Page 5 of Wrong Number, Right Billionaire (Wrong Number, Right Guy #7)

CHANTAY

T he week passes in a blur of nervous energy and constant texting. Max sends me photos of Ghost stealing his breakfast and Ranger attempting to help with paperwork. I send him pictures of my coffee attempts and Maya rolling her eyes at my phone checking.

By Friday afternoon, I'm a mess of anticipation and terror.

"You're going to wear a hole in the floor," Maya observes from my couch. "And you've changed outfits four times."

"I am insane. I'm meeting a stranger I've known for a week who's flying across the country to see me."

"It's also textbook romantic." Maya adjusts my necklace. "You've been happier this week than I've seen you in years."

"What if it's not the same in person? What if we have nothing to talk about?"

"Then you'll know. But what if it's even better?"

I smooth my hands over the emerald-green dress I finally settled on. Sophisticated but not too formal, shows off my curves without being obvious.

"What if he takes one look at me and realizes he made a mistake?"

"What if you take one look at him and realize you're falling in love?"

"Love? Maya, I've known him for a week."

"Time doesn't determine feelings, Chantay. Connection does."

My phone buzzes.

Max: Just landed. On my way to the hotel to check in. Still good for dinner at seven?

My stomach flips.

Me: Still good. Though I'm officially terrified.

Max: Good terrified or bad terrified?

Me: Is there a difference?

Max: Good terrified means you care enough to be nervous. Bad terrified means you want to run.

Me: Definitely good terrified then.

Max: Me too. See you at seven, beautiful.

An hour later, I'm standing outside Bacchanalia, checking my lipstick for the third time. Max suggested this place after I said I wanted somewhere special.

My phone buzzes.

Max: I'm here. Standing by the hostess station wearing a navy suit and probably looking as nervous as you feel.

I take a deep breath and walk through the doors. The restaurant is dimly lit, intimate tables scattered throughout, exactly the kind of place that encourages meaningful connections.

I scan the hostess station and freeze.

Standing there is the most gorgeous man I've ever seen in person. Tall, probably six two, with dark hair and broad shoulders that fill out his navy suit perfectly. When he looks up from his phone, our eyes meet across the restaurant, and I feel the impact like a physical blow.

His eyes are green, just like I imagined, but seeing them in person is completely different. They're intelligent, intense, and currently focused on me with an expression that makes my knees weak.

This is Max. My mountain man. And he's absolutely devastating.

He starts walking toward me, and I can see recognition hit his face. His expression shifts from nervous anticipation to something warmer, deeper.

"Chantay," he says when he reaches me. Hearing my name in his voice makes my pulse skip.

"Max." I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "You're... taller than I expected."

"You're more beautiful than I imagined. And I had a pretty vivid imagination."

Heat creeps up my neck. "Should we..." I gesture toward the restaurant.

"Right. Yes. Dinner." He places his hand on the small of my back, and the contact sends electricity through my body.

The hostess seats us at a corner table. Max pulls out my chair, a gesture that feels perfectly natural.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet me," he says as he settles across from me.

"Thank you for flying across the country. No one's ever done anything like that for me."

"Their loss."

We order wine and gradually settle into the same easy connection we found through text.

"So," I say, taking a sip of the excellent Pinot Noir, "you clean up very well for a mountain hermit."

He laughs. "I do own clothes that aren't flannel."

"This suit definitely doesn't suggest flannel. You look like you could be on the cover of a magazine."

"What kind of magazine?"

"The kind that features successful, gorgeous men who make women forget their own names."

His smile turns slightly self-conscious. "I think you're giving me too much credit."

"I don't think I'm giving you enough." I lean forward. "Max, you're not what I expected."

"How so?"

"Just different. More sophisticated than I imagined. More... polished."

Something flickers in his expression. "Is that a problem?"

"No, it's just... I was expecting someone more rustic. More obviously mountain man and less obviously successful businessman."

"What makes you think I'm a successful businessman?"

"The way you carry yourself. The way you chose wine without looking at prices. The fact that your suit probably costs more than my monthly rent. Are you sure you're just a wildlife consultant?"

"Why would I lie about what I do?"

"I don't know. Maybe you're secretly wealthy and don't want women dating you for money?"

He nearly chokes on his wine. "That's... very specific."

"Am I right?"

"I'm comfortable. I've been lucky with investments. But my primary work is still wildlife management."

It's not technically a lie, but something suggests there's more to the story. Still, I don't want to interrogate him on our first meeting.

"Well, whatever you do, it's working for you," I say. "You seem happy."

"I was settled. Happy is... newer."

"Newer how?"

"Newer as in the past week. Since a beautiful woman accidentally sent me a photo and turned my quiet life upside down."

"Just the past week?"

"Just the past week. Before that, I thought I had everything figured out."

"And now?"

"Now I'm sitting in a restaurant with someone who makes me want things I didn't know I was missing."

"What kind of things?"

His eyes meet mine. "Partnership. Conversation that challenges me. Someone to share the view from my mountain with."

"Someone to share everything with."

The waiter arrives, breaking the spell. But as we discuss appetizers, I'm acutely aware of Max's every movement. The way his hands gesture when he talks. The way he listens with complete attention.

"Can I ask you something?" I say after the waiter leaves.

"Anything."

"Why me? You could have just deleted the photo and moved on. Why did you keep talking to me?"

He considers this seriously. "Because you were real. From your first message, you were completely yourself. No games, no pretense. Do you have any idea how rare that is?"

"Rare how?"

"Most people want something from me. Or they're performing some version of themselves. But you just were yourself."

"Even when myself was mortified and rambling?"

"Especially then." His smile is soft. "Chantay, I've never met anyone who made me feel as comfortable being myself as you do."

"Even though we've only known each other a week?"

"Even though. Time doesn't matter when the connection is real."

I reach across the table and cover his hand with mine. "I feel the same way. Like I've been waiting for you without knowing it."

He turns his hand palm up, threading our fingers together. "What are we doing here, Chantay?"

"Something that scares me and excites me in equal measure."

"Scared in a good way?”

"Definitely in a good way."

The food arrives, and we spend the next hour talking about everything. His stories about Ghost and Ranger. My dating disasters. His love for the mountains. My complicated relationship with city life.

"Dessert?" the waiter asks when our plates are cleared.

"Actually," Max says, looking at me with an expression that makes my pulse race, "would you like to take a walk? There's something I'd like to ask you."

"A walk sounds perfect."

He pays despite my protests, and soon we're strolling through downtown Atlanta, his jacket draped over my shoulders.

"So," I say, acutely aware of how close he's walking, "what did you want to ask me?"

"How long can you stay out tonight?"

The question makes me stumble slightly, and he steadies me. "How long do you want me to stay out?"

"Honestly? Forever. But I'll settle for however long you're comfortable with."

"Forever might be ambitious for a first date."

"This doesn't feel like a first date."

"What does it feel like?"

He stops walking and turns to face me, his hands settling on my waist. "It feels like you were made for me."

And then he's kissing me.

His lips are soft but sure, moving against mine with confidence that makes my knees weak. I melt into him, my hands fisting in his jacket, pulling him closer. The kiss deepens, and I can taste wine and something uniquely him.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.

"Wow," I whisper.

"Wow," he agrees, his forehead resting against mine. "Chantay?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm falling for you. Hard and fast and completely."

"Good," I say, rising on my toes to brush my lips against his again. "Because I'm falling for you too."

"What do we do about it?"

"We figure it out as we go along."

"Together?"

"Together," I confirm, and seal the promise with another kiss that makes me believe in possibilities I never thought were meant for me.