Page 18 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Player

“It happened twice.”

Jo covers her mouth, trying not to laugh.

I catch her eye.

She lowers her hand. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“No...” She smiles. “I think this might be the first interview that proves the internet got you completely wrong.”

I look over at her. “What do you mean?”

She shrugs. “They said you weren’t funny.”

For the first time all day, I stop worrying about saying the wrong thing. Because right now, talking to Jo still feels a little like texting.

And it feels good.

The ballroom sits just beyond a pair of oversized double doors.

Even through the thick wood, I can hear the hum of hundreds of conversations.

Silverware clinks against china. Someone laughs. A photographer calls out another guest’s name.

Monica smooths the front of her blazer before turning to us.

“Remember, you’ll stop on the carpet for photos. Smile.” She points at me. “Especially you.”

“I know.”

“Then you’ll spend about forty-five minutes circulating before dinner.”

“I know.”

“The foundation president wants to introduce you to several donors.”

“I know.”

“And—”

“I know.”

She studies me for a long second. Then her expression softens. “You’ve got this.”

I nod. “I’ve got this.”

I don’t. Not even a little.

Jo steps beside me. She’s wearing the navy gown she’d chosen that afternoon.

Someone would call it simple and elegant.

I call it breathtaking.

She catches me looking. “What?”

I shake my head. “You’re gorgeous.” I swallow. “You look incredible.”