“Oof.” I crossed my arms and noticed the wall clock behind him. I was down to five minutes before Will showed up with the boys. “Well, you better get going so you’re not late.”
“I’ve got plenty of ti—”
“No, you don’t, because you need to buy her a bouquet of flowers on the way.” I grabbed his keys from the hook on the wall and held them out. “Get going.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Why? What are you doing?”
I gave him an exaggerated eye roll. “Oh, my God, nothing, you paranoid freak. You need to get to dinner, and I’m looking forward to having a little peace and quiet. Sue me for trying to make it all happen.”
His eyes moved over my face, hot blue and commanding of my attention, before he relented. “I’m going to go now, but only because I feel like you really need some time alone. Enjoy the quiet, okay?”
And just like that, he left. Whew. That was close.
Will showed up three minutes later and dropped off the boys.
Which was exactly what I needed. We played with trains for a little bit, and then we lay on the floor and watched Paw Patrol.
I texted Mr. Wrong Number small bursts of conversation with the goal of lighting up his phone enough to finally get him to respond, but also didn’t really expect a response at this point, which I hated to admit I was disappointed about.
Me: I’m assuming you’re dead now, Wrong Number, but I’m going to need some confirmation.
Me: Paw Patrol is making me wish I was dead.
Me: What kind of a town relies on a teenage boy and his animals to save them?
Me: Rubble is my favorite Paw Patrol dog, FYI.
I literally gasped when my phone buzzed and I could see that it was from him. I think a tiny part of me actually expected a text from his mother informing me of his coma. I clicked on the message and held my breath.
Mr. Wrong Number: Sorry, can’t talk. On a date.
On a different day, I probably would’ve let him off the hook. Virtually any other time would’ve ensured my dutiful obedience. But after the pepper spray run-in with the creeper, I was done with men and their shenanigans.
He was going to engage in some conversation, dammit.
Me: On a scale of 1-10, is she a brilliant conversationalist?
He didn’t respond until twenty minutes later.
Mr. Wrong Number: I only have a sec because she had to go fix her contact in the bathroom. The answer to your question is that she’s a very aggressive conversationalist, if that makes sense.
Me: It does.
Me: How well do you know Miss Date?
Mr. Wrong Number: Talked to her for 10 mins at a drunk party.
Me: Well. You could always give her the Ultimate Dating Filter Screen. Cut your losses if she fails.
Mr. Wrong Number: Please explain.
Me: Okay. For example. I like to suggest doing something really bonkers that would require my date’s effort. Like, “We should drive to the airport, park just outside the end of the runway, and watch the planes from the hood of the car.”
Mr. Wrong Number: How the hell would that help me right now?
Me: Because in my opinion, there are two types of people. Those who are so happy to be spending time with you that they’re down for anything, and those who are not. If she says she can’t because of her hair or her shoes or because she has to be up early in the morning, she isn’t a girl who will ever just roll with it.
Mr. Wrong Number: That makes a weird kind of sense.
Me: Do it. I dare you.
Mr. Wrong Number: I’ll be back.
I set down the phone and watched about thirty seconds of Paw Patrol before the boys wanted me to turn on Frozen II and get them snacks. I popped some of the popcorn Dana had stuck in their diaper bag, and then the three of us shared it on Colin’s fancy leather couch.
Thank God he wasn’t home to see that.
Colin
“I can’t believe our buildings are so close!”
I couldn’t, either. I just couldn’t believe it. I said, “Small world, right?”
“Ohmigod, we could totally walk to work together when it’s nice out.”
“I don’t think you’d like my hours.” We stopped in front of my door and I got out my key. “But who knows?”
I had no idea why I was bringing her home. I’d never really been the kind of guy to bring a girl home on the first date, definitely not since college, so it was a mystery why I was introducing Harper to my residence at this point. In the back of my brain alarm bells were going off, drawing arrows to the fact that Olivia was going to be in the condo, but my brain had been misfiring a lot lately, so what the hell did it know?