by Kayt Miller
God, I love accents.
“It’s just a mirage,” I say again. “They can’t be looking back at me at...” I turn to look at the clock on my bedside table. “Three thirty in the a.m. Right?”
“Excuse me, love?”
I look back at the screen and blink. “Huh?”
“We’d like to talk to our long-lost mate.”
Mate? I’ve heard that expression. I’m sure I know what that means. Shit, wake the hell up, Quinn! “Your long-lost mate?”
“That’s right. Our mate. Be a dove and wake up the lazy git.”
“Um… your wife or girlfriend or whatever isn’t here.” I stare at the screen as both men burst into uncontrollable laughter. “What?” God, wake up already.
“Did you hear that, Cooker? She thinks you’ve got a wifey.”
Cooker? That’s a strange name. When he smiles at me, I stop worrying about his name because I nearly faint from the sight. It’s a good thing I’m lying down. “Our friend, love. Max.”
“Max?” Who the hell is Max?
“Maxwell Quinn,” adds the other guy. I call him the “other guy” because the guy in front—“Cooker,” apparently—is the hottest man I’ve ever seen. The “other guy” is cute too but nothing compared to the tattooed, blond god who is front and center on my computer screen. Okay, let me rephrase that. I’ve seen hot guys before, but none of them have called me in the middle of the night before. Unfortunately.
“Maxwell Quinn?” I rub my face with both hands and then look back at the laptop. I’m waking up, which is both good and bad. It pains me but I have to say, “I think you have the wrong number.”
Mr. Hottest Man in the Universe replies, “We googled the eejit. One Maxwell Quinn. It gave us this American number.”
“I think—no, I know you have the wrong number, because my name is Quinn Maxwell.”
“Bloody hell,” mutters my future husband. Snort. Just kidding. “Are you seriously telling me your name is Quinn Maxwell?”
“Seriously.”
“Bloody hell,” he repeats.
Yeah, bloody hell indeed.