Page 1 of Wrong Number. Right Don.
1
NICOLE
Hey, asshole. Did you seriously just leave while I was in the bathroom?
I stand on the side of the road, arms crossed over my chest, glaring at my phone like it personally betrayed me. The chilly night air bites at my exposed skin, as my little black dress offers zero protection against the elements. But I’m too pissed to care. I can’t believe this actually happened to me. My date freaking bailed in the middle of dinner.
I don’t expect an immediate reply. Honestly, I don’t expect a reply at all. So when my phone vibrates in my hand a second later, my heart gives a stupid little lurch. Maybe there’s a logical explanation. Maybe his mom called with an emergency. I’m a nurse, so I could understand that. I’m not remotely prepared for the lame-ass excuse that pops up.
Who’s this?
I blink at the screen. What the actual hell? First he bails, now he’s playing dumb? I’m poised to unleash several choice words when a horrific thought hits me. I double-check the number Isaved from the dating app, and a chill washes over me. Shit. I transposed two numbers.
Uh, I think I have the wrong number. Ignore me.
I move to lock my phone and hail a taxi, but another message comes through.
Too late. I’m intrigued.
A shiver runs down my spine, and this time, it has nothing to do with the cold.
I chew my lip, considering. I have no idea who this person is, whether they’re even a man or a woman. But I’m still wired from the adrenaline rush of being abandoned mid-date, and a little conversation won’t kill me.
Intrigued by what? Some random woman cussing out her bad date? Not much of a story.
Depends. What’s my competition look like?
I snort. The man bailed while I was reapplying my lip gloss, leaving a half-finished cocktail and zero explanation. He’s hardly competition for anyone.
Unless you’re a cowardly man who sneaks off when your date used the restroom, there’s no contest.
So I win by default.
The sheer cockiness makes me laugh. My irritation evaporates, replaced by amused curiosity, as I slide into the cab idling at the curb. Once I’m settled, I turn back to the conversation.
That depends. What exactly did you win?
I won the chance to prove to you that not all men are spineless idiots.
I can’t deny the man has game. I have a decision now. I could keep up the flirtation with some random, faceless stranger, or block this number, go home, and drown my sorrows in a bottle of wine.
I shift in the back seat and feel a surge of boldness I haven’t tasted in ages. Flirty texting it is.
Bold assumption. Maybe I was only looking for a one-night stand.
So you want a spineless asshole sleeping in your bed tonight?
My stomach tightens as embarrassment washes over me. Who is this stranger to question what kind of man I take home? I’m tempted again to just block his number and call it a night, but I can’t help but fire back.
Who’s to say I would want a guy like you sleeping in my bed?
If I were in your bed, there wouldn’t be much sleeping happening. And I happen to have a very sturdy spine.
I bite my lip, grinning at the screen. Who is this guy? When the cab stops, the driver barely glances up as I pay and slip out. Phone in hand, I walk toward my apartment.
A smooth talker, eh? That only works on me if you look good doing it.
A photo comes through, and even though it shows only half his face and the broad planes of his chest, it does wicked things to me.
