Page 11 of Wrong Number, Right Grump
But also, like someone who might actually be a little excited if it goes well.
“I’m scared he won’t look at me the same in person.”
“You mean without throwing coffee all over him? I don’t know why the man’s meeting you for drinks. You’ve proven you can’t be trusted with liquid.” She wrinkles her nose at me.
I throw a pillow at her. We giggle like school girls. Truth is, I’m a little giddy. I mean, the hard part’s over, right? He heard me unfiltered and rambling. Knows I’m capable of vengeful threats that are only a wee bit harmful. And none of that scared him off.
“You’ve got this, honey,” she says, soft now. “And if it crashes and burns, I have wine, ice cream, and enough bubble bath for a soaker tub reset. Go meet your grump.”
I take a deep breath. And go.
***
The wine bar is dim and warm, with the scent of rosemary flatbread, red wine, and aged leather. I catch a whisp of citrus peel and gin as a server delivers a tray of drinks to the table nearest the door. I don’t bother asking the hostess if there’s a single guy waiting for me. Everyone in the place is looking for someone.
I spot him as I do a visual sweep of the crowd. My Grump. Though he’s anything but, I realize I still don’t know his name.
He’s seated at a table near the back, nursing what looks like a whiskey, scrolling on his phone with a serious look on his face that could be off-putting to anyone else. But I think is adorably sexy.
He looks up. And hesmiles. It’s small, but it totally suits him. My nerves go bat-shit crazy, and my heart ping-pongs against my ribs.
“Hey,” I say, sliding into the seat across from him. “You didn’t run. That’s a good sign.”
“I figured I owed you a drink,” he says. “You gave me a voicemail with a plot twist.”
I laugh, immediately more at ease. “Should’ve put a spoiler warning on it.”
“I liked it. You calling yourself emotionally available after that wicked burrito bit. Cold.”
“Still emotionally available. Just...selective.”
His mouth twitches. “Selective’s smart.”
The waitress arrives. I order a glass of red because anything else feels too casual, and I’m already wearing my good bra. The one with lace that matches my panties. I’m still contemplating whether getting lucky tonight is in my best interest, but it helps to have a backup plan in case.
“So,” I say once she leaves. “You know my name, but I’m still in the dark about yours. Unless you want me to continue calling you Grump.”
He chuckles, low and unexpected, and for a second, I forget my nerves. The candlelight catches the scruff along his jaw, throwing soft shadows across the serious lines of his face. There are faint crinkles near his eyes, like the world’s given him a lot to figure out. His mouth curves just barely, like he’s not used to using those muscles for anything but biting back commentary. And yet he looks at me like I’m an exception to the rule of stoic grumpism.
“Logan.” He extends his hand, and I accept it, which stirs my nerves and sends the butterflies into a tizzy, tickling at my insides and ramping up all my giddy hormones into a neat little bundle of nerves.
“You’re real. That’s... a relief.” I slide my hand from his grip and fold my fingers together so I don’t accidentally rip off his shirt.
“You too. I half-expected you to be a bot with a really good algorithm.” He says it without flinching, voice flat as ever, but there's a flicker in his eyes—like mischief barely restrained.
I bite because I can’t help myself. “Or a middle-aged man pretending to be emotionally complex?”
“Same thing.” He holds my stare as he delivers the line, and the glint in his eyes makes my stomach flip.
We grin at each other. It’s easy. Weirdly easy.
We talk about the bar, the neighborhood, how neither of us really dates anymore. He doesn’t offer details, and I don’t ask. But I watch the way he listens. Really listens. Eyes on mine, not on his phone, my boobs, or something better over my shoulder.
The waitress brings drinks. We toast to breakups, wrong numbers, and semi-blind dates. Because clearly, this is a date, and no one had to swipe right or left or get catfished. He leans back in his chair, relaxed, content.
“So,” I say, trying to lighten the moment. “Are you always grumpy, or is that something you save for special occasions?”
His eyebrow lifts. “Depends. Are you always this spirited?”
