Page 13 of Right Number, Wrong Man

HAILEY

With a war cry, I bust out of the door and start swinging.

The mop makes a wet schlopping noise as it hits something . I’m seriously impressed with my aim—maybe I missed my calling as an action star after all—until I notice the beige hat on the floor.

Shit. Not a murderer then.

Cue the awkward record scratch sound effect.

“For Christ’s sake, woman! What the hell are you doin’?” Colt grits out, his accent coming through thicker than usual. “Take this thing outta my face right now!” He swats at the mop, ripping it out of my grasp before tossing it to the floor.

I stand there, mouth open, staring at the sheen of dirty water on his skin.

He picks up his hat, brushing it off while he scowls at me.

His face is bright red, his chest heaves with furious breaths, and those blue eyes of his speak volumes.

Deadly volumes. It looks like he’s about to shoot ice lasers from them and turn me into a human popsicle.

That might be a better way to go out than whatever I’ve got coming.

Ha, I’m in trouble.

My knees are jelly. I’ve never seen him this mad and that’s a record, because Colt is always mad at me. And mad at the world. Mad at the universe.

He’s the angriest man I’ve met. Come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen him smile.

“You think this is funny?” he bites out. “What are you starin’ at?”

True, what am I staring at?

His messy, damp hair hanging into his eyes is kind of cute. He used to wear it shorter, but he’s grown it out into one of those 90s heartthrob cuts. Usually, it’s hidden under his hat, but it’s pretty sexy and accentuates his sharp jaw?—

Stop it, Hailey !

Why did Andrea put this stuff in my head? Colt being cute? Colt being sexy?!

I’m losing my mind.

His free hand clenches into a fist and I worry he’ll murder me with some black ops technique. Mike said Colt doesn’t speak about his deployments because he was part of a special task force. I bet he knows a million ways to kill someone and make it look like an accident.

My pussy aches.

Why is that hot? It shouldn’t be.

And what is with his clothes? Colt always wears button-down shirts and suit jackets with jeans and boots. Plus a hat, of course. Any variation of that outfit is like his civilian uniform and he never strays from it.

But now, he’s wearing a T-shirt with little buttons at the collar. And his belt—what the? The buckle is open. Where is his gun? He doesn’t leave the house without it. Ever .

Was he in the middle of changing when he came down here?

Colt smooths over his hair and puts on his hat, taking a step closer. My pulse ratchets up as I smell his spicy cologne with a hint of nutmeg and smoky wood.

That’s it. I steel myself. He’s going to fire me and I couldn’t be mad at him if he did. I would fire myself, too. I mean, who in their right mind attacks their boss with a mop?

Tears mist up my eyes.

No big deal. I’ll lose my job and then I’ll lose the apartment and soon I’ll be begging on the streets while Colt laughs at me?—

“Care to explain why you attacked me like a rabid animal?” he asks, pointing at the mop lying on the floor between us. It’s like a symbolic divide. Very fitting.

I clear my throat as I cross my arms. “Thought… you were… murderer…” I mumble.

Colt clicks his tongue and crosses his arms, too. I’m not sure if he’s mocking me by mimicking my stance, but I drop my arms to spoil his fun. Just in case.

A muscle in his jaw feathers. “Speak up! Normally people can hear you hollerin’ two counties over. Don’t be gettin’ all shy now.”

I roll my eyes.

“Your face has subtitles, Spitfire,” he drawls. “If I got a dollar for every time you roll your eyes at me, I’d be the richest man in the fuckin’ world.”

My cheeks flash with heat. Does he have to take that outrageously sexy tone with me? And what did he call me… Spitfire ?

Colt is scary when he’s angry, but right now the rage flickering in his gaze makes me want to push him over the edge. I want this controlled, stern man to lose it. Just once. There must be more to him than that unflappable facade.

What lurks beneath? And what would he do to me if he lost his temper?

“I. Thought. You. Were. A. Mur-de-rer,” I bite out, over-enunciating every syllable. “Got it now? Or are you as slow as your stupid Southern drawl?”

One corner of his mouth twitches up. It lasts only a second and if I didn’t see it with my own eyes, I would never believe it.

Was that the ghost of a smile?

“You were gonna fight off a killer with a mop ? The wet end, no less?” he asks, a hint of amusement in his tone.

“Should I have used my bare hands? Not everyone has special combat training like you. What do you think I could do with these things, huh?” I extend my hands and Colt’s eyes drop to them.

Suddenly I’m painfully aware of the pink flowers on my nails. I bet he hates them. He probably thinks they’re childish, but why should I care about his opinions?

I refuse to be embarrassed about what I like. Mike got away with shaming me for everything that brings me joy, but I won’t make myself small anymore.

I brace for a mean comment, but Colt reaches out. His calloused fingers close slowly around my right hand, gently turning it palm up.

The breath leaves my lungs.

What’s wrong with him? Is he drunk? Am I ? Because his touch is different from when he grabbed me by the counter earlier.

This feels tender. Sweet. And I thought those words weren’t in Colt’s vocabulary.

Nerves prickle where his rough thumb brushes over my palm, sending a current of lightning through me. Goosebumps rush up my bare arms and I pray he can’t tell.

My hormones are seriously messed up today. Must be ovulating.

“You’re right,” he says, voice gravelly and low. “A woman needs a way to defend herself. You ought to carry a gun.” His eyes flick up, fixing on mine, and my heart slams into my ribs when I realize his eyes don’t remind me of ice.

They’re like a blue flame, burning hotter than hot.

“But I-I don’t know how to use a gun,” I mumble.

Colt’s brows drag downward. “Mike never taught you how to shoot?”

“He didn’t even own a gun.”

“I knew that, but I told him a hundred times to take you to the range—” He flinches and his expression hardens as he releases my hand. “I’ll teach you.”

“What?” I stammer.

“And I’ll get you a gun, too.”

“Isn’t that illegal without a proper license?”

“You’re gonna quote the law at me, Spitfire?”

My breath hitches. There’s that nickname.

He probably means to mock me with it, but my brain blanks and heat climbs my face. Again. To be honest I never stopped blushing since he touched my hand.

But I don’t blush at Colton. I attempt to make his brain explode with evil glares. I yell at him. Sometimes I throw things at him, too. Mostly popcorn.

But I do not blush.

This must be a stress reaction with no deeper meaning.

“Dad taught Mike and me to shoot when we were boys. It’s no big deal,” Colt says. “Speaking of my folks, I talked to Momma on the phone this mornin’. She’s worried about you cause you ain’t answering her calls and texts. ”

A pit opens in my stomach. This is the last topic I want to talk about.

“I’ve been busy,” I lie.

His frown deepens. “Nobody’s too busy to answer a simple text. Takes thirty seconds.”

“Fine, I’ll call Sara Jean tomorrow morning. First thing.”

“Save yourself the trouble. I already told her you’re coming to dinner this Sunday.”

I huff. “You can’t just make that decision for me!”

Colt grabs my chin. He steps into me, making my pulse hiccup. I expect him to give me a lecture about being a good daughter-in-law, but his gaze softens and his voice comes out quiet.

“I know you hate me, but my parents have always done right by you. You’re part of the family and they already lost a son. Don’t make ‘em lose a daughter, too.”

My eyes prickle with tears. He’s right, but the words won’t come.

“On Sunday, let’s call a truce for one night,” he says and smirks.

He actually, really smirks. Full-on .

Butterflies rise in my belly.

This isn’t good. Colt isn’t simply handsome when he smiles. That grin should be registered as a weapon because my heart stumbles like he shot right through it.

“I’ll pick you up at five. We’ll drive to my folks and I’ll take you home after dinner. Monday you can go back to hatin’ my guts and drivin’ me crazy with your bratty mouth. Deal?” he asks, tilting his head like a puppy.

But not sweetly like a Golden Retriever puppy. More like a Doberman. They do say a Golden Retriever wags his tail for anyone, but a Doberman?—

Shut up brain!

I manage to nod. “Okay…”

He lets go, but I can still feel his touch branded into my skin like an invisible mark.

“My folks will be happy to see you,” Colt says casually as if he didn’t just cast a spell on me with that grin. He picks up the mop and gestures to the hallway. “I’ll finish cleaning duty. You go on home. It’s late.”

Colt is doing me a favor? Now I’m thinking he isn’t drunk, but rather sick.

Very, very sick.

Did I do serious damage with the mop? I heard stories where people develop super strength in a stressful situation and lift a car or something. In my defense, I did think I was being attacked by a serial killer.

Oh God, did I give him a brain bleed?

“Do you need a doctor?” I blurt out.

His head jerks. “Come again?”

“Uh, nothing.” I suck on my cheeks, staring at him.

On second thought, he’s probably fine. Too fine.

Colt holds my gaze like an unblinking lunatic, as if he expects me to say something more. Anxiety whips through me. I should say something. Change the topic.

“What were you doing in the projector room with your belt unbuckled and what was that loud crash?” I ask, finally remembering why I came out here in the first place.

A flash of something crosses his face. If it was any other person, I’d think that expression is panic, but I’m pretty sure he’s incapable of that emotion.

He pats his pocket. “I was gettin’ ready to shower when I realized my wallet was gone.

Reckoned I lost it at work cause that’s the only place I’ve been today—and what do ya know?

It was in the projector room. Must’ve dropped it while I organized the film rolls this afternoon.

And then when I picked it up, I knocked over a wobbly shelf with all kinds of random shit on it.

That’s what you heard.” His lips press into a line.

“I should get to cleaning and fixing that mess or I’ll still be here tomorrow. ”

Colt turns and disappears through the door to the screening room while I gawp after him.

This whole interaction was like a wacky dream and I sigh as I drag myself to the employee break room to grab my bag. If only it was a dream. Would it be classified as a nightmare? I haven’t settled on that yet, but I agreed to drive with Colt to his parents and to let him teach me how to shoot.

I’m in for a world of pain.