Accidental Texting: Finding Love despite the Spotlight

by Kimberly Montague

  "He should have thought about that before he slept with her," I thought out loud.

  "Now you're thinking," she said approvingly as she entered it.

  "Well then," Cerise mumbled with a raised eyebrow.

  "What? What did he say now?" Okay, so she succeeded in getting me interested. I was always a sucker for a good soap opera.

  "I asked him why he would do that to you, and he said that you shouldn't pretend that you hadn't done the exact same thing with your PA last month." She looked over at me, her face scrunched in confusion. "PA?"

  "Hmm. Personal Accountant?" I guessed. "Private Assistant?"

  "Assistant to your privates by the way he made it sound."

  I rolled my eyes at her as she went back to typing. "Stop referring to the girl he thinks he's talking to as me. I would never cheat. You know that."

  She waved me off. "You're supposed to be playing along here."

  I bounced my head up and down and thought for a moment. "Okay, tell him, 'Your eyes were wandering long before anything started with my PA.'"

  "Oh, that's good." She laughed lightly as she typed then looked over at me seriously. "You think all guys look no matter what?" I shrugged, and the chirping of my phone pulled us from the question. She laughed again and read. "Looking isn't touching, darling, I'm sure you understood that distinction when you were all over Spencer."

  "Ooooh." I laughed. These two needed some serious therapy.

  "No kidding," Cerise agreed. "How should we respond? Defensive? Flippant? Offensive?"

  "Hmm. This takes a delicate touch," I decided. "Tell him, 'You're such an idiot. I only did that to get your damn attention away from what's her name.'"

  "Nice. Poor guy. It's really sad when complete strangers can almost guess what happened in your seriously dysfunctional relationship."

  "Yeah, that is pretty sad." It made me feel a little guilty for giving him a hard time. "I think we should let the poor guy off the hook. Sounds like he has enough trouble."

  Cerise nodded as we pulled up to my home, my business, my whole world. I felt comfort and nausea and guilt all at the same time. The inn had always brought me such joy with its restored Victorian exterior and warm, cozy interior. It had been passed down in my family for generations before Mom and I got our hands on it. We spent the better part of ten years working on it on the weekends, restoring it to its former beauty and soaking every extra penny into it. There were so many memories in the home that it was both comforting and tough as hell to be there. She'd died less than a year after she opened the doors to guests. I was grateful she got to see it up and running, but I missed her so much that it overwhelmed me at times.

  "I told him he was an ass and to stop texting you," Cerise explained, staring down at my phone. "But he's begging, Morgan. Maybe you should give him another chance. He has me intrigued."

  "Oh please," I said, piling the baking supplies in my hands. "Any guy who merely looks your way has you intrigued." I bumped her in the hip so she would know I was just teasing her. "Besides, we had a deal. It's time to get back to work. Tell him it's a wrong number and help me carry this stuff inside before we freeze to death."

  "Okay." She sighed before talking and typing. "Sorry, you actually have the wrong number. I was just messing with you. Good luck with Michelle."

  She turned off my phone and slid it back into my purse before grabbing a load of bags.

  Morgan… Not Michelle

  It smelled wonderful inside the inn—like cinnamon and sugar. Half of the business was the inn, which wasn't making a single penny, but the other half was the tea room/restaurant where my genius chef, Annalisa St. Croix, whipped up some amazingly delicious dishes. Her baked goods kept my butt out of a size 2 and verging on a size 6 year-round. Not that a size 4 is a healthy thing for most girls, but considering I was small on top with small shoulders and barely 5'4" a size 4 was really my healthy size.

  "Did you get the flour? Did you get the right one? Did you ask Mick for the cut I told you to? Did you—"

  I tugged on one of the haphazard blonde braids that lay, more or less, over her shoulder. "Annalisa, I got everything you put on the list, exactly as you put it, just like I always do."

  She was taller than me by a few inches, and her cleavage had distracted many of the sous chefs I'd had to fire, but she was a brilliant chef. That also meant that she could be a bit temperamental when she wanted to be. Aside from Cerise though, Annalisa was my oldest friend. The funny thing was that she wasn't even remotely interested in being a chef until Mom passed away, who was an amazing cook. It started with her helping me interview and try out several chefs who applied, but she shot down each one. When she followed them around the kitchen, picking apart their style or the ingredients they put together, I realized she knew a lot more than she had given herself credit for and begged her to be my chef. Now, she was well-known in town for her delicious creations… if only that were enough to keep the business afloat.

  "Okay," she finally agreed. "I should trust you by now, but if it isn't the right cut—" I was glaring at her now, and she put her hands up defensively. "I get it, I'll stop. Oh, Petey is here early. He's waiting for you in your office."

  I groaned and closed my eyes. I was expecting another hour to form a new game plan before our meeting. Petey was the nicest guy I'd ever known, and his amazing wife spent almost every lunch in the tea room. I felt so unbelievably guilty about the serious dread that came over me about seeing him, but I wasn't going to hide. He was trying to help, and I needed to just appreciate him for that instead of associating him with the message I knew he'd be delivering.

  Slowly, I dragged myself toward my office, taking off my coat, gloves, and scarf along the way. As I opened the door, I noticed Petey already had papers set out for me. My shoulders slumped.

  "Morgan, how are you doing today?" He always looked nice with a dark suit on and complementary tie and dress shirt—I had it on good authority that Fran was responsible for dressing everyone in the household.

  I set my purse in the cabinet and hung up my coat and scarf. "You tell me, Petey. How am I doing today?"

  He let out a loud, sad sigh. "I wish I had good news, honey. We need to transfer more out of your savings account to cover this month's bills."

  I flopped into my chair, looking over the papers. "Four thousand? Really? Petey? Really?"

  He nodded severely. "It's the wedding, honey. You're doing a great job planning it all and keeping it under the couple's budget—I've been watching the progress—but there are so many upfront costs going into that. I'm just not sure taking on being a wedding planner was a good idea right now. Maybe you should consider closing—"

  "No! Not an option."

  He leaned forward, putting his hands out to me. "Morgan, you can't keep—"

  "Petey, I'll make it work. I'll find a way." He nodded as I signed the transfer slips. "Will you and Fran be bringing the girls for Thanksgiving? I haven't seen them in weeks. They must be getting so big."

  He took out his phone and showed me a picture of the adoratwins. "Fran says she'll only come if we can buy the turkeys. Three right?"

  "Petey," I scolded.

  "Stop. I, of all people, know you can't afford to feed us for free. Let us all help, Morgan or we won't come, any of us. I'm serious. We all talked about this—"

  I was hurt and embarrassed. "You're talking about my lack of finances behind my back?"

  "We're worried about you, honey. Annalisa made us a list of the things she'll need. We spread it out evenly. Everyone has something they'll bring."

  I buried my face in my hands. I couldn't even afford to feed my friends and family on Thanksgiving. Mom always did the whole Thanksgiving thing for everyone, and now I'd have to get help to be able to afford it.

  "Stop feeling sorry for yourself," he said firmly but kindly. "We love you, and we're tired of seeing you run yourself ragged trying to do everything. Let us feel worthwhile, huh?"

  I nodded slowly. What choice did I
have? He collected his papers, placed his hand on my shoulder and left.

  The tears started to well up in my eyes. I looked up at the picture of Mom hanging on the wall beside my desk. "How did things get so screwed up, Mom? What am I supposed to do?" Wrapping my arms around me, I gave in and let the tears slide down my cheeks.

  The chirping in my purse drew my attention away from my tears, and I looked at my phone tentatively. With my luck, it was more bad news. Tough, be tough, I told myself. Bringing the screen to life, I opened the latest text message.

  That's not funny. I know it's you. Your PA just gave me your new number this morning. You can't just ignore me!

  I raised my eyebrows at that. It was funny that he was so sure it was the right number since it so obviously wasn't. I felt sorry for him, though. Not only had we apparently done a pretty decent job of convincing him we were Michelle, but maybe her PA gave him the wrong number on purpose. Then again, he did cheat on Michelle. I shook my head, realizing I sounded like some bored housewife talking about fictional characters on a soap opera like they were my friends.

  I hit reply and typed, I'm sorry you're having so much trouble with Michelle, but I'm really not her. Check the number again.

  I set the phone down on the desk in front of me, but my fingers hadn't even let go of it before it chirped at me again.

  You can't have a conversation with me about what's happened between us and expect me to believe it's a wrong number, Michelle.

  Yeah, I felt bad about that now. I'm sorry, really. My friend and I thought it was funny to mess with you. I'm really not Michelle.

  An apology isn't enough for you? You know I don't do commitment. You said that was fine. Now you want more?

  Alright, enough was enough. I was starting to get annoyed at his refusal to accept that he had the wrong number. I don't want anything from you except for you to stop texting me.

  Sweetie, what can I do to make it up to you?

  Not that I was in any position to give relationship advice, but I felt like I had a good idea exactly what he should be doing. Maybe you should go SEE her instead of texting a random stranger, take her some flowers.

  I sent you flowers, tons of them. You know I'm stuck in Miami until the shoot is over. I would have come with you if I could have.

  "Shoot" huh? In Miami? He must be a model. No wonder she's ditching him. I found male models to be just a little, I don't know, weird. One thing was for sure though, he had a skewed sense of priorities, and I felt the need to tell him that. Clearly some photo shoot is more important than she is. Why don't you find a fellow model to chase after instead of stranger?

  Model? I'm not into models. You know that. We've both been burned by their kind.

  Hmm. He wasn't a model. Well, with a photo shoot, he could be anybody really—an actor, a businessman, a famous athlete, or a photographer. If he wasn't going to leave me alone, I figured I might as well appease my curiosity if for no other reason than to keep me from weepy tears about the inn. Not a model, huh? Are you a photographer then?

  Michelle?

  Oh, maybe he was finally catching a clue. Nope. Morgan. I've said it several times. You have the wrong number.

  Morgan? Morgan what? Prove it.

  I actually laughed out loud at that. Seriously? Since when did I need to prove I was a wrong number? How do you expect me to prove that?

  Michelle, we really don't need to play these silly games do we? Aren't we both adults here?

  I'm an adult, but I don't know about you two. Sounds like you both screw around on each other—not so adult in my book. But as I thought about it, it seemed plenty "adult" just not decent. It seemed the world was in short supply of decent people, though.

  You're really not Michelle? What's your last name? You live near Michelle in Vermont?

  I debated the sanity of telling him my name and finally decided I'd made this bed when I pretended to be Michelle, now I had to lie in it. No I'm not her. Morgan Edwards.

  Morgan male or female?

  Female, but don't go getting any ideas. I wasn't at all interested in being the next girl that "meant nothing."

  Are you a friend of Michelle's?

  It was like talking to a wall. I thought about it for several minutes. How could I prove it to him? I stared back up at Mom's portrait but had to look away, which is when my eyes fell on my computer screen. The inn's website was up. Go to www.theoldeneglishinnvt.com click on about us and that's me, Morgan Edwards. Not Michelle. Nothing to do with whoever she is.

  Several minutes passed, and I thought he'd finally given up on me. Poor guy—he clearly had issues. I couldn't help but wonder if he and Michelle would work things out or if maybe they'd move on to decent relationships with other people. Again I was reminded of people obsessed with soap operas. Maybe I needed to go back to watching them, although I really didn't have the spare time.

  I was just breaking out the books to look over my budget calculations when my phone chirped at me again.

  That's really you?

  I laughed to myself. Last time I checked.

  You're beautiful.

  I couldn't suppress my eye-roll at that. Thanks, but now that you know I'm not Michelle, don't you think you should go figure out her actual number?

  You own the inn?

  Yes.

  It's cute.

  "Cute" wasn't exactly the best compliment. "Impressive" or "successful" were words I'd much rather hear, but "cute" was positive. I could use all the positive I could get. Thanks.

  How old are you?

  Seriously? Why on earth was he asking my age?

  Yes, you look too young to have a business up and running like that. Just curious.

  Oh. I supposed that was a legitimate reason to ask my age. I'm 25.

  You are young. Your parents must be very proud.

  I wasn't really sure if I wanted to reply to that, or if I wanted to reply at all. He was obviously a womanizer, and I had things to do, numbers to crunch, and a business to run. Did I really need a distraction? My gaze wandered up to the picture of Mom, then down at the books, and my stomach turned viciously. Yes—yes I did need a distraction. I leaned back in my chair and put my feet up on the box of paper underneath my desk. The room that was my office was really the old dining room cut in half, so it was pretty small. Storage in the inn was always a battle.

  My mom started the inn. She passed away eight months ago. Dad doesn't care that I exist.

  I wasn't sure why I telling this man my personal business or why it seemed to flow so easily. I was usually fairly guarded. On the other hand, he didn't know me, lived down in Miami, and obviously had plenty of women to pick from, so it wasn't like I had anything to hide or a reason to want to hide it. It was sort of refreshing, really. No pretenses, no need for games, no need for the stiff upper lip I tried to show everyone else.

  I'm sorry to hear that. Must be very tough on you.

  My typical response to similar comments was "I'm fine," but I felt no need to sugar coat my life to this stranger. It is—very.

  What's the toughest part?

  There really wasn't enough time or enough characters available in a text message to even cover a tenth of why it was so difficult to be without her, but I gave him the abridged version. Missing her hugs, her advice, just her presence. That and knowing I'm running her inn into the damn ground.

  Looks good in the picture. You could use a few more on your site, though.

  That was easier said than done. I'd used a free template for the website and done it all with my own seriously amateur skills. What I'd produced wasn't great by any means, but it was excellent considering my lack of knowledge where websites were concerned. I'll take that under advisement.

  Really, I can give you some tips. My parents own a restaurant, and my friend knows a lot about business.

  In terms of advice, I really hadn't found much that was useful. I'd researched marketing ideas online and put out a few ads in the newspaper. We sent postcards with special o
ffers to previous guests, and I had ads in a couple magazines before the cost started exceeding the profit. I even tried to get a travel magazine to do an article about the inn, but they weren't interested. Staring down at his offer, I figured it couldn't hurt to hear another perspective. I'm eating through my savings, so I guess any advice is good advice at this point.

  You have to fix that website. An inn without online reservations?

  Well now, that's where the problem was. I could hire a great designer for the website and post ads in every major travel magazine, but those things weren't free. That's expensive.

  I've got a friend who makes websites. He's got templates ready to go. Give me your domain information, and I'll get him to hook you up.

  That seemed a little suspicious to me. Why would a complete stranger go out of their way to give free services like that, especially when I'd been messing with his head not minutes earlier? I shook my head and stared out the window. It was too suspect. I appreciate the offer and the advice, but I'll just save up and get it done myself. Thanks for the chat, though.

  I breathed a sigh of exhaustion and put my phone back in my purse. As I picked up my pencil and turned back to the books, the chirping came in again. I tried to fight the curiosity and just let it go, but the curiosity won—I was gonna be a dead cat one of these days.

  So you're one of those.

  What did he mean by that? One of what?

  A feminist. The type of woman who can't take help from a man. Gotta do everything on your own, huh?

  Where did he get off? He was the cheater. No. And why the hell are you judging me Mr. She Meant Nothing. I took help from all my friends, male and female, all the time. But as I thought about my conversation with Petey about Thanksgiving, I started to realize I really did have a problem taking help from others. Mom had raised me to struggle and fight and get it done on your own. You don't ask for help unless you've exhausted all options achievable with your own output. But I'd been working myself ragged and it seemed to make no difference where the inn was concerned. Maybe I had exhausted all my individually attainable options. The chirping of my phone pulled me from that depressing thought.