Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Guy Next Door (Wrong Number, Right Grump #4)

1. Megan

Chapter One

MEGAN

The cabin is cute. Cozy even, with a wraparound porch and a wood-burning stove that I’ll have no use for this sizzling August. There are hundreds of books in the carpenter-built bookshelves and a gigantic TV.

It also comes with a porch swing and an excellent view of my neighbor's tan, muscular bare back.

I stop halfway to my cabin, clutching a box.

He's splitting logs in the yard next door, shirtless, the axe coming down in a slow, steady arc that ends with a crack loud enough to bounce off the ridge.

He must be in his late thirties, with thick, dark hair, damp at the neck.

Drops of sweat roll down the length of his exceptionally well-constructed spine.

He has hugely broad shoulders, built for hauling things much heavier than firewood.

Aunt Delphine left that out of the brochure.

“Morning!” I call.

Crack.

The halves fall away from the block. He sets another log up, glances over, and gives me a nod so small I could have invented it.

Then he goes back to the axe.

Wonderful.

I haul the box up the steps and drop it inside the door with the others. The cabin smells like my aunt’s lavender sachet, and there's a jar of wildflowers on the table with a note in my aunt's beautiful handwriting.

Bathroom faucet drips. Ignore it. Bed's made with that quilt you like. So glad you're here, sweetheart.

I love her for that. She didn't write your mother called me or I hope you’re okay or any of the other things people have been saying to me recently.

Out here, I have some breathing space. I’ll stay in Snowflake Falls through August for festival week, help Delphine with the stand, and finish the rest of the text and the illustrations for my book.

That's it. No drama and definitely no men, because I've had what feels like a lifetime of Nathaniel Perry and I'd rather eat mud.

Out the window, the axe comes down again with a resounding crack, so I close the curtain.

By evening I've unpacked exactly one box, drunk a large glass of wine, and eaten crackers over the sink for dinner, which is how I know I'm doing great.

My sketchbook is open on the table; drawings of three foxes, none of them good. The publisher wants a cute woodland series, but I've drawn a fox that looks like a slipper with a face. My best friend Winnie would laugh about the slipper and I pick up my phone to text her.

Outside, tires crunch on the gravel. Then two doors slam, and Aunt Delphine's voice carries up from the drive.

“Megan Donnelly, if you're in there working, I'm taking the pencils home with me.”

“I'm not working,” I shout back, opening the front door.

“Liar.” She comes up the steps with a bottle in each hand and kisses my cheek, her long gray braids swinging.

My aunt is wearing one of the flowing, rainbow-colored caftans she designs, complete with gold sandals that lace up to her knees.

My sister-in-law Jean's behind her with a stack of pizza boxes and the face of a woman who has recently escaped from small children.

“Russell has the kids,” Jean says. “Both of them. Alone. I've given him a whole list of instructions and he told me he's raised four sisters.”

“He didn't raise us… we were brought up like feral wolves.”

“That's what I said.”

They help me grab glasses and we take it all out to the porch. Delphine pours the wine while Jean opens the pizza boxes with a flourish. For the first time in weeks, I feel relaxed.

“So,” my aunt says. “Have you met your neighbor? Harris.”

“I've met… the back of Harris. Oh, and he gave me the ghost of a nod.”

Jean grins over the edge of her wine glass.

“Yeah… he's sure not the chatty type,” Delphine says. “Don't take it to heart. He's been up here for years, and maybe he’s a little under-socialized.”

“He didn't say a word to me.”

“He nodded, though?”

I nod back.

My aunt gestures at me with her glass, the sparkly bangles on her arms clicking together. “That's practically a proposal from Harris Trent.”

I laugh, and the sound surprises me, because I haven't done much of that lately.

“Gram already told him you were coming,” Jean adds. “She told everybody. I heard about it at the pharmacy from a woman I have never met.”

I roll my eyes; my grandmother is a force of nature. “So much for a quiet arrival.”

We stay out there until the sun sets and the mountains turn purple at the edges. My aunt walks us through the plans: the display stands she wants built, and the fact that the festival committee has put her next to a man who sells novelty birdhouses and constantly whistles.

When my aunt is in the bathroom, Jean looks over at me.

“Megan, are you going to be okay up here on your own?”

“I need some time alone. And I'm not sad about Nathan.” That part's true. “I'm embarrassed I wasted all that time. Every time he canceled, I had a reason ready before he even gave me one. That's what I can't stand. Not him. Me, doing all that work for nothing.”

“You know what you need?” My aunt says, appearing in the door.

“If you say a rebound…”

She shakes her head. “I was going to say a fun summer. One where you don’t have to explain anything.”

They leave when it gets properly dark, headlights swinging out across the trees. I stay on the swing with what's left of the bottle. There’s something sensuous about the night here: the wind in the big pine trees and the humid night air caressing my bare skin.

Which is when I make my mistake.

Nathan's last message sits inside my head like an unwelcome toad, mocking me.

Do you miss me? Let's talk soon.

I’ve written him a farewell message multiple times and not sent it. His number is deleted, but of course I remember it. In my wine-addled state, now feels like the perfect time. I type in his number, then a message.

Since you asked what I miss: not your excuses. Just the one thing you were ever good at, which was your mouth on me. Even if I had to give you directions, you knew how to make me come.

I read it back and almost automatically hit send.

The gray bubble goes blue, and my stomach drops through the porch boards when I look at the number I’ve sent the text to.

Oh no.

No.

Did I type in Nathan’s number wrong? I’ve sent a random stranger a suggestive text about my ex-boyfriend's oral technique.

I type fast.

I am so sorry. Wrong number. Please delete that and also me.

The little dots appear as someone types.

Wrong number?

Yes. So sorry.

Shame. Whoever he is, he sounds like he screwed up.

I sit up so fast the swing knocks the wall.

You were supposed to delete it.

I'm reading it again, actually.

Please don't.

Too late. I'm enjoying the part about directions.

I press my hand over my face and laugh into it, alone in the dark on a mountain, drunk on my aunt's terrible red wine.

I shouldn’t be doing this. I should block this random number like any sensible person.

In my defense, he really did need them.

If a man needs a map, he’s not paying attention.

I make a sound that would embarrass me if anyone heard it.

This is the worst night of my life.

I’ve had worse.

Are you always like this with strangers?

You texted me.

Fair. Completely fair.

Do I get to know who I've traumatized?

No.

That's rude.

I’m a man of mystery.

I smile and then knock the bottle of wine over. It’s empty.

I have to sleep. I have boxes to unpack.

Goodnight, sexy.

Goodnight, stranger.