Page 5 of Neighbors With Benefits

I texted “sorry” to the wrong number, then went to bed.

I woke up the next morning, a Sunday, and went to work. I was a manager at Top Golf, and worked weekends occasionally. Preparing the next week’s shift schedule took my mind off things for a while, as well as an hour training one of our new servers.

But after that, I didn’t have a lot to do. My mind returned to the text message.

Obviously it was a wrong number, but I didn’t share Cat’s opinion that the guy was messing with me. His response seemed very specific, and genuine. Like he thought I was someone else. He also immediately stopped texting me when he realized I wasn’t that person. If he was just some random guy screwing with me for fun, why would he stop?

Curiosity ate at me as I re-read the text for the hundredth time. One sentence jumped out the most:you’ll be dating all three of us. Was there really a situation where this guy and his two friends wanted to date the same woman?

That seemed insane. That wasn’t a real thing.

It made me think about my own dating life. Cat was right: I had been going through a dry spell. Since getting promoted to manager, I didn’t have a lot of free time. Most of the guys I met were employees at Top Golf, and I wasn’t allowed to date them.

Not that it mattered too much. My relationships never lasted. I typically dated a guy for about a month, then I got bored and moved on. I was beginning to wonder if I wouldeversettle down.

Fortunately, I was extremely happy by myself. Yeah, I wanted companionship as much as the next woman, but if not? Nobig deal. I wasn’t the kind of woman who was defined by her relationship.

That was the best part about owning my own home: I was an independent woman with nobody to answer to. I wanted to enjoy that as much as possible.

After work, I stopped by the store and picked up some dishwasher detergent. When I pulled into my driveway, I noticed Bash sitting in a rocking chair on his front porch with a laptop. He gave me a friendly wave.

I considered going over and telling him about the funny wrong number situation, but he seemed to be doing something important, so all I did was wave back before going inside. I changed out of my work clothes—I had a walk-in closet, now!—and ran the dishwasher.

While making pasta for dinner, I heard one of the neighbors rolling a trash can out to the curb. That jogged my memory; Monday was trash day. I was still waiting for the water to boil on my pasta, so I emptied my kitchen trash can, dumped it in the big bin outside, and then rolled it out to the curb.

My bins were on the right side of my house, along the fence that separated my property from the green house. Bash wasn’t on the porch anymore, but Aiden was rolling his blue recycling can out to the street.

“Hey, neighbor!” I said, seizing on the opening and intercepting him by the curb.

“Hi, Jazz,” Aiden said. He was more casual today, in loose-fitting sweatpants and a T-shirt that accentuated his lean frame.

“Want to hear something funny?” I asked. “I needed dishwasher detergent yesterday, so I texted you to borrow some. But it turns out you gave me the wrong number.”

“Oh, wow,” he replied awkwardly.

“Don’t feel bad, it was a funny situation. The guy tried messing with me, but I immediately knew it wasn’t you.”

Aiden pointed over his shoulder with a thumb. “We’ve got detergent pods if you need some. I can run inside…”

“Too late: I already bought some on the way home from work. I usually don’t work Sundays, but I had to go in today.” It felt good to brag about my new job. Being a manager felt soadult. Maybe even more so than owning my own house.

“Ah, well if you ever need anything, just knock!” Aiden smiled politely and then started walking away.

“Wait,” I said. “Can I get your actual phone number, just in case I have another detergent emergency?”

“Um…” Aiden scratched at his dark hair. “Yeah, let me give you Bash’s number.”

“Why not yours?” I asked. “Or do you only give it out on Post-It notes attached to pies? I would be totally fine with that, by the way. That pie was incredible! Did you really bake it yourself?”

“My sister taught me to cook,” he replied with a shy smile. “It’s a relaxing activity for me. Especially baking.”

“You should open a bakery then, because that pie is professional grade. I would ask for the recipe, but my hips will explode if I eat a whole pie every weekend.”

He furrowed his brow. “Don’t say that. You look great.”

I smiled in spite of myself. “I wasn’t fishing for a compliment, but I appreciate it nonetheless.”

Aiden glanced at his watch. “I need to get started on dinner. Have a great night!”

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