Wrong Number, Right Guy

by Elle Casey

  His expression goes a little dark. “You were supposed to choose a code that was easy for you to remember.”

  “It was easy. Kind of.”

  “What was it?”

  “Thibault’s birthday.”

  Ozzie sighs in disgust. “Figures.” He continues with his unpacking. At one point he glares at Sahara and motions to the corner of the room. “Go lie down.” She immediately moves to do his bidding. Felix follows and curls up next to her.

  I’m kind of amazed not only with how well he controls our dogs, but also with how much food he’s brought. Is the rest of the team joining us, or what?

  “You pick four numbers you can remember, and I’ll program them in for you tonight.”

  I’m feeling a little saucy or something, because I respond with, “What makes you think I want you knowing my secret code?”

  He just keeps on moving boxes, without even blinking. “I’m no threat to you.”

  “Yeah, right.” It pops out of my mouth before I can stop it. I was imagining his hand touching my body and how I’d completely lose all self-control if that happened, but thank God, he doesn’t know that.

  He takes the last box out and crushes the bag down. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I shrug. “Nothing.” I actually meant that he’s a potential threat to my good sense, but if he wants to take it to mean I find him scary, I’m not going to disabuse him of that notion. Maybe it’ll give him a nice ego pump. Plus there’s no way in hell I’m going to admit to having a crush on him when he’s not interested in anything of the sort from me.

  He turns to face me, and it looks like he’s having trouble selecting the right words. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He looks around the room a little and tries again.

  “I . . . uh . . . uh . . . I wanted to say that . . . uh . . .” I grab a bottle of wine off the counter and hold it up between us. “Wine anyone?”

  “Yeah, sure. One glass.” He sounds relieved.

  Now who’s the superhero? I grin as I open the bottle, take out two glasses, and fill them halfway.

  “I can’t promise it’s any good, but it has alcohol in it.” I hand him a glass and hold mine up.

  He pauses, staring at me. Then he brings his glass up and touches his to mine. “Cheers.”

  I can’t think of anything more prosaic to say, so instead I do what’s expected of me. “Cheers.” I take a serious gulp, draining half my glass in one go. I turn so he won’t notice my eyes bugging out of my head as I suffer the burn of alcohol in my throat.

  “Plates?” he asks.

  I open a cupboard and pull two out. Then I pause before shutting the door. “How many will be joining us?”

  “No one. It’s just the two of us.” His voice is gruff.

  My heart is skipping beats all over the place. I somehow manage to pull out the correct amount of silverware and napkins, even though my mind is elsewhere. I set the table in my tiny kitchen on autopilot.

  Why did he bring dinner? Is this a date, or is he just buttering me up to take the job? I’m not taking that job, no matter how much butter is involved.

  “I hope you like lobster,” he says.

  “What the hell, man.” I drop the last silverware on the table with a clang and a crash.

  His hand freezes over one of the boxes. “Are you allergic?”

  “No, I’m not allergic. I’m pissed.”

  He steps back away from the food, his arms falling to his sides. I can actually picture him in a military uniform getting ready to salute. “You’re angry.”

  I pout a little. That lobster is calling to me with all its rich, buttery goodness. “No, not angry. Frustrated. I’ve been checked.”

  “Checked?”

  “Yes. Checked. As in the game of chess. You’ve out-flanked me.”

  His mask slips a little. “You like lobster, I take it.”

  “I don’t like lobster, you fool—I love lobster. I’d eat lobster every day if I had the money.” I flop down into my chair. “I’m not going to work for you, though. No matter how much clarified butter you have in those little cups.” There are several of them. Dammit. But what the hell? He expects me to just come work for him because he buys me lobster? It could be a dangerous job. That’s what the security system is for, right?

  He brings boxes over to the table and starts opening them up. “I have fresh lemon too.”

  “Of course you do. Jerk.”

  He chuckles. “I think this is the first time I’ve ticked a woman off by buying her lobster.” He’s mixing up some rice pilaf before scooping out a couple helpings, one for each plate.

  “I’m not sure why that makes you so happy,” I grumble.

  “Me neither.”

  Out comes a huge lobster that floats down onto my plate. Its fire engine–red shell is still glistening from whatever steam did it in. Felix leaves his spot by Sahara and settles in by my feet. The little beast knows me well; he will end up having a taste of everything that’s on my plate, but not because I feed him tidbits on purpose. I have a tendency to drop things.

  “Where did you get these monsters?” I ask when the second one comes out and lands on his plate.

  “I get them flown in every once in a while from Maine. I have a friend up there.”

  “Wow. Nice friend.” I take another long sip from my wine glass. It’s almost empty, so I help myself to some more.

  “He owes me.”

  I wonder what he’d demand of me if I owed him a favor. Just the idea makes me get all antsy again. I know what I’d like to offer.

  Whoa! Slow down, nympho! He just walked in the door. Jesus.

  Ozzie sits down and pulls his chair in. “Bon appétit.” He rips a claw off before I can lift a fork.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes, enough time for me to dip a chunk of lobster in some butter and close my eyes, sighing with happiness. I haven’t had this kind of food in a loooong time. I think the last time I had lobster was when I was dating this lawyer named Alfred. He was a putz, but he did love fancy restaurants. I had to break up with him when he refused to eat my baked ziti, though. Food snobbery is not tolerated in my household. Just ask Felix.

  Ozzie’s voice breaks into my thoughts, cutting them short. “Thibault says you two talked today. About the job.”

  The last bite of lobster gets stuck in my throat. I have to guzzle the rest of my wine to move it along.

  “Yeah,” I say, my voice strained. I’m sweating now. Dammit again. Too nervous to tell him straight off the bat that I’m not interested.

  Ozzie fills my glass with more dark red wine. I’m dizzy, watching the liquid pour in. Maybe if I drink more, it’ll be easier to turn him down. To never see him again. Ugh. Who am I trying to kid? I know that it’ll never be easy to do that.

  “He says you’re concerned about your personal safety.”

  I nod. This is an easy one. Anyone would be concerned in my shoes. That’s totally normal. “Yep. Very. I don’t wanna die before I’m at least eighty if I can help it. Especially not with bullets involved.”

  He drinks his wine and watches me over his glass.

  “What?” I’m getting paranoid again. “Do I have something on my face?”

  He reaches over with a napkin. “Just some butter on your chin.” He swipes at me before I can move away. Even though there was a piece of cloth between his hand and my face, I can still feel the heat there. How pitiful am I?

  A tiny bit of outrage takes over. It might be the wine talking. “Hey! You’re not supposed to do that.”

  “Do what?” he asks.

  “Say there’s something on my face.” I wipe at my chin several times, making it burn in the process. How embarrassing. How long have I been sitting here with a shiny chin? What a weirdo.

  He shrugs. “Okay.”

  “Okay what?” His unquestioning acquiescence bugs me. I don’t think it’s a normal reaction for him. Is he mocking me?

&
nbsp; “Okay, I won’t tell you when you have something like rice on your face.”

  “Rice too?!” Ack! I wipe my entire lower jaw, praying the grain isn’t any higher. What? Am I throwing food into my eyebrows now too?

  He’s laughing.

  “You’re an idiot.” I throw my napkin at him. Then the lobster catches my eye, and I decide I’d rather be eating it than worrying about a piece of rice on my lip. If I’m going to be a weirdo around him, then so be it. It’s not like he’s ever going to come over here again, and that lobster is too damn good to go to waste.

  He goes back to eating his meal, this time smiling.

  I revel in the corn muffins that I discover in another box. So sweet. So . . . corny.

  “Listen,” he says a couple minutes later, “I know I was pretty adamant before that I didn’t want you on board, but I’ve changed my mind. I want you to come to work for us.” He pauses. “I can guarantee your safety.”

  “Why me? And why the change of heart?” I take a bite of my muffin and chew while I watch him, searching his face for any deception. I’m immediately distracted, though, when a new taste hits my tongue. My god, someone put chives in these things. Some genius! Wow. I chew twice as fast, looking forward to my next bite. I might also be humming a little.

  “I checked out your work online. Made some inquiries, background checks and so forth. And after talking to Thibault, whose opinion I trust more than anyone’s, I think he’s right. You’d be good for the team. I’d have to put you on a probationary period, but it shouldn’t be a problem. I think you could hack it.”

  My half-eaten muffin falls from my hand and lands with a clank on my fork and plate. “Hack it?” A few crumbs fly from my mouth, necessitating a quick chewing and a swallow before I can finish. “Of course I could hack it. The question is whether I want to hack it.” There are bits of cornmeal all around the inside of my mouth. I try not to look like a total psycho corralling all of them together with my tongue.

  “Well, you’d need some training first. It’s not like you could just step out tomorrow and be ready, but you could get there.” He looks me up and down, leaning over to see my bottom half under the table.

  I lean back and put my hands in my lap, suddenly nervous. “What are you looking at?”

  “Your physique.”

  “What’s my physique have to do with anything?” I can feel my ears starting to burn. I reach up and smooth my hair down, then immediately stop. He’s not assessing my hairdo, for God’s sake. What’s wrong with me? When did I become so self-conscious?

  “Everyone on the team is job ready, always. We don’t take any slackers.”

  I wipe my hands together over my plate to get the crumbs off me. “And job ready means . . .?”

  “Means you get trained by Dev, just like the rest of us.”

  “Because sitting in a car taking pictures is so physically demanding.” I don’t admit to him that it is actually difficult to stand all day long taking pictures of people you sometimes want to slap. I don’t want him to think I’m soft.

  “You won’t be just sitting in a car.” He puts his fork down, wipes his face, and then drops his napkin on the table. “The job comes with full benefits: insurance, 401k, home security, company car, all the equipment you’ll need, and references if you want to do side work.”

  I swallow with difficulty. He’s already said the magic word, but he’s not done.

  “We pay for a complete physical once a year, three weeks of vacation, paid travel when it’s a job out of the area, travel expense account, and day care for kids.”

  “What about dogs?”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “We can negotiate.”

  I chew my lip as I contemplate the offer. It’s really kind of silly to stall like this because I already know what I’m going to say.

  “So, what do you think?” he prompts. “You want to come work with us at Bourbon Street Boys Security?”

  I lift my glass toward him and smile. “You had me at insurance.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  By the time dinner and dessert are over, I’ve consumed about two too many glasses of wine. When I stand, the room tilts. Luckily, Ozzie’s at the sink, rinsing off dishes, so he doesn’t catch me being a drunken lush.

  “I’m just going to go freshen up,” I say, trying like hell to walk a straight line to the bathroom. Felix is at my heels, making sure to sneak in past the door before I can shut him out.

  I stare at my reflection in the mirror and lean my hands on the counter. “Get. Your shit. Together, May Wexler.” I splash some water on my face and then freak when I see my mascara making a black trail down my cheek. “Ack! Stop that!”

  Felix whines, putting his feet on my leg.

  There’s a tapping at the door. “You okay in there?”

  Oh my god! Oh my god! He thinks I need a toilet rescue!

  “I’m fine!” I say with all the fake and casual cheer I can muster. “Couldn’t be finer, actually!” Shut up! Shut up! Shut up, idiot! “Be right out!”

  Felix barks. I bend down and pet his tiny head, ears, and neck. He goes into a happy trance as I try to get my brain back online. I need to give myself a pep talk before I leave the bathroom and face Ozzie again.

  “Breathe, May. Just breathe. He’s your employer now, so you have to stop thinking about dropping your panties every time you look at him. It’ll make stakeouts really awkward.”

  I stand up in a hurry, whispering, “Stakeouts?” I think it’s a whisper, anyway. “Will we be doing stakeouts together?”

  I pee really quickly, wash my hands, and remove any remaining mascara from my face before leaving the bathroom. I find Ozzie in the living room, looking at some family photos I took before my grandmother died.

  “Will I be doing stakeouts?” I ask.

  “Maybe.”

  “Cool. With whom?” I hope to impress him with my awesome command of the English language. Even though the room is spinning, I can still manage to keep my subjects and objects straight. Boom. Take that, Grammar Girl. Try not to envy me too much.

  “Depends. We all take turns.”

  I nod, like I know what we’re talking about. I don’t. I really, really don’t. I can’t remember now why I accepted his job proposal. I think it was the muscles.

  “You live alone?” he asks.

  I blush like a young girl. “If you’re asking if I’m seeing someone, the answer is no.”

  He turns to look at me. “I was asking if you have a roommate.”

  “Oh.” I have to look away so I can remove my foot from my mouth. There I go again, assuming this is a two-way crush. Idiot. “In that case, the answer is no. I live alone.” I turn to face the windows so he won’t see my expression, best described as “humiliated.”

  His voice is suddenly closer. “Are you seeing anyone?”

  I freeze, my back to him. Is he behind me? Is he going to touch me? Kiss me? Ravish my body?

  “No.” My voice is barely a whisper.

  “Good.” I can tell from his voice he’s near the front door now. “That makes it easier.”

  I spin to face him, not quite losing my balance, but coming close. “Easier for what?”

  He opens the door, jingling his keys in his hand. “Easier to make demands on your time. We work late hours sometimes.”

  He and Sahara are through the entrance and going down the front porch stairs before I realize what’s happening.

  He’s leaving! Why so soon?! I’m still buzzing! This party’s just getting started, yo!

  I race to the door and throw it open wide. “Hey! You! You can’t just wine me and dine me and not . . . and not . . .” Oh my god! I almost said “sixty-nine me”! Ack! Alert, alert! Send the fire engines! I’m on fire!

  “And not what?” he’s standing at his door, smiling at me. Sahara’s already in the bed of the truck.

  “Say good-bye!” I shout before slamming the door shut. Holy shit.

  I run back into my living room and grab my ha
ir on both sides. “Oh my god! What did I just do?!” Snatching a pillow off the nearby couch, I fling it across the room. But just one won’t do; I’m too embarrassed. I grab another and another, winging them as far and as fast as I can. Felix runs for cover, hiding under the coffee table.

  The couch cushions are next, those bastards. I flip them upside down and sideways. Ugh, it’s so not satisfying to mess up a couch cushion. I want to break something, but I hate breaking things because then I have to clean them up, so instead I mess up my hair. When I’m done, I’m certain my hair looks like it got caught in a blender. Phew. Using all that energy to destroy my hairdo and my surroundings has actually helped me calm down a notch.

  “Okay. It’s okay.” I’m trying to convince myself as I breathe like an angry bull. “I didn’t say, ‘sixty-nine me.’ I said, ‘say good-bye.’ Totally reasonable. Totally normal, right? People should say good-bye when they leave after sharing lobster and wine. Wine me, dine me, say good-bye to me. That’s the polite thing to do.”

  The doorbell distracts me from my rationalizing. I walk to the foyer, tripping over one of my pillows on the way. I land on the door and barely get it open. I’m half bent over, huffing and puffing like I just ran a mile or five. When I see who it is, I pull the door open wider.

  Ozzie is standing there, a giant mountain of muscles and cool. One of his eyebrows goes up when he takes in my appearance.

  I stand up straight and lift my chin. I have to try and salvage what little pride I have left with some fake bravado. “Did you forget something?”

  He glances first at my hair and then my mouth.

  “Yeah. I forgot to say good-bye.”

  And then something crazy happens.

  He reaches out and takes me by the waist, easily drawing me to him.

  My lips part as his face gets closer and closer. I can’t breathe. I can’t talk. I can’t even think straight.

  “Good-bye,” he whispers against my mouth, just before he presses his lips against mine.

  Melting. I’m melting, just like that lobster butter, into his arms, inside my body. Everything is going hot and boneless.

  He, on the other hand, is as solid as a rock. Everywhere.