Page 94 of Mr. Wrong Number

Jack was staying over at Vanessa’s, so not only was I making dinner for Olivia, but I was really looking forward to having her stay the night. I’d casually brought it up, expecting her to balk since she seemed to like our strict no-sleepover arrangement, but she’d shocked me by saying that she wanted to.

For some reason, inviting her to my condo as... whatever the hell she was now, felt like a big deal. I’d lived with her for a month, but we’d never shared the space as anything more than friends who didn’t really like each other.

Things had changed. A lot.

My phone vibrated, which meant that she was probably home. She’d been offered the job after her interview—no surprise there because it was a brilliant idea and she was a greatwriter—but she’d texted that she was sticking around for a while to meet the staff and tour the building.

Olivia:Just got home and I’m starving. What time is dinner?

Me:DON’T EAT.

Olivia:Well if we aren’t eating for like an hour, I’m going to nibble or I’ll starve.

Me:No nibbling. Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.

Olivia:Oh, thank God. I’ll be right there.

I’d come to the realization on my run that morning, after being sexually harassed by Liv from her balcony as I’d stretched, that things were kind of serious. I mean, technically not, since she’d yet to call me her boyfriend and still hadn’t invited me to stay the night, but they were serious for me, and I suspected for her, too. She was the first thing I thought of when I woke up in the morning, the last thing before I fell asleep. I would blow off anything to be with her, because everything was brighter when Olivia was around.

She was funny, messy, clumsy, smart, and the sexiest human I’d ever met.

The toughest thing to swallow was that neither of us had changed. Liv was exactly the same as she’d always been, but I’d never looked hard enough to see all the amazingness around the mess. And I suspected it was the same for her, too, because God knows I was just as big of an ass as I’d ever been.

“Knock, knock.” She walked in and immediately kicked offthe shiny black pumps that made her legs look ridiculous. “What are you feeding me?”

“Pepperoni casserole. Tell me about the job.”

“Um.” She opened the fridge and grabbed a Vanilla Bean Blonde before hopping up on the counter beside where I was slicing the garlic bread. I glanced at her and she grinned before popping the top on the wall bottle opener and taking a sip. “I’m terrified because it sounds unbelievably perfect.”

“Money’s good?” I didn’t want to minimize the importance of liking the job, but she was so passionate about the role she’d probably work for free.

“Not Colin Beck good, but yes.” Her smile was so big it was almost a laugh. “I’ll be making more than I was at theTimesand the benefits are better.”

“Atta girl.” I set down the bread knife and wiped my hands on the towel I’d set on the counter. “When do you start?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I leaned my head down and kissed her happy mouth. “That’s soon.”

“They asked when I could start, and I was half-joking when I said tomorrow, and they were all ‘awesome,’ and I was all ‘awesome,’ and it was amazing.”

I laughed with her—it was contagious—and went over to take the casserole out of the oven. “If you want to sleep at your apartment tonight, I totally get it.”

“Oh, my God, Beck, if you think you’re getting out of letting me sleep in that bed of yours, you’ve got another thing coming.”

I pulled out the bubbling pasta pan and set it on the stove. “So it’s about my bed, then, not me?”

“I mean, you’re an orgasmic bonus, but yeah—I’ve missed that king-sized dreamboat.” She took another sip and added, “Besides, you get up at like five thirty so I’ll have plenty of time to scuttle home and get ready.”

“Isn’t scuttling what cockroaches do?”

“Among other vermin, yes.” She hopped off the counter, put her hands on her hips, and said, “Do you want me to, um, get out some dishes or pour some... cognac or something?”

“Cognac or something?”

She rolled her eyes and opened the cupboard where the dishes were. “I don’t know what people like you do when you have dinner dates. Multiple forks and brandy snifters? Cloth napkins and flaming appetizers?”

“Y’know, Marshall,” I said, never sure if she actually thought I was a pompous prick or if she was just messing with me, “just because I have a good job doesn’t mean I’m automatically a douche.”

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