Page 31 of Right Number, Wrong Man

HAILEY

Hands wrapped in dish towels, I take the hot tray out of the oven and inhale the sweet scent of fresh croissants. They’ll go perfectly with the jar of homemade raspberry jam Sara Jean gave me.

I turn toward the kitchen table and hold the tray in front of my laptop’s camera. “What’s the verdict?” I ask, but I can already tell the answer from the serene smile on my mom’s face.

“They look delicious, honey! I can practically smell them through the screen.” She waves a hand under her nose and her colorful, beaded bangles rattle.

I laugh, putting the tray on top of the stove. “You said the same thing last time when I forgot them in the oven and they came out black!”

Mom shrugs, sheepishly brushing a strand of long, white hair behind her ear. “I keep telling you there is no point in negativity, Hailey. You might as well drink poison. We can only grow if we make mistakes and that burnt batch was the seed for your growth.”

I roll my eyes. Mom isn’t even a tiny bit disappointed that I didn’t inherit her talent for baking, which could be considered strange for the woman who ran the local bakery with Dad. The name Linda & Tommy’s Loaf Story used to be known all over town.

But she’s just different.

Both my parents are… different . It’s impossible to argue with them.

As a teen, trying to make them mad was my favorite hobby, but I always failed hilariously. Even when I got my tattoo, they commended me for my bold and creative self-expression.

“You have this glow about you,” Mom says out of the blue. “Do you have a new man?”

I flush, clenching my thighs and a dull ache throbs in my core.

“Jeez, Mom! No!” I squeak.

I can’t tell her the truth. Every guy in my life feels like a complex math problem and I’m back in class getting an F.

“Dad and I just want you to be happy. We’re worried about you being alone. Humans are pack animals and too much loneliness is toxic waste to our souls. Is there really nobody special?” she presses.

God, where would I even start?

Y es, Mom, I’ve been hooking up with this stranger whose face I’ve never seen.

It’s the best sex I’ve ever had! He violated me in a parking lot and then he almost drowned me while he fucked my ass.

I haven’t been able to walk or think straight since, but he did leave painkillers for me after… isn’t that sweet?!

I’d rather sit on a cactus than tell Mom about Jax.

Next, there’s Colt, whose face pops into my head like a goddamn jumpscare when I least expect it—like in the shower. I’ve been avoiding him because I can’t figure out what to make of him. My whole world view has crumbled since I discovered it was Mike’s prank, not Colt’s .

Is he an asshole or not? The jury is still out.

And then there’s Justin—my unfortunate date for Andrea’s wedding—but he isn’t boyfriend material and therefore not worth mentioning. Justin is the fast food of dates. Easy, convenient, and right there. Nothing special, but it’ll do.

I texted him the details for the party last night and judging by his instant triple texts back, he seemed very excited.

I felt guilty for never calling him. That’s the main reason I asked him out, but there’s also the bet with Andrea. I don’t have the spare cash for a crate of her favorite wine and what’s the harm in one date? Worst case, I’ll have to suffer through some hours of awkward conversations.

“Is that a new linen dress?” I ask my mom, trying to steer the conversation away from my irregular love life. “Are you going somewhere special this morning?”

“Yes, the community center downtown has a class on guided meditation today. Oh, that reminds me!” She squints at the screen. “Gosh, it’s so late already!” She jumps up, throwing air kisses at the camera. “I’m sorry, honey, but I have to go or I’ll miss the beginning.”

I wave. “Have fun and give Dad my love!”

She waves back before the connection cuts off and I shut the laptop, looking around my quiet kitchen. I’m not one for meditation or spiritualism, but I have my own state of zen right here.

I put on coffee before taking a plate from the kitchen cabinet. Humming, I pluck a croissant off the tray and plop it on the plate. While I have breakfast, I’ll stream that new British slasher movie that just released. For lunch, I could order my favorite green curry or?—

The shrill echo of the doorbell rips me out of my peaceful mood. I trip, stubbing my little toe on the table.

“Crap!” I howl and put the plate on the counter to rub my throbbing foot.

The bell rings again.

“Okay, okay, I heard it the first time, asshole! Calm the fuck down!” I shout.

So much for fucking zen.

I stomp to the front door and rip it open, but the person on the other side has my pulse leaping into my throat.

Colt stands with his arms behind his back, brows quirking. A smirk tugs on his lips and my stomach flutters. He should really smile more often. Not at me though.

He should never smile at me again because it makes me feel like my heart is falling out of my coochie.

“Somebody’s grumpy this mornin’,” he says, blue eyes sparkling like sapphires from under the brim of his hat.

I huff, raising my arms and dropping them to my thighs with a dramatic slap. “Not until you rang the bell like a lunatic. It’s Saturday fucking morning! I could’ve dropped my croissant, asshat!”

He chuckles. “Maybe this’ll put you in a better mood, Spitfire.

” From behind his back, he takes a cup holder from my favorite coffee shop.

“Two iced raspberry caramel macchiatos. Five pumps of raspberry syrup, milk, double espresso, whipped cream, and extra caramel syrup on top. Exactly how you like ‘em.”

Heat rises from my neck to my face. Colt knows my custom coffee order?

He saw me get it once when Mike and I met with him last December. I vividly remember the day because Mike mocked me for having an iced drink in winter, but I didn’t think Colt was paying attention.

“Those aren’t on the menu,” I point out.

He shrugs. “Nope, they ain’t.”

“And why do you have two?”

“Since you love ‘em so much they must be special and I thought I should try one. I waited for you, though. Didn’t wanna start without you.”

I snort. “Mike wouldn’t have been caught dead with a pink coffee. He said real men don’t like that cutesy stuff.” I flinch. “Oh, no. That was inappropriate! You guys had a complicated relationship but he’s your brother and he’s actually dead and here I go saying he wouldn’t be caught dead?—”

“ Real men don’t give a shit about the opinion of others. Only an insecure little boy would think drinking pink coffee makes him less manly,” Colt bites out.

His large hand wraps around one cup and he lifts it to his mouth. He looks adorable, sipping from the purple polka dot straw with a scowl on his face.

“Now, this shit is fuckin’ delicious , Spitfire,” he says and drinks some more. “My brother was an idiot.”

“Your words, not mine. Fine, come on in then. I’ll trade the other raspberry macchiato for some fresh croissants.”

He shuffles his feet, teeth digging into his bottom lip. “As tempting as that sounds, I thought we could drink them on the way. How ‘bout you pack up some croissants for the drive?”

I hold up a hand. “Wait, you lost me. On the way to where ? Did I forget an appointment?”

“You didn’t forget anything. This is me being… spontaneous. Learnin’ to cut loose.” His deep, soft laugh has my belly flipping. “I hoped the coffee could bribe you into some gun training.”

My eyes widen. I look Colt up and down. He’s ready to go in his dark jeans and plaid button-down shirt, his pistol at his belt. And then the unthinkable happens. Instead of telling him to go back to whatever icy hell he crawled out of, I smile .

“You know what… Why not? Let’s go!” I grab my keys from the rack and try to step outside, but Colt blocks my path. “What now?” I ask, my earlier impatience returning.

“I think you ought to change first. Pink slippers and a fluffy bathrobe ain’t an appropriate outfit to learn about gun safety.”

My face catches fire. How could I forget that I literally stumbled out of bed before baking croissants and calling my mom? I’m glad he didn’t see my Hey Kitty nightgown, but he surely noticed the bird’s nest on my head.

He clears his throat, smirking. “Looks cute, though.”

Is he mocking me?

“That’s rich coming from the guy wearing a cowboy hat and boots two thousand miles from Texas. Do you think you’re the star in a country music video?” I fake gag.

“It’s called timeless style, brat,” he shoots back, still grinning.

“It’s called looking like a douchebag.”

“A handsome douchebag.”

“Why does every Southern man with the slow talking and the lazy smirks think he’s God’s gift to the women of this world?”

He shrugs, sipping his coffee. “Because you ladies can’t help swoonin’ at our charm.”

“If by swooning you mean trying not to throw up on myself , then yes. I’m totally swooning.”

I snatch the untouched cup and rush back into my apartment. “If your ego fits through the doorframe, you can sit in the kitchen while I get dressed, cowboy ,” I shout, halfway down the hallway. I can’t look at him right now.

“Yee-haw! Yes, ma’am!” he yells before I close the bedroom door behind me.

Who was swooning? Not me. I must be allergic to his cologne and that’s why my throat is tight and my heart pounds.

Disgruntled, I sip on my raspberry macchiato and groan.

It’s perfect. God, I hate that.

I press the cold cup against my hot cheek, and surprisingly, I don’t sizzle.

I don’t like this nice new Colt. Asshole Colt is easy to handle because I know where I stand with him, but sweet Colt has my head spinning.

I hope I can get through today without losing my mind or getting shot.