Mr. Wrong Number

He swallowed again, his throat moving hard before he said, “I love you. I know I screwed everything up and I know we were going to keep it casual, but I somehow fell in love with you. I can’t believe it myself, but in spite of our lifetime of hatred for each other, I am completely lost without you in my life.”

“This was just me paying you back.”
“I see.” She sounded happy and confused. “Uh, this isn’t like a sex thing, either, right? Like you bought me a bed, so now I have to sleep with you on it?”
Well, shit—like I needed more visuals of Liv in bed. I’d gone from finding her the most annoying girl on the planet to being inexplicably obsessed with her.

So tell me exactly what you’re wearing.
A pervy wrong number? I wiped my nose and typed: Your mom’s wedding dress and her favorite thong.
No more than five seconds went by before Mr. Wrong Number texted: Um, what?
I texted: Seriously, babe, I thought you’d think it’s hot.
Mr. Wrong Number: “Babe”? Wtf?
That actually made me snort out a tiny laugh, the thought of some dude getting cold-showered via text. It was super weird that babe was where he was getting tripped up, as opposed to the monstrosity of an oedipal-lingerie suggestion, but he’d also used the tired what are you wearing line, so who could really say about a guy like that?
I texted: Would you prefer something less mommish?
Mr. Wrong Number: Oh, no—it sounds totally hot. You cool with me rocking cargo shorts, socks with sandals, and your dad’s jockstrap?