Page 15 of Wrong Number, Right Grump
I lean back against the door, my heart still thudding. Not from nerves. Just a breathless, happy hum that buzzes under my skin from a really good date. I bite my lip, grin up at the ceiling, and allow myself a few inappropriate thoughts about Logan, that kiss, and his hands on my body.
Then, the physical frustration kicks in. “Ugh,” I huff.
I push off the door and take off my bra as I head upstairs to slip into my comfiest jammies. I’m going to need a hot minute. Or ten.
Once I’ve officially achieved peak cozy—pajama pants, oversized hoodie, messy bun, and a cushy pillow nest on my bed—I reach for the remote. There’s only one thing better than watching sappy romantic comedies after a good date, but I’m not getting that lucky tonight.
As soon as I’m settled, the doorbell rings. A harsh, synthetic buzz followed by a cheery chime that’s way too perky for this time of night. My pulse bursts into action. Maybe Logan changed his mind. I grab my phone and swipe open the ring app.
I groan, too annoyed for words. My cozy night and feel-good pheromones instantly curdle.
Chad stands on my front porch with his hands shoved into his pockets. I consider pretending I’m asleep. Or dead. But I know he’ll keep hitting the buzzer. The man ghosted me for weeks, and now, of all times, he pops up like an unwanted software update.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and then tap the mic on the Ring app.
“What are you doing here?” My voice is flat and dangerously calm, considering heat simmers low in my gut, ready to boil over if he says one stupid thing. “It’s midnight, for pity’s sake.”
Chad leans in close to the camera like the idiot he is, face shadowed under the porch light. But his smug grin is unmistakable. To think, I once considered it charming. Gross.
“C’mon, baby. Let me in.” He uses the same saccharine-sweet tone I’ve heard many times before. Always when he knows he’s in the doghouse. “You know you want me to.”
I blanch. Baby? And no, I most certainly do not want him in my house. Never again in my bed.
“Not a chance, scumbag.” My voice sharpens. “Go back to Tiffany and her perfectly manicured talons.”
“Let me in. We can talk about things.” He leans on the wall and looks directly into the camera. “I thought we had an open communication rule. Tiffany was just a misunderstanding.”
Are you freaking kidding me?
“The phrase open communication does not, in fact, justify sleeping with someone. That’s fucking, not talking.” The fire in my belly rumbles.Wait a minute.I snort. “She kicked you to the curb already, didn’t she. Couldn’t keep it in your pants, could you?”
“Open the door. At least let me get my stuff.” He scoffs and shifts his weight. “You’re being ridiculous as usual. This is why you’ll never have a serious relationship, Lola. You’re hard to handle.”
That’s it. He threw gasoline on the fire. Big mistake.
“You want your stuff?” I yell through the open Ring mic. “You got it.”
I launch off the bed and stomp across the room. My pulse thunders in my ears. I throw open my closet, yanking his stupid gray hoodie from a hanger. Gross. It even smells like him. I dig through drawers and find a lone sock, a pair of Maui Jim aviator sunglasses, and that awful trucker hat he insisted was vintage. Lastly, I grab the stinky pomade tin from the bathroom that I should’ve thrown away the minute he left it here.
I shove open the bedroom window, the old wood frame groaning on its hinges. Chad stands on the porch below, looking up to the second floor like he thinks I’m bluffing.
The hoodie sails out the window and smacks the sidewalk near his feet. He flinches dramatically. I grab the tin of pomade and launch it out the window like a hockey puck. Chad ducks. It hits the concrete, popping the lid off.
“You smell like a frat house and a pine tree had a one-night stand.” I huff.
“Lola,” he shouts. “Stop throwing my stuff.
“You asked for it,” I shout back. “Isn’t that what you always wanted? Me to do what I’m told.”
I grab the last item, his treasured aviators. I hurl them like a javelin. It hits the porch railing with a satisfying crack. I hope the lenses are smashed to smithereenes.
“You’re paying for these,” he grabs the glasses.
“So sue me,” I yell. “And take your things and get off my property.”
I slam the window shut so hard the panes rattle. I slump to the floor, chest heaving, my breath shallow, and my cheeks burning. My head throbs. My hands shake. I’m fever-hot like every nerve in my body is lit.
It takes me a minute before I move. I reach for my phone to check the app to see if Chad is gone. Just as I close it, the screen lights up with a text.
