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The Pucking Wrong Number: Chapter 5


I was organizing files at the doctor’s office the next day when my phone buzzed again.

Monroe Bardot, the text read from the same number as last night.

I stiffened.

Please don’t be creepy and make me regret all my life choices. How did you find out my name?

He sent a meme of a guy holding up his hands in front of him, placatingly.

Unknown: Not trying to be a creep. Promise. I thought we could be……friends.

That’s a lot of dot, dot, dot for friends. Have you found Kara’s real number and apologized yet?

Unknown: Nope. I’ve decided that I was meant to accidentally text you. Don’t want to mess with the good vibes I’ve got going for me.

I rolled my eyes at his attempt at charm and glanced around the room.

I was alone in the front office, and it was a slow morning; only one patient sat in the waiting room, and they’d already checked in.

I inwardly shrugged. I guess I could play along for a little longer in the name of socialization and distraction.

You must be pretty desperate if you think texting a random stranger is the universe giving you good vibes, I typed out.

He sent back the picture I’d sent him last night.

Unknown: Have you seen yourself? You’re fucking gorgeous. As long as you’re not some dude in his mom’s basement trying to catfish me, I say that I’m definitely in the universe’s good graces right now.

For some reason, a blush spread across my cheeks. I’d been called “hot” in my life quite a few times. But, his ‘fucking gorgeous” hit me a little harder.

Well, I showed you mine, now show me yours.

I thought you said you didn’t want to see wrinkled old balls, he quickly typed back.

A giggle escaped my lips. I glanced around again to make sure no one had come in and heard me. Although anyone who did would probably faint if they saw me doing anything other than work.

Your face. I meant your face. You can keep your wrinkly balls to yourself, thank you.

He sent me a picture of a forehead, golden hair cut in a sexy hot guy style falling in gentle waves against tan skin. The golden strands glimmered even in the picture, like he had a spotlight shining on him. I’d never imagined being attracted to a forehead and a little hair…but here I was.

Nice dye job to cover your grays, but a little lower might be nice.

To my surprise, I got a picture of his leg next, showcasing powerful thighs that were, in fact, drool-worthy. They were sculpted and toned, every muscle visible beneath his skin.

I can do that too, I wrote, sending a picture of my big toe.

LOL, he typed back. I just spit my protein drink all over my best friend.

So how long are we going back and forth before you send me what you look like? I asked.

Has anyone told you that your big toe is hot? I mean, I’m not a foot guy, but I can admit it.

I giggled again, shaking my head and quickly sending him a gif of a gross looking blonde guy.

This is what I’m envisioning you look like.

Unknown: So you’re really turned on right now, is that what you’re saying?

This was definitely more than I’d smiled in a year. I really was desperate.

Just then, my coworker Angel came in.

I gotta get back to work, I quickly typed out before throwing my phone in my purse.

I stayed busy for the rest of the day, pushing all thoughts of the charming stranger out of my head.

It was finally time to leave. I opened the door only to realize it was pouring rain. Normally, I walked to the bus stop, but I had my rented laptop with me today so I could finish the homework I didn’t get to last night…and I couldn’t afford to ruin it.

Deciding I had to wait it out since I couldn’t afford a cab, I sat on a chair by the door and stared at my phone.

The stranger had sent a few texts since I’d last looked. Random tidbits about his day…like we really were friends.

It’s raining, I inanely texted.

That it is, he immediately answered back, as if he’d been waiting for my text since the moment I’d stopped. Did that mean he also lived in Dallas? Oh, I guess his area code was 817, I hadn’t noticed that last night…which meant that he could be somewhere in the city right now. Something that faintly resembled butterflies, stirred around in my chest at that thought.

I read through more of the texts he’d sent since I’d been working. There were a couple of pretty funny memes. But still, no picture. I decided to let it go for now.

I usually walk to the bus, so I’m waiting it out.

Unknown: What for?

My bank account’s not a fan of cabs. LOL.

There was a long silence.

Unknown: Want me to get you one?

I scoffed.

I’m good. Also, you shouldn’t offer money to strangers.

Unknown: We’re not strangers, Monroe. We’re practically best friends.

Okay, best friend…tell me my favorite color.

Dark pink, he quickly responded. I frowned. That was my favorite color.

Okay, I guess a girl liking dark pink isn’t too hard to guess…but that doesn’t mean anything. Because I don’t know what your favorite color is, and I would definitely know that about my best friend.

Unknown: My new favorite color is green.

New favorite color?

Unknown: The color of your eyes inspired me, what can I say…

You should see the eye roll I have going on right now.

I bet it’s really hot, he said with a wink face.

Unknown: So how about that cab? Because my weather app says it’s supposed to rain the rest of the day.

I groaned and pulled up the Weather Channel. Sure enough, it was forecasted to rain until tomorrow morning.

Unknown: How about this…give me the address of some random corner near you, and then it can drop you off blocks from your house so then you can be assured I’m not some creep just trying to find out where you live.

I snorted.

I’m pretty sure that negates the purpose for the cab in the first place since I would be soaking wet with that plan, I tell him. But seriously, I don’t take things from strangers.

Unknown: You really don’t know who I am, do you?

I frowned at his comment. Was this some famous person that had accidentally texted me? Once again, I reminded myself that I shouldn’t be talking to a stranger anyway.

I really don’t know who you are, I texted. And unless you’re a thigh or forehead supermodel, I’m not sure that I’m going to recognize you by what you’ve sent.

So you follow thigh and forehead models? he asked with a laughing face.

Another one of those new weird snorts came out of my nose.

You’re right, even if you were an international thigh model, I would have no idea who you are. I’m a big fan of shoulders though. I bet I could tell who you were from that.

Unknown: I can’t tell if you’re serious or not, so just to be safe, better not send the shoulder pic. How about this instead?

What followed was the hottest thing I’d ever seen.

Now I knew that eight packs weren’t real; at least, not according to my science textbook in high school that weirdly outlined that sort of thing. They were a myth. But I felt like writing the publisher at that moment, because what I was seeing could only be categorized as that. In the picture, he’d lifted his shirt, showcasing a pair of tan, perfect abs that made Michelangelo’s sculptures look like he’d gotten it all wrong. Even the arm in the picture was hot, chiseled and strong, tattoos all over. There was the bottom of what looked like butterfly wings poking out from under his lifted shirt. I never would’ve thought of a butterfly tattoo as hot, but here was living proof that on the right guy, it could be everything.

Please tell me that picture’s really you, I quickly typed back.

You liked it, he said with a wink emoji.

Why are you texting me again? Because I’m pretty sure that Kara would be returning your text with abs like that.

Unknown: Maybe I kind of like talking to someone who doesn’t know who I am.

If you could read emotion in that innocuous text, and I wasn’t sure you could, there was almost something vulnerable to that.

Well, I’m going to start walking.

Unknown: I thought you didn’t want to ruin your stuff?

There’s gotta be a plastic bag around here somewhere. I have my classes tonight.

Unknown: You’re taking classes, too??

Two jobs and school…It’s my life.

Unknown: How old are you?

How old are you? I texted back, since I seemed to be the only one offering information at that point.

24, he quickly typed.

So probably no wrinkly balls then, huh?

Unknown: Monroe, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were obsessed with my wrinkly old balls.

I snorted and rooted around for a plastic bag in the supply closet, doing a fist pump when I found one from a bag of drugs a medical salesman had dropped off that day.

Today’s my lucky day. I found a bag, I texted, wondering why I felt so comfortable with this guy. I was freaking texting him about a plastic bag, like he would care.

Be careful out there, he immediately responded.

I always am.

Good girl, he texted.

Heat rushed through me. I told myself it was the abs picture he’d probably gotten off the Internet somewhere. It was the only reasonable explanation for why two words could hit me like that.

Pushing those thoughts far away, I forced myself not to go any further down that path. We’d probably stop talking to each other by tomorrow, no need to get attached to the phone stranger now.

I set off down the street, decidedly not thinking about the fact that a perfect stranger had turned me on more than I’d ever been in my entire life.

Just with two words…


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