girl, and I’m mostly okay with it.

“How did you get this number?”

“My roommate. We work together and he’s sort of my assistant, taking my calls for me. He wrote your number down as a client call from the home office.” He sighs, and it’s filled with irritation. “I was on my way out of the apartment when I sent him a text. I must have entered it into my cell wrong.”

“You communicate with clients via text?”

Zach tsks playfully, and I realize I’m on the phone with a stranger and there’s a smile plastered across my face. I shouldn’t still be on the phone and I shouldn’t be smiling, but what’s the harm in a friendly conversation, right?

“Are you judging me, Delia?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“This mistake might cost me a client.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“I didn’t say it was, simply making a statement.”

“It’s not a fact though…”

I can practically hear him roll his eyes. “Observation, whatever, but I didn’t say it was your fault.”

“You sound like you blame me,” I retort.

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