Wrong Text, Right Reply: A Sweet Accidental Romance (An Accidental But Perfect Romance Book 1)

by Bonnie Sweets

  Before I let myself get too excited, I have to remind myself that the messages could very well be from the extended car warranty center or from that dating app I tried a few months ago.

  Trying not to get my hopes too high, I swipe the screen, planning on texting David to tell him what a douchebag he is. He’ll just laugh at me. I need to get him back, but I draw a blank in the revenge department as I see two new threads besides a couple missed texts from my mother asking if I need to come get leftovers.

  Oh, that David… He was going to get popped. I haven’t wrapped him up in years. Apparently, he’s due for a humbling. Making me miss out on some of my mother’s leftovers was too low, even for him.

  The other two threads are full of numbers I don’t recognize.

  I open the one that looks like it’s to a group of about eight or nine. Scrolling to the top which takes a couple seconds, I finally land on the first message.

  Hi, this is Savvy…

  My mouth parts in shock as I continue reading the messages from a group of women that know more about what makes a man commitment worthy than I obviously do.

  I’m not going to lie. A few of the messages make me chuckle, but only three make me feel bad for reading the conversation like a voyeur.

  When I reach messages that reference me, heat climbs up the back of my neck. Savvy thought that about me? And she mentioned what I said. Wow, it upset her a lot more than I thought it had. And then she came over to apologize me.

  A few of the women promised to detach my favorite appendage from my body and that they knew people who could do it. That makes me feel a little uncomfortable, but nothing I can’t handle. I’m sure they’re just joking anyway. Right?

  I lift my gaze to check for customers before ducking back down and swiping through the rest of the messages.

  The group is hilarious and more than a little informative. I’m not sure how I was added, but I don’t know if I want out.

  I back out of the conversation to inspect the other thread. This one is just one message and it’s from Savvy asking if I still want to be a part of the group.

  A million thoughts course through my mind.

  Yes, I want to be in the group.

  No, I don’t want them to think I’m a woman.

  No, I don’t want to lie to any of them.

  Yes, I know I could learn things from this group of women that were basically dropped in my lap, but I have no idea how to do that without lying.

  And I really don’t want to lie.

  Resolved to be open with Savvy, I text her back with a question.

  Me: Hi, Savvy. Thanks for reaching out. Can I ask how you got my number?

  The message seems generic enough. She couldn’t get mad enough at me to come yell again, right?

  The response takes mere seconds.

  Savvy: I should have led with that! I’m so sorry. Vague texting is basically my ninja skill. You signed up to be a part of the group with my daughter last week. She was in the food trailer lot. If you don’t want to be in the group, that’s absolutely fine. Just let me know and no hard feelings. We’re a crazy bunch.

  She didn’t ask if I was a woman. She didn’t even mention divorce. That has to be a good thing. Maybe those weren’t requirements. Or maybe they weren’t that important since she didn’t ask about them.

  I can recognize justification when I hear it, so I ignore the thoughts running through my mind.

  Me: Oh, I remember now. Yes. Very nice girl. Well, is it too late to join or…

  I let it trail off, unsure what I’m even asking. Am I trying to stay in the group as me or as a woman? Am I going to outright lie, if it comes right down to it? Is that something I’m willing to cave on?

  Lying by omission isn’t applicable here, is it?

  Her daughter is sweet.

  I did sign up on the clipboard, but only after Abby told me it was for free chocolate samples.

  I signed it using my initials because I’d been in a hurry.

  Maybe I can get enough information to learn more about Savvy. That has to be worth all of the trouble I have no doubt I’m about to dunk myself in. I have a good grasp of the taboo acceptance of lying in relationships. I know that much. It’s not okay.

  But I can’t figure out why women won’t stay with me. My sister once told me I look like a bad boy and no one marries a bad boy. Women date the bad boys to shock their parents, not to walk down the aisle with.

  How do I become the guy a girl wants to take home to her parents?

  Savvy: Just jump in there and introduce yourself, KT. We’re excited to have you. Thanks for joining us!

  Her energy and personality is more obvious and seems to be really coming out. She never talks like that to me in person. In fact, she rarely smiles or laughs around me at all.

  This change is refreshing.

  Another reason to stay in the group and anonymous with regard to my true identity. So, that’s what I was doing? Lying and hiding? What could possibly justify the deceit?

  Knowledge. Maybe I could learn something that would help me have a family life and a relationship worth saying vows for.

  In this instance, the end has to justify the means.

  Me: Thanks. I will right now.

  I shift over to the group thread and look at the last of the messages. I need to sound like a woman without sounding like I’m trying too hard.

  I’m more than a little embarrassed to stand there with the phone in my hand, illicitly reading over a conversation of divorced women that I’m going to join. What if David walks in on me or catches me?

  Worse, what if David steals my phone again? I need to make sure that doesn’t happen again.

  Before overthinking what to say, I reply in the group thread.

  Me: Hi, all! I’m KT. Can’t wait to get to know everyone.

  At least it isn’t a blatant lie. I am KT. I am excited to learn more.

  No one can fault me for that, right?

  I mute the notifications on my phone and wait for someone to acknowledge my reply.

  Alex: Nice to meet you, KT. Don’t mean to be rude, but I want to know what happened to Savvy.

  Dion: Girl, where’d you go?

  Mandie: Did the BBQ guy end up being a serial killer?

  Savvy: Not at all. I’m just… Do you guys think it’s bad that I think he’s…

  Think he’s what? No, think I’m what? What am I? I’m suddenly ready to hold my breath in anticipation. What could she possibly think about me now?

  Apple: Delicious? From what you described so far, I’m hungry for some BBQ and I don’t even eat meat.

  Okay, wait. She thinks I sound good-looking and she doesn’t eat meat? Who doesn’t eat meat? I thought that was reserved for a California-like lifestyle.

  Mandie: Yes, he sounds hot. Can you sneak a picture of him? With his ink, he sounds like the perfect bad boy.

  I try not to groan at the comment. I don’t want them to think I’m a bad guy or whatever they’re saying. I just want someone to look at me and think I’m the guy they want to be with forever.

  Is that such a bad thing?

  Savvy: He is definitely hot. But I’ve sworn off guys. Don’t you feel the same?

  Alex: I don’t know. I mean, my divorce was hard, sure, but if I found the right guy, I wouldn’t say no to my own happy ever after.

  I text before I can stop myself.

  Me: What makes the right guy, though?

  I set the phone down as people come to the window, ordering the Skitwish Mountain Burger. “Is it really four pounds, man?” The customer in front looks exactly like I picture a bad boy that the group is talking about. He has tattoos running up and down his arms, curving around his neck and running along the sides of his ears. He has multiple piercings and even wears his baseball cap with a flat brim and backwards.

  But I don’t see that when I look at him. I don’t care what his exterior looks like. He’s someone who is interested in my BBQ. That’s good enough for me.


  “Oh, I’ll tell you what, I have to actually use five of these plates to give it to you. You should see the brisket on this burger, man. I wouldn’t even call it a burger, if I had a different name to give it.” I originally named it after the tallest mountain around the lake. Now, though, even that name didn’t seem big enough for the monstrosity I’d created.

  “Here we go. I’m going to call out the layers as I set them.” I nod toward the man who was brave enough to order the Skitwish.

  Pulling the stack of plates closer to me, I pick up the tongs and run down the line. “One burger patty, half a slab of ham, three smoked bacon, another burger, a breaded chicken patty, smoked cheddar cheese, jalapenos, pepperoncini, another patty, tomato, lettuce, onion, four ounces of slow smoked brisket, a ladle of my magic Knox Your Sauce Off BBQ sauce, another patty, a cut of prime rib, three onion rings, shredded pepper jack cheese, more bacon, and the top bun.” I grin as I clamp a tongful of crispy curly fries onto the plate beside the mountain of meat and let their oohs and aahs wash over me.

  They pay and I give them their plates, indicating where to get their utensils and some great places to sit. Outdoor seating isn’t available year-round in our part of the state, but with the warm spring weather, we have plenty for everyone.

  I rest my hands on my hips as I wait for the next group to approach. Things look like I’m in for a busy night and I’m excited.

  But I can’t help glancing at the muted phone sitting on the far end of the counter.

  What were they saying made the right guy and would I be able to be any of the things they list?

  Chapter 7

  Savvy

  Me: Great question, KT. I’ll be back in a bit to answer this one. I’m coming up on rush hour. Be back soon.

  I can’t believe how busy tonight is. My clientele is mostly women, but I get the occasional man who is doubtful anyone can make sugar free anything taste good.

  They usually return, having been converted to the keto lifestyle as long as they eat from my trailer.

  I go back to the phone after five groups order my special of the day – the Keto Calzone. Stuffed full of pepperoni, salami, Canadian bacon, spicy sausage, shredded mozzarella cheese, marinara sauce, black olives, sliced onions, mushrooms, and parmesan cheese in a fathead crust.

  Normally a calzone of any kind will take almost an hour to cook, but I premake my calzone pockets and then finalize them in the convection oven. They’re toasty, delicious and ooey and gooey and just full of fats and delicious flavor.

  They’re a lot of prep work, though, so I don’t offer them on my normal menu.

  I make myself one to enjoy during the break in customers and sit down to read the rest of the messages the group sent while I was busy.

  Dion: Traits of a good guy, if I were going to date again?

  Alex: I wouldn’t settle simply because the first guy who looked at me asked me out and then gave me a ring.

  Apple: Or because my parents like him.

  Mandie: Or hated him.

  Dion: I wouldn’t trust him. I’d trust my gut. I knew my ex was stealing from me, but I listened to everyone else saying how charming he was and good looking.

  Mandie: Ugly. I’d look for an ugly man. The good-looking ones are too cocky.

  Sara: Not me. I settled for an ugly one last time, thinking exactly that and guess what? He decided he wasn’t into women. That was a blow, I’ll tell you what.

  I sigh. Everyone is getting a spontaneous therapy session as they vent out what they would actually want in a man.

  Some of their comments might be flippant, but I really think through my reply. I feel like I’m the leader of this new group and I don’t want to say anything that might push them off getting what they need from us.

  Me: I really want a man… No. I don’t want one. I don’t want to get hurt or feel like I’m replaceable. I have kids and I don’t want them to feel even a fraction of what they already went through with their father.

  KT: You all sound like you were horribly hurt. It’s amazing everyone was divorced and walking around the food trailer lot.

  Mandie: I agree. I had no idea I was walking around future friends.

  Alex: I have to agree with you, Savvy. I’ll add that I don’t want to be ignored. I want him to put his phone down and listen to me. Look at me. Study me. See me.

  I nod, even though no one can see me.

  Me: Yes, a guy that actually looks at you when you’re talking? Gold.

  Dion: Gold.

  Sara: Oh! Gold! Yes, I want one with gold.

  I chuckle softly to myself. They were saying the truth. The truth no one would ever be able to say to a man or potential dating option.

  I would die if a guy saw what we wrote to each other. Thank goodness we were only a group of women. I’d never be able to show my face around town again.

  ***

  Sunday comes fast and furious and before I know it, I’m standing in front of the stove, moving the spatula over the griddle. “Do you want three crepes, Abby, or four?”

  My reluctant daughter slumps down from the stairs, her arms folded over her stomach. She wears a dark gray pair of sweat pants under an AC/DC shirt that used to be her father’s. Bright pink polished toes poke out from under the hem of her pants. “I’m not hungry.”

  I turn, the spatula suspended in the air, my grip tight as I try to process what she’s saying. “You don’t want crepes? They’re your favorite.”

  “I don’t want sugar on them.” She lifts her shoulder and pushes at the carpet edge with her bare foot.

  I blink at her, my eyebrows knit together. “Okay, then don’t put sugar on them. You can do them savory style.”

  “I don’t like them savory. I want them sweet.” She matches my expression but sticks her lower lip out and stares at me as if challenging me for dominance.

  “Are you kidding me, right now? You want them sweet but no sugar? I don’t understand.” And I don’t. What can she possibly be trying to say to me? Is she speaking another language? Code? Is this one of those things I need to pay attention to as a parent, a call for help?

  Dexter storms into the kitchen, throwing his arms akimbo as he studies us in the room. “I’m not having crepes without sugar.”

  I shift my gaze from Dexter to Abby and back again. “What is going on?”

  “I want them like we normally have them.” Abby’s whine is like glass rubbed by a fingertip. I want to scream at her.

  “How do we normally have them?” I’ve been making crepes for our family on Sundays for the last fifteen years, maybe longer. How could she possibly want them any different and what is she suggesting I do them? It’s the reason I love making crepes. They’re easy, fancy, and not a lot of thinking involved.

  “No. I want them the way you made them when Dad was here.” Abby’s eyes well up with tears and she bites her bottom lip to keep from crying.