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  “Sorry.” She clears her throat. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be laughing about the fact that you accidentally got Prince Charming’s phone number wrong. Although, wasn’t it just a few minutes ago that you were telling me you weren’t entirely sure that—” Taking one look at my face, she cuts off her sentence. “Right. Anyway, what can you do?”

  “Yes, what can we do?” I quirk my head to the side.

  The side of her mouth twitches, warming up for a big smile. “That’s the spirit.”

  * * *

  Turns out, there’s not a whole lot you can do about getting a wrong number. My very rudimentary calculations inform me there are several billion different phone-number combinations. Even keeping the area code the same still leaves me with nearly a million possibilities. So, typing in random numbers? Not going to work.

  After three weeks of hanging around Rodeo Jive on not only Thursday nights, but Friday and Saturday as well, I’ve come to one mojo-crushing, heart-deflating conclusion—he gave me the wrong number on purpose. Because really, if he didn’t, and he was as interested as he pretended to be, then wouldn’t he be swinging by the Jive to look for me too?

  In a rare display of frustration, I spend my last night staking out the bar getting embarrassingly drunk. Given that I’m not really a drinker, nothing more than a glass of wine here or there, three frozen margaritas have me flat-out wasted. I think there might have been a few shots as well, but when I wake the next morning my memories are fuzzy. Full chunks of time are completely missing, like someone straight-up sliced them out of my brain.

  Lifting my head from the pillow, I pry off a piece of hair that’s glued to my face with an unhealthy amount of drool. Yet, for the amount of saliva I produced in my sleep, my mouth’s dryer than a desert during a drought. I huff out a breath, but the stench of it gets caught on my pillow and I nearly die from the toxic smell.

  “Oh my God.” Flipping onto my back, I scrub a hand over my face and try to rub out the throbbing headache that’s set up camp behind my eyes. It feels like there’s a person trapped behind my eyeballs and they’re trying to tunnel their way out straight through them. How do people do this all the time?

  When I sit up, the room around me does a cartwheel, and I sink my teeth into my lower lip as my stomach heaves and curls in on itself. I’m just about to call out for Tara when the back of my thigh starts buzzing, making me jump. I go through the whole topsy-turvy-room and trying-not-to-spew-vomit-over-my-comforter thing one more time.

  Hesitantly, my fingers search the mattress beneath me until they drag up my phone. As I squint at the too-bright screen and scroll through my messages, I clap a hand over my mouth.

  Me: Are you sure this isn’t Bryce?

  Not Bryce: Positive. Sorry.

  Me: What kind of a guy would give the wrong number to a pretty girl?

  Not Bryce: Umm … a stupid one?

  Me: That’s right. Bryce is stupid. We could’ve been the real thing.

  Not Bryce: You met the guy once, and you’re ready to start planning your happily-ever-after? Seems a little quick if you ask me.

  Me: I don’t remember asking you.

  Not Bryce: Right, sorry.

  Me: You know, if we’re going to keep talking you should at least tell me your name. Right now you’re “Not Bryce” in my phone and seeing his name over and over is just making me sad.

  Not Bryce: Oh, we’re still talking? Alright. You first.

  Me: It’s fine, you don’t have to tell me. I’ll just call you … Bob.

  Bob: C’mon, that’s so lame. You could at least come up with something cool. Like Thor.

  Me: Didn’t you say your track record with women is a mess? That doesn’t sound very Thor-like.

  Bob: That’s not very nice of you to point out.

  Me: Oops. Sorry.

  Me: I’m still not going to call you Thor.

  Bob: How about Peter?

  Me: Like Spiderman?

  Me: Are you sitting at home in your Batman pajamas reading comic books right now?

  Bob: You’re doing the mean thing again.

  Me: Whoops. Let’s compromise. How about Clark?

  Bob: Superman. I dig it.

  Me: You are a guy, right? Because I can always change it to Clarkette.

  Clark: Nope, definitely a guy. Don’t my texts come across as particularly manly to you?

  Me: Not really.

  Clark: Harsh, Lois. Harsh.

  Me: Lois, huh? A little prsmtuos of you.

  Me: Presumptuous* God that took me a long time to type out. Why are these keys so small?

  Clark: Have they been getting smaller the more you drink?

  Me: Now who’s being mean?

  Clark: My apologies. You safe to get home?

  Me: How sweet are you? I’d pinch your cheeks if I could.

  Clark: Don’t do that. My grandma does that. You’re not as old as my grandma, right? Because if so I’m gonna be really skeeved out right now.

  Me: I am two and twenty. Or twenty and two. Either way.

  Me: Oh! I gotta go.

  Clark: Bye, Lois.

  Me: It was nice talking to you, Clark. Thanks for making my night not suck so bad.

  Clark: Anytime.

  I don’t know whether to laugh or cry about the whole thing. How humiliating. Thank God I don’t actually know this person or I’d never be able to look them in the eye again. And this is why getting drunk is a bad idea.

  With a flick of my thumb, the very last message hovers at the edge of the screen, the one that alerted me to the unexpected presence of my phone in the bed.

  Clark: How’s your hangover treating you?

  While I debate the merits of responding vs. not, a harsh, cringeworthy knock echoes around my room. “Haley? Are you alive in there?”

  “Yes,” I answer. “But I think something died in my mouth.”

  The door squeaks open, and Tara’s head pops through, like she’s checking to make sure things are safe before committing to entering the room. Apparently deciding the coast is clear, she lets the door swing open and carries a bottle of water, a sleeve of crackers, and some aspirin over to me.

  Without a word, I down the pain relievers with a sip of water and keep on chugging until the entire glass is empty.

  “It’s a good thing you got this out of your system last night,” Tara says, taking a seat next to me on the bed. “Wouldn’t have wanted to start your new temp job tomorrow reeking like you bathed in tequila.”

  I give her a dirty look. “You know I’d never do something like this on a work night.”

  “I wouldn’t have expected you to do this at all. Hell, you didn’t even reach for the bottle after…” Her words fade out, like they just plummeted off a cliff and fell out of hearing range. “And yet, here we are.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s never happening again. Not only do I feel worse than death, but somehow in my drunken stupor, I did this.”

  I drop my head into my hand, and blindly stick out my arm toward her, wiggling the phone. The bag crinkles as I reach for a cracker and nibble at the edge.

  She snorts. Then cackles. The bed quivers when she throws herself backward and clasps her stomach as she shakes with laughter. “Oh. My. God. Haley! This is who you were talking about last night?”

  “What?”

  “Last night. I was trying to load you into the cab, and you kept going on about this Clark guy. I thought maybe you met someone, but”—another snort—“this is not at all what I was expecting.”

  Gently, I let my feet hit the floor, shifting my weight one toe at a time. I ghost myself out of bed, moving with the same amount of care I’d use if a serial killer were napping on my mattress and I was trying to escape with my life. Now that Tara’s mentioned my odor, I can’t stop smelling the tequila. And every time I smell the tequila, my stomach does another somersault.

  I’ve got two options—take a shower or hug the toilet.

  As I tiptoe toward the bathroom, Tara flops to the
other side of the bed and my mattress protests with a squeal of springs. “Is this Clark guy single?”

  It takes everything I have in me not to whip around and glare at her. So instead, I say to the wall in front of me, “I’m not going to date some guy I randomly started texting because some jerk gave me the wrong number.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because. That’s just … weird.”

  “Or romantic.” She drifts into my peripheral vision, propping a shoulder against the wall. “Think about the story you’d tell your grandkids.” Altering her voice, she imitates what I think is supposed to be an older version of me. “One wrong number, that’s what brought me to your grandfather, kids. Back in the old days they had letters, but we fell in love one text at a time.”

  I manage to twist my head so I can glare at her. “Are you sure you’re not drunk?”

  She rolls her eyes at me. “Fine. No Clark, but we’ve gotta get you out there. One failed attempt does not mean that you get to climb back into your sweatpants and resume your long-term relationship with Netflix.”

  I thump my head against the doorframe and sigh. “Things with Bryce just seemed so … promising.”

  “Maybe that’s the problem.”

  “You’re right. Really hitting it off with someone is definitely a problem.”

  “Here’s the thing though.” She scrunches up her nose at me. “Other than Luke, you’ve never actually dated anyone. Like, ever. So, maybe it’s not that Bryce was so perfect, maybe it’s just that you haven’t sampled a wide enough variety of men to really know.” Her eyes widen and she snaps her fingers. I try desperately not to flinch from the sound. “It’s like you’ve got a giant bag of jelly beans, and you reach in and take one—it’s grape. And it’s good and whatever, but you only think it’s that fantastic because you haven’t gotten to the better flavors—like popcorn. So, once you’ve had popcorn then you’ll be able to realize how wrong you were because let’s face it, grape is disgusting.”

  I rub my finger against my temple, trying to process her analogy. My brain is only functioning at about half speed this morning. “So, Bryce is a grape jelly bean, and I need to eat more jelly beans to find a better one?”

  Tara’s eyes light up like someone injected her with a full syringe of glee. “Oh my God. I have the best idea.” She points to the living room. “I’m gonna go set it up, and you, my friend”—she twists up her face—“need to get in the shower.”

  “You don’t say.”

  She practically skips to my door, and every lighthearted bounce makes my heart sink a little further. This is going to be bad.

  * * *

  I stare at the laptop screen. “MatchPerfect? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Consider it practice. Getting your feet wet.”

  I shake my head, and the towel I’ve got wrapped around my wet hair drags across my shoulders.

  “Look, I’m not saying you’re going to find the man of your dreams on here, but it’s a really simple way to meet some new guys. Have some fun. And what you need is some more experience under your belt, so the next time you really fall for a guy you’ll know it’s the real deal.” She taps a fingernail against the screen. “And look, someone already passed you a note!”

  Sucking my lip in between my teeth, I stare down at my bare feet. Admittedly, the thought of online dating freaks me out a little. God knows who you might end up meeting on there. Stranger danger and all that. But Tara’s words poke at a raw spot on my heart, rubbing like a brand-new pair of shoes against a blister on my heel. Was it a coincidence that the first guy I met after Luke I thought might be something special? Was it really just my inexperience talking?

  Tara nudges me with her elbow. “Just give it a shot. I’ll manage your profile, set up the dates, and you just show up. Let’s say you go on … ten dates?”

  I snort. “Three.”

  “Five.” She folds her arms across her chest.

  “Fine, five.” I roll my eyes. “But that’s it.”

  Tara rubs her hands together, lips curling in a smile. “This is gonna be good. Trust me.”

  Chapter 3

  Kyle

  Monday morning—one steaming cup of caffè mocha, a bowl of banana Cheerios, and sixty-seven new e-mails to sort through. Off to my left, the servers hum out a rhythmless tune to the accompaniment of my mouse clicks and the clacks of the keyboard.

  As I’m attaching the instructions on how to reset your password for the fourth time to Sabrina in Accounting, I scoop out a pile of cereal with the spoon in my left hand and then promptly choke on it when a fist bangs on my door.

  “Kyle!” Bang, bang, bang.

  I wheeze, but get up to answer the door, all the while trying to get that one stuck Cheerio out of my esophagus. Clearing my throat isn’t working, so when I pull open the door, my “Yes” comes out a little hoarse.

  Mr. Marchelli doesn’t even notice.

  Tilting the cell phone away from his red, sweating face, Mr. March whispers to me, “Lawson, new girl in Hal’s old cube. She’s having trouble with her computer. Help her out, would ya? I need her to get working on the Kennedy proposal ASAP.” With a quick thump on my shoulder with his beefy hand, he hops right back into the conversation with whoever he’s on the phone with and keeps on his way.

  Right, new girl. I glance forlornly at my Cheerios and coffee—by the time I get back one will be soggy, the other cold. A sigh whispers out from between my lips.

  Closing the door to the IT room snugly behind me, I bury my hands in the pockets of my gray sweater. It doesn’t matter that I’ve got a blue-and-white-checkered button-down on underneath. Oh, no. It’s like the freaking North Pole in here. Mr. March has full control over the AC, and so, while he continues to perspire through his suits, the rest of us huddle in our winter coats and hide space heaters under our desks. The bitter February air is a welcome change from this place.

  Coming to a stop outside the cubicle, I take note of a hastily scrawled name tag that says Haley before peering over the side. She doesn’t notice me at first, and her brown hair drifts forward in front of her face as she stares intently at the computer screen. With how zoned-in she is on the monitor, I take a quick second to check her out—white silk blouse, charcoal pencil skirt, some black pointy-toe heels. She doesn’t even need to stand up; I can already tell that she’s got killer legs.

  If her face matches the rest of her she is so out of my league. Damn.

  Precisely, but emphatically, she taps on the Enter button with her pointer finger. When nothing seems to happen, she starts pressing it even harder until she’s practically pounding it. Right, now would be a good time to do my job instead of standing here and staring at her like a creeper.

  I clear my throat, but it comes out all strangled-like. Dumbass Cheerio. “Excuse me.”

  She jumps, but quickly recovers. Big blue eyes fly to my face and she smiles sheepishly. “Hello.”

  “Hi.” I take another step forward and lean against the cubicle wall. It wobbles. “I’m Kyle Lawson, your IT guru.” My lips curve in a smile, but inside I just mentally punched myself. IT guru? Smooth. “You’re, um, having problems with your computer?”

  “God, yes.” She rolls her eyes, not even attempting to mask the frustration that’s written all over her face. “If you can fix this, you’re my new hero.”

  Double damn. She’s not only beautiful but sweet too.

  “I’ll give it my best shot. Do you mind?” I wave my finger between the screen and her chair.

  “Oh, right.” She shakes her head with a small laugh and stands up. Even though she’s got heels on, the top of her head only makes it to my chin, but that’s not entirely unusual. I’m all length and lank. “Sorry.”

  I’m not sure whether I’m too far into her space, or there just isn’t enough room in the tiny cube, but we both step left at the same time, then right. It’s like some weird, awkward little dance that ends with her squeezing by me. Her hand brushes against my chest a
nd I feel it all the way to my frigid toes.

  Flopping down into her chair, which is entirely too low for me and shoves my knees up uncomfortably, I set to work on her computer. Malware, a virus, incorrect login information, server error. Geez, Hal did a number on this machine.

  I try to peek at her in my peripheral vision, but she’s all blurry since my glasses don’t stretch that far. Figures. I shake my head to myself.

  “That bad?” she asks.

  “What?” I flick my gaze up to her, where she’s got her chin perched on her hands, leaning against the cube wall. It takes me a second to realize she saw my head shake. “Oh, no, not really. Should just be another couple of minutes and you’ll be all good to go.”

  “That’s great, thanks.” A few seconds pass. “I’m not sure I introduced myself. I’m Haley.” She sticks out her hand, but then retracts it. “Well, I’d shake your hand but you’re obviously busy.”

  Okay, so, she doesn’t hate me. That’s obviously a bonus. I smile up at her and lean back in the chair, sticking out my hand. “Not too busy for a handshake.”

  That gets her to really smile, and wow, the force of it is like a punch in the stomach. Her small hand fits neatly in mine and I swear to God she’s got the softest skin I’ve ever had the pleasure of feeling. In fact, with the way her smile is deepening, I’m thinking I’ve been holding on to her hand for a little bit too long now. Crap.

  Reluctantly releasing it, I swing back toward her computer. I navigate the mouse over to another icon, and my hand bumps against her lukewarm coffee mug, drawing my gaze. I snicker at it. “A Mets fan, huh?”

  Her eyebrows snap together. “What?”

  I hitch a thumb at her mug.

  “Oh, right.” She lets out a delicate laugh and her cheeks flush a delightful shade of pink. “Forgot I brought that with me this morning.” As her thoughts take a change in direction, her eyes narrow as she looks at me. “Why, what’s wrong with the Mets?”

  “Nothing.” I lift my shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. “I mean as long as you’re okay with not having won the World Series in over twenty-five years.”

  She takes a step inside the cube, folding her arms across her chest and pursing her lips. “Tell me you’re a Yankees fan and we’re no longer friends.”