Page 16 of Wrong Number, Right Grump
You okay?– Grump
CHAPTER 9
***
Logan
As the upstairs window opens and I hear yelling, I’m out of my truck in a heartbeat. Lola doesn’t appear to be in any danger. Holding her own, in fact. So, I wait, arms crossed, leaning against the hood of my truck, ready in case the guy at the door decides to do something stupid.
Lucky for him, he doesn’t. But I make no effort to stay hidden when he starts picking shit off the sidewalk and lawn. He spots me as he’s leaving the property.
“What are you looking at?” He flips me off before retreating to his car.
I wait until his tail lights disappear into the night before texting Lola.
You okay?– Logan
She doesn’t answer my text. I’m torn between giving her space and waiting it out in my truck in case the jerk comes back. If I ring her doorbell to check on her, I might be risking the same fate as the last guy. It doesn’t take long for me to figure out which course I’m taking.
Lola opens the front door and steps onto the dimly lit porch—hair a little wild, an oversized hoodie covering her frame, and cheeks flush with leftover fury. She makes eye contact and waves me over.
“Stalking me now?” she says when I step onto the porch.
“Wanted to make sure you got home safe. Stayed when that jerk pulled up.”
“I kinda lost my cool,” she says.
“I heard,” I say. “You okay?”
“Define okay. Emotionally? Debatable.” Her mouth twitches. “But I’m upping my pitching game. Put me in coach.”
Her resilience is a relief, but then again, not if she’s using humor to mask underlying pain. “Extra points for distance,” I say.
She turns and steps inside the house. I stay rooted on the porch until she glances over her shoulder. “You coming in, or do you need an engraved invitation?”
Her tone is too flat, lacking emotion. Not the Lola I’m used to. I follow her inside. The place smells like lavender and fresh laundry. The couch is piled with more pillows than a Pier 1 liquidation sale. A single nightlight glows in the corner of the room.
She flops on the couch with a huff and pats the spot next to her. I push two pillows aside and take a seat. She tucks her feet under her legs, and her knees brush my thigh. Then she takes it further and rests her head on my shoulder. She doesn’t seem to care, but the physical connection sends a jolt to my groin.
“I’m exhausted,” she says. “Like... bone-deep tired.”
“Bad night,” I say.
She lifts her head to look at me. “One of the best nights, until... it wasn’t.”
Her fingers toy with the fringe on a pillow she drags into her lap as if she needs something to ground her, to keep her sitting still. She’s a bounce off the walls kinda woman. It’s her stillness that worries me.
“I’m tired of needy, whiny men. I’m tired of men whose confidence is shaken by the fact that I’m expressive. Of men who want to quiet me so they can be heard.”
She pauses, and I quietly watch her. Listening to her tired voice and defeated sigh.
“Sometimes I need someone to just show up for me, ya know. No expectations.” She tosses the pillow in frustration. “Causethe second I need something, it’swhoa there. Quit making everything about you.”
She contorts her face and spouts the words off in a sarcastic, whiny voice that’s not her at all. My jaw ticks, hating that anyone’s made her uncomfortable about being herself. Selfish damn losers, the lot of them.
“I don’t want to crack jokes just so I can hold it together,” she says. “I want to feel wanted, not tolerated. Not pitied.Wanted.”
“Lola, those men weren’t strong enough for you,” I say, taking her hand in mine. “That’s on them, not you.”
