“I won’t stop you.”
He immediately smirked and his eyes got that rowdy spark. “Really.”
Oh, damn. I’d meant it to mean suit yourself or do what you want I don’t care, but it totally came out as a feel-free-to-nap-with-me purr. I tried to sound unaffected as I took off my second shoe and said, “Really. As long as I’m on your pillow-soft bed, I don’t care what you do.”
His eyes raked over me, from the top of my head to my little bare toes, and I felt it like a physical touch. He let out a big exhale, shook his head like he didn’t know what was happening, and turned and left, closing the door behind him.
7
Olivia
“Follow me.”
I walked behind the hostess as she led us to a table, trying not to grit my teeth as I felt Paul do the whole guiding-me-by-my-lower-back thing. Like I didn’t know how to get there without his assistance. When my alarm had gone off, I’d seriously considered canceling, but then I remembered we were going to Upstream, and my stomach talked my brain out of it.
Once we sat down, the waitress appeared, and before I had a chance to even think about the menu, Paul said, “Can we get a couple coffees? And we’re both having the buffet.”
He wasn’t wrong, but he’d ordered for me without asking first.
Which made him absolutely wrong, right?
“Should we go get some food?” Paul smiled and gestured to the brunch buffet on the other side of the restaurant. “I’m starving.”
“Me too.” I stood and told myself to relax. Just because he probably wasn’t Mr. Right didn’t mean he couldn’t be fun to hang out with. “Let’s do it.”
We hit the buffet hard, filling our plates until they were heaping. He visited the crepe bar, the omelet bar, and the chef-carved roast beef bar, whereas I just dished up a grip of bacon, two donuts, and a mountain of country potatoes. When we finally got seated, I glanced at my phone—which I’d left on the table next to my water—and there was a message from Mr. Wrong Number.
Mr. Wrong Number: What are you doing?
Me: Can’t talk; on a brunch date.
Mr. Wrong Number: On a scale of 1-10?
Me: Too early to tell. At a buffet, so our mouths are too full to actually converse.
“Ahem.”
I glanced up and Paul was looking at me. He had on a backward ball cap again, this time with his Oakleys parked on top, and I wondered if he was balding. Not that I cared, but two times in a row made me wonder if he was hiding something. I tried for my best contrite look and said, “Sorry.”
I set down the phone and picked up my fork. “So, um, Paul. Tell me all your stuff. Where’d you grow up, what do you do, have you ever murdered, are you in a cult, that sort of thing.”
He took a bite of a croissant and said while chewing, “Grew up here, work in sales, like I’d really tell you, and only the cult of Husker football.”
I nodded and scooped up a pile of potatoes. “So you’re basically my brother.”
My phone buzzed again. I could see who it was, and it was killing me not to pick it up.
“If he’s awesome, then yes.” Paul dipped his crepe into some ketchup—what the hell?—and said, “Your turn.”
“Grew up here, writer for the Times, I’ve only murdered people who deserved it, and no cult action to date.”
We drifted into small talk, and Paul seemed like a good guy. He started talking about his job, and I couldn’t stop myself from checking my phone really quickly while smiling and nodding.
Mr. Wrong Number: You alive?
Mr. Wrong Number: Did your brunch date murder you?
I glanced up, and Paul had barely noticed my mental absence. “—so it’s kind of a temporary thing.”
I nodded. “Yeah, totally get that. Um, I’m going to run to the restroom. I’ll be right back.”
I stuck my phone in the pocket of my dress and scurried to the bathroom. The minute the door shut behind me, my phone was in my hand.
Me: Still alive. He gave me the YOU DARE TO TEXT look so I put my phone away.
Mr. Wrong Number: He’s not your dad. Text if you want to text.
Me: How do you know he’s not my dad?
Mr. Wrong Number: Ew. How is the date going?
Me: Meh. Like, he’s attractive and hasn’t pissed me off, but he reminds me of my brother so . . .
Mr. Wrong Number: Oof.
Me: Oof indeed.
Mr. Wrong Number: I have a great idea.
I rolled my eyes but giggled. Proceed.
Mr. Wrong Number: Go back to the date, but keep texting me. See how many texts it takes for him to say something. I’m betting on ten.