I’m about to set the handle back in its cradle and beg Officer McChiseledJawline for access to a phone book or, at the very least, my email account, when I spot it. A streak of smudged sharpie onmypalm.
My heart begins to pound faster as I turn it over and scan the numbers scrawled in messy, masculine script across my skin. Barely legible, after the thorough scrubbing I gave my hands this morning, but mercifully stillthere.
I’msaved!
…or screwed. Depending entirely on yourperspective.
In the craziness of the past twenty-four hours, I’d completely forgotten about the number on my hand. Though, if I’m being honest, it’s been impossible to stop thinking about the man who put it there. My mind has wandered to him more often than I’d like to admit today, since the moment I woke up with no recollection of the moment he wrote his digits on my palm, like a bad lower-back tattoo you get while wasted on your college spring break trip and regret for the rest ofyourdays.
Insufferableman.
I was pissed off this morning, as I scrubbed at the indelible ink in my bathroom, wishing I had something stronger than lavender-scented soap that might remove it in the five minutes I had to spare before dragging my hungover ass off to work. Now, as my eyes scan the faded numbers, I’m so happy I could docartwheels.
(Icouldbut I won’t — I have a feeling Officer McHolyShitHaveYouSeenThoseBiceps wouldn’t appreciate any further antics outofme.)
I don’t let myself think about the consequences of making this phone call. There’s little point. I have no other options, no one else to turn toexcept…
Him.
I shiver involuntarily. Steeling myself, my fingers still shake as I punch in the digits, one after another, trying to think of something cute or clever to say as the callconnects.
Heeeeey, what’s up? You’ll never guess whereIam…
I listen to the rings — one, two, three jarring peals — and begin to think he’s not going to answer. It’s late, well after midnight… he’s probably sleeping… or his phone is on silent… or he’ll think it’s amis-dial…
“Talk.”
His voice is deeper than usual, as if I’ve woken him, but I’d recognize that trademark growl anywhere.It’shim.
I open my mouth to say something… and find I cannot formulate one single, non-idiotic word. My tongue quite literally refuses tocooperate.
“Hello?” He waits a beat, listening to me breathe. “Whoisthis?”
I hear a rustling sound — skin against sheets —and an entirely NSFW image shoots into mybrain.
Does he sleepnaked?
“Last chance,” he grumbles, impatientasever.
Crap conqueso.
He’s going todisconnect.
“Wait!” I squeak in a small voice that makes me sound like I’ve swallowed a balloon animal. “Please, just… don’thangup.”
Utter silence blasts across the line. I hold my breath, afraid to squeak out another word, completely at a loss as to what I’m going to say next. To my everlasting regret, before I can think of a dignified way to explain my current situation, he speaks again. And when he does, that sleepy edge is gone from his voice. It’s been replaced with something that sounds a lot like amusement and…gloating.
“That you,Delilah?”
My jaw clenches. “Don’tcallmethat.”
“So, she finally uses my number. If I’d known all it would take to get your attention was a sharpie, I might’ve done this months ago.” A low chuckle hits my ear, and I squirm a little. “To what do I owe thepleasure?”
I grip the receiver a little tighter, wishing I could reach through the line andpunchhim.
“If you’re hoping for a bootycall…” He pauses pointedly. “I can be at your place intwenty.”
“Oh, dream on,” I snap, indignant at the suggestion. (As if I hadn’t been picturing him naked approximately twenty-sevensecondsago.)