Page 6 of Hung Up

“You’ll stay?”

“Yes.” His brows furrowed, followed by another sharp nod.

“Okay . . . ” I floundered. “I’ll be back.”

My left arm snaked behind me to grab the door handle and I slipped out of my condo.

It only hit me once I was walking down the sidewalk towards my favorite local coffee spot that I was still wearing my purple slip and matching sleep mask. But my bare feet were committed in their mission, so I shook off the unease and briskly walked the last five minutes to the cafe, yanking the sleep mask off and shoving it into my purse.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee beans hit me like a wall as I entered The Bean’s Knees. The line was shorter today, and I refused to pretend my wardrobe was anything other than a strategic choice. A sort of 13 Going On 30 style . . . Sure, let’s go with that.

I just prayed they didn’t look at my feet.

I couldn’t believe what just happened. What did Pierce mean that we spoke every night? And why was he wearing bright pink boxer-briefs? The exact same color as my princess phone . . .

Surely, I must’ve hit my head before I fell asleep and this was all the culmination of a grade-A concussion. There was absolutely no way my princess phone magically transformed into that hunk of a man overnight.

This wasn’t some outlandish romance novella. This was real fucking life.

It wasn’t possible, couldn’t be possible . . . right?

My feet numbly moved forward in line without prompting as my mind spun, the lack of logic supporting this theory blatantly obvious. I may not be the smartest woman in the room, but I sure as shit wasn’t an idiot.

It wasn’t until a hand waved in front of my face that I realized it was my turn to order. I shook myself subtly, pasting on an apathetic look.

“Oh, shit, sorry. Can I please have an iced medium honey latte with oat milk?”

The barista—who I had to have given my order to countless times—smiled, a sparkle to his blue eyes. “Your usual, got it,” he said with a smile. A smile that should’ve sent butterflies in my belly, but instead just made my stomach clench.

Paying with a tap of my phone, I stepped off to the side to wait for my drink. My bare foot tapped the cool tile as I waited, my anxiety sparkling in my restless limbs.

Time muffled away as I processed what the fuck just happened. So my phone turned into an actual man.

I huffed one sharp, unbelievable laugh to myself, earning a strange look from an older woman drinking a hot tea.

I’d always said I wanted a fictional man to make me lose all sense of feminism, but that was because they were exactly that—fictional. And the man sitting in my condo was certainly the definition of fictional . . .

You know, provided I wasn’t going crazy.

I scoffed just before my name was called by another barista. Grabbing my drink and stomping back outside, I tilted my face towards the bright sun and embraced its heat as it seeped into my skin, warming my bones. Despite the fact it was October in Phoenix, it was still in the nineties. A tackiness to the air told me the storm from last night wasn’t quite over yet.

I found a bench to sit at while I drank my iced latte and worked through my thoughts. Was I laying on my bathroom floor, knocked out after slipping and hitting my head on the counter top? This couldn’t be real life . . . right?

But on the other hand, what if it was? What if Pierce was real? Was I really going to let this hunk of a man slip through my fingers, all because he used to be my princess phone?

God, Pierce was hot and I definitely wanted to find out just how real he was . . .

Acid burned in the back of my throat when I thought of pulling open my bedroom door and finding a hot pink landline sitting primly on my unmade bed. The thought of returning to my condo and finding it empty was . . . unsettling.

But why?

My phone rang and I looked down at the caller ID: Amelia.

“Hey, babe,” I answered, chewing on my thumbnail. I wasn’t sure how she would react if I told her. Should I tell her?

“Hey, what are you doing today? I’m off, for once, wanna go get brunch?”

My spine tingled, the indecision weighing on me. What if she told me I was going crazy? What if I was crazy?

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