Hardwood - K.M. Neuhold Page 0,13

five-minute conversation and he’s starred in numerous fantasies over the past few days doesn’t mean I need to be worrying about what he thinks of me.

And now I have his number. What the hell am I supposed to do with this? I mean, I know what to do with someone’s phone number, what I don’t know is if he gave it to me because he wants to be friends, if he’s interested in me, or if it was a pity thing. He probably saw some pathetic, closeted middle aged man and figured he could do his good deed for the day by offering an ear if I need one.

I hold the tattered sticky note in my hand, staring at his scribbled number and trying to decide if I should text him or just toss the note in the trash and forget about the whole idea of embracing the real me and all that shit I got in my head the other day.

I already have enough going on in my life. I have Livi and my business; why rock the boat by throwing this into the mix?

On the other hand, Watson might be expecting a text or call. I don’t want to be rude either. Maybe I can shoot him a text, letting him know that I appreciate his number but that I’m fine, and he doesn’t need to worry about me. Yes, that sounds reasonable.

I pick my phone up off my desk, where it’s been sitting on top of my notes about the estimate I sat down to work on half an hour ago—before I got lost staring at this damn Post-It note. I’ll send a text and then move on with my life and get back to focusing on work.

Everett: Hi, this is Ev…Olivia’s dad…the guy from the bar. Anyway, I wanted to thank you for giving me your number, but I swear I’m ok, and you don’t need to worry about me. Thanks again, though.

Well, that text was a shitshow, but it’s sent now, so I can move on. I set my phone down and grab my notes to start typing up the estimate.

There’s a knock at my office door. Stone doesn’t wait for my response before swinging it open and striding inside.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“It’s nice out today, I thought I’d have you guys over for dinner. I’ve got some ribs to grill up,” he offers.

“Sure, that sounds good,” I agree. My phone vibrates on my desk, and I jump, my heart leaping in my chest. I’m not sure why, but I wasn’t expecting Watson to text me back. I reach for my phone in such a hurry, I accidentally knock it off my desk instead of grabbing it. I curse under my breath, snatching it up off the floor and hitting my head on the corner of the desk as I sit back up.

“Mother fucker,” I mutter, rubbing the sore spot on my head with one hand while I use the other to unlock my phone and pull up the message.

Watson: This is Wats…your kid’s teacher…the sexy mofo in the bowtie you met at the bar…Future American Idol…Stop being stupid, I already told you I’m trying to flirt with you. Get it together already ;) I’m just teasing, but seriously, there isn’t an ounce of pity or worry here. You seem cool, and I thought we could be friends.

I chuckle as I read the message, continuing to smile at my screen as I re-read it a couple of times too.

“Who is she?” Stone asks, startling me with the reminder that I’m not alone.

“Who?” I ask, setting my phone on my desk face down, my heart still doing a gymnastics routine inside my chest. It feels like Stone’s going to be able to read the truth all over my face.

“Whoever you’re texting who has you smiling so goofy. I didn’t even know you were getting back out there.” He walks farther into my office, plopping down in the chair on the other side of my desk and grinning at me expectantly, waiting for whatever sordid details he thinks I might give him about my non-existent love life.

“It’s no one, just a friend.” It’s not a lie. Watson just said he wants to be friends, just because I happen to think he’s hot doesn’t make that any less true.

“No way. No one grins like that about a friend,” he argues.

I raise my eyebrows at him. “I do.”

“Riiiiight,” he says. “Whatever you need to tell yourself, man.”

“Should I bring