Page 7 of Wrong Number, Right Grump
I freeze.
Something about the way he says that—dry, calm, slightly teasing—hits some weird, familiar nerve.
Before I can figure it out, I’m bumped from behind. Once again, I collide with the incredible tree-man-god and his impeccable, well, pecs. He captures my arms with his massivehands. I’m not sure if he’s keeping me from falling or warning me to not come closer.
Either way, I fluster and feel my cheeks heat. “Well, uh. Thanks for not suing me.”
I wriggle free of his hands, sending my body into a spiraling pout. The body wants what it wants, and I have a feeling this guy could fulfill every item on my bedroom bucket list.
A ghost of a smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth.
“You’re fine. I’ve survived worse.” He shrugs and glances at the coffee stain. “Solid six out of ten, but no burns. No legal threats.”
Then he turns and heads for the door. Not a second glance. No name. No number. Just six feet of muscle and deadpan sarcasm walking into the sun like a plot twist.
I stare after him, mouth open, half a dozen responses dying on my tongue and one blaring question waving a white flag.
Have we met?
***
Logan
She’s even more dangerous in person.
I spot her the second I walk into Grounds and Grain. How could anyone miss her? Her voice carries. Not loud, exactly, but animated. Unfiltered. Her hands are in constant motion as she points with animated indecision at pastries behind the glass.
“The one with the blueberries and cream cheese.” The barista reaches for the scone. “Uh, The blueberry muffin instead. The cinnamon crumble is everything.” Then... “Both. I’ll take both.”
My ears perk at the sound of her voice. I know it. I have a recording of it that I’ve listened to half a dozen times or more since it first came in, loud and boisterous. Accusing. Cynical. Humorously twisted.
It’s her. The world couldn’t handle two of her.Drama Queen.
She moves to the end of the counter to wait for her pastries and coffee order. I pay for a self-serve coffee and move to the condiment bar. I watch as she flips through her phone. Her hair’s twisted into a loose knot on top of her head, with rebellious strands sticking every which way, falling into her face, curling at her neck. Stubborn, willful, and somewhat adorable. She grabs her order and turns without tearing her eyes away from her phone.
Her graphic tee reads ‘Not Today Satan’in gothic script. I chuckle to myself and think of Chad. He never had a chance with someone like her. Someone who would hold him accountable without batting an eye. I don’t know him, but she’s way too clever for a cheating fool.
She moves with purpose and zero awareness, her steps quick, like her brain is three tasks ahead of her body. I catch a glimpse of her face as she nears. Just the slope of her cheek, the curve of her mouth, lips parted as her thumb moves over the screen. She’s beautiful in an unbothered, unpolished way. Real. Distracted. And about to plow into me at full tilt.
Part of me hopes she does.
I watch and wait. And when she bumps into me, my first reaction is relief.Like the universe just gave me an opening I didn’t have the nerve to take. The second is a flinch at the liquid penetrating my shirt.
Then she looks up at me with big eyes and flustered apologies, and I have to force myself not to react. She doesn’t recognize me. Not from my voice, not from my silence. Why would she?
I let her ramble. It’s chaotic. Funny. Very her.
When she says she’s in her revenge therapy era, I almost lose it. I want to ask if she’s always like this or if I’ve broken some kind of cosmic rule by falling for a stranger who only exists invoicemails and texts. Because now that I’ve seen her, I know what last night was.
My saving grace.
A woman unafraid of spilling her personal life to a stranger. A woman with no apologies about who she is or what she thinks. And a reminder that she’s just been through a breakup that’s probably messier than she’d ever let on. People as animated and expressive as she is usually keep the ugly part of heartache in compartments no one can see.
I know about compartmentalizing the things no one wants to see.
I give her the smallest smile I can manage without looking completely deranged. She rambles, and I soak in every detail about her I can in the seconds we have.
When she’s jostled from behind, I instinctively grab her to protect her, but she shakes me off. That’s when I see her name scrawled across the side of her to-go cup in black marker. Lola. Of course, it is. The name fits her like a spark fits a fuse. The same way she stirs a fire in my belly with her witty tirade and oddly creative curated playlist of breakup songs.
