Page 6 of Wrong Number, Right Grump
I save her number asDrama Queenand tell her so, but it’s not an insult. It’s a defense mechanism. She’s a stranger. A hurricane on my phone. And yet, I’m reading her messages with stupid anticipation, and I don’t like admitting that.
She calls me Grump. Which is... fair. I don’t smile much. I keep my head down. I’ve been told my expression says,“Do not engage,”and that’s fine by me.
But for some reason, her calling me Grump feels less like an insult and more like... a nickname. One she’s already claiming, like I’m hers to name.
You’re just... a little too comfortable with this whole conversation, Grump.– Drama Queen
Maybe. Or maybe I’m just happy Chad’s out there pissing off women instead of me.– Logan
I pause before hitting send. It’s bold, borderline flirtatious. Not something I’d usually say. But she started this with burrito threats and breakup anthems.
She’s feisty enough. Maybe she’ll text back.
CHAPTER 4
***
Lola
Saturday afternoon, I reward myself for surviving the week with a fancy, overpriced coffee and some unnecessary pastries from Grounds & Grains, my favorite local shop and the last place on Earth I expect my dignity to be further tested.
I’m still riding the weird high of texting a stranger who, one, made me laugh. Two, got me out of my funk. Three, had the audacity to question my choice of musicandcall me a drama queen. So, technically, four things.
Though I had no intention of breaking anything of Chad’s like the song suggested, I swapped out “Bust Your Windows” for “Miss Me More” for giggles and grins. We’ll see if Grump notices. He probably won’t. My misdialed rant and the texting that ensued are all that will become of this.
He hasn’t texted since last night. There’s no reason to assume... or expect we’ll ever hear from one another again. Not that I’m refreshing my screen. Or rereading the thread. Or wondering what his voice sounds like.
I’m halfway to the cream station when I walk head-first into a wall. A solid wall that feels a lot like a man’s chest. My iced latte jerks. The lid pops. A few drops slosh on his shirt. His very tight, dark gray T-shirt.
“I’m so sorry. Crap!” I fumble for napkins. “I didn’t see you—”
Because, well, I was looking at my phone, secretly hoping for another text from you-know-who.
“It’s fine,” a low, gravelly voice replies.
That’s when I finally tear my eyes away from his chest and look up.
Holy. Forearms.
He’s tall with broad shoulders, emitting brooding lumberjack energy. Just like that TikTok guy who splits wood, only better, because this guy’s hovering so close I can feel his body heat. His jaw is sharp, his eyes dark and steady.
He plucks a napkin from the dispenser and dabs at his shirt.
“No damage. You okay?” he says with a thick, throaty voice that makes my toes curl.
“Just a caffeine casualty.” I laugh awkwardly. “At least it wasn’t a hot burrito. I’m in my revenge therapy era.”
He nods as he watches me. Quiet. Curious. Methodical.
I’m suddenly aware of how crazed I must sound. I’m on a roll. First, last night with Grump. Now, with a human tree I’d gladly climb in a heartbeat if he extended an olive branch.
His gaze dips—briefly—to my oversized shirt with hand-stitched lettering that saysNot Today, Satan.
I’m caught off guard. Vulnerable. Exposed. I start to ramble because, of course I do.
“I swear I’m not usually a human wrecking ball. But it’s been a week. Broke up with my cheating boyfriend. Ranted to a perfect stranger. Ate my weight in a wine and cheese marathon.” I barely take a breath. His stare is just too... mesmerizing. And vexing. “I was so excited about carbs and caffeine and starting fresh that I forgot to watch where I was going. So. Yeah. Sorry.”
“I’ve had worse introductions.” His mouth twitches. Barely. But it counts as a smile. “I’m marginally damp, not mortally wounded.”
