Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Brother’s Best Friend (Wrong Number, Right Grump #15)

CHAPTER ONE

Lynn

I keep one hand on the wheel and my eyes fixed on the road with the flip phone in my free hand on my thigh.

It’s been three months since I downgraded to an old Samsung.

The kind with the push button keyboard and zero bells and whistles.

No camera, no social media, no apps to distract me.

It’s the reboot my brain needed to simplify my life and live in the moment.

The raised number keys are easy enough to find by feel, but spelling anything takes concentration and an absurd amount of patience.

I press the keys one deliberate click at a time, counting each tap and pausing between letters that share the same button, so the phone recognizes that I’m moving on to the next one.

Almost there. Bad idea. – Lynn

It takes forever. Two clicks here, another there, shifting my thumb from one familiar bump to the next while I mentally spell my way through the message.

I don’t have to look to know what I’m typing.

That’s the one advantage this prehistoric brick has over a touchscreen—the buttons are real and clickable.

After three months, I’ve had enough practice, I can almost type a typo free text.

Though, when I pass the street I’m supposed to turn on, I don’t recall the last four lights I just went through while blindly following the car in front of me.

Oopsie.

The phone rings and I answer immediately. Maybe he’s canceling and I won’t have to go through with this stupid blind date thing.

“You’re doing it again, aren’t you?” Briar reprimands me with that tone she gets when she knows she’s right.

“No,” I say, sheepishly. “I was at a stoplight.”

“Lynn...” She draws out my name, and I’m surprised she doesn’t use my full name like my mother does. “Don’t lie. You know the rule. Never lie to your doctor, the IRS, or your best friend.”

“I know, I know. You got me.” I frown.

She’s right, I know better than to text while driving. I’d feel awful if something bad happened.

“Pulling into the parking lot now.” I pull into a spot and put the car in park.

“Text me where you are and his name again,” she says, always the mother hen. “I’ll need it for the police report if he turns out to be a serial killer.”

“Don’t say that.” I’m already feeling iffy about this whole thing.

I should never have said yes to tonight, but I couldn’t think of a good enough excuse to say no.

I mean, it’s weird when a job interview turns into a semi-blind date.

The job turned out to be a pyramid scheme with door-to-door sales.

Not for me. When I turned the job down, the bossman sent his receptionist out with a message that he’d like to see me socially.

Is that what we’re calling dates now? I thought ‘talking to a guy’ was the equivalent of dating. Or at least concentrated interest.

Briar snickers. “Good luck.

“If luck is what it takes to snag a decent guy for a change, I’ll take all of it I can get.” I check my teeth in the mirror and grab my purse.

“You have to kiss a lot of toads before you find a prince,” she says. “When the right one comes along, you’ll know.”

“That’ll take a miracle,” I sigh. “My track record isn’t so good.”

“Don’t forget about karma and happy accidents,” she reassures me. “Let’s just hope when your Mr. Right comes along, he’s a little indecent, too.”

She snickers before ending the call.

Geez. I scroll through my contacts and get as far as B-R-I when a sharp rap against the window makes me jump. I look up and my date, Charles, is standing beside the car. I roll down the window, keeping my eyes on him while I count down one more click and open the text box.

“Place looks pretty busy,” he says, glancing toward the restaurant. “We should go somewhere else. We can take my car.”

My thumb continues moving over the raised keys in my lap as he talks. My neck prickles while I finish the last few clicks by feel and hit send.

“This place is fine.” I smile, keeping my hesitation in check, and reach for the door handle. “I don’t mind waiting.”

Rule number one for blind dates and anything under three dates: never go to a second location and absolutely never get in his car.

Ten minutes at the bar is all it takes for the little hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end.

He isn’t a bad man, but he’s definitely not dating material. He starts the conversation by telling me about his “crazy” ex before we’ve even ordered drinks. She was needy, changed her mind about everything, and could never figure out what she wanted to do with her life. His words, not mine.

Every complaint he has about her lands a little too close to home for me. But it’s the way he talks about her that bothers me more. Like every problem in their relationship was hers instead of sharing the blame.

He lifts two fingers and waves them at the bartender. “Hey, buddy. We’ve been waiting.”

Which we haven’t, but the bartender gives us a quick nod as he finishes another order.

“You’ve got to try their smoked bourbon thing,” Charles tells me. “It’s amazing.”

“I’m not much of a bourbon drinker,” I say. “I like their Cosmo.”

“You don’t want a Cosmo.” Charles laughs like I’ve made a joke. When the bartender reaches us, Charles points to the Smoky Manhattan on the drink menu. “Two of these.”

“I actually want the Cosmo,” I say to the bartender.

Charles looks at me, still smiling. “Come on. Live a little. If I’m buying, you’re trying.”

The bartender’s eyes meet mine for half a second. I return his gaze with a tight smile.

Charles launches into an explanation of how they smoke the glass or the bourbon or something else I’m not really paying attention to.

I slide my flip phone onto my lap beneath the bar ledge and feel for the buttons.

I glance down quickly. The last message I sent is still on the screen. I hit reply and count the clicks.

SOS. Creep.

And hit send.

Briar should walk through the front door in the next ten minutes to save me from a fate worse than death. Or at least a first date that might bore me to death.

Charles is still droning on when the bartender returns. He sets two amber drinks in front of my lackluster date, then slides a pink cocktail toward me.

I blink and look up at the bartender, who gives me the slightest smirk. “Thank you,” I say, this time not forcing my smile.

“I’m not paying for that,” Charles says.

The bartender doesn’t flinch. “The lady’s drink is on the house.”

I wrap my fingers around the stem of the glass and take a slow satisfying sip.

Oh, that’s smooth. And not just the drink.

But Charles isn’t having any of it. He stands, pushing his chair away from the bar and leans over.

“Hey.” He snaps his fingers at the bartender who’s already three drinks deep making someone’s order. “Hey. I want to see the manager.”

At the very least, I want to crawl under my stool and hide.

Not an option. Hiding in the lady’s room until Briar gets here for a fake emergency.

Doable. But I have no doubt Charles would hang out by the door until I emerged.

I eye the door. If I made a run for it while he’s distracted, I could make it to my car.

The thought makes my stomach buzz and my pulse to quicken, a mix of anxiety and daring. It isn’t nice to ditch a date, but I choose to dare.

I grab a folded twenty from my wallet and slide it partially under the napkin beneath my cocktail glass.

I clutch my purse strap and ease my chair away from the bar, my attention torn between Charles and the door.

He’s distracted, getting more agitated by the second.

When he huffs and walks away from his seat, heading toward the end of the bar, I make a break for it and make a beeline to the exit.

I glance over my shoulder for a quick second as I lean into the mahogany door, pushing my way through as fast as possible.

The collision is immediate, knocking the wind out of me as I land smack center of a man’s solid chest. His muscular arms wrap around me, catching me before I stumble, and I swear his cologne makes me dizzy.

“Why the hell aren’t you answering your phone?” he growls.