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Copyright © 2021 Cara Bastone

Extract from Call Me Maybe copyright © 2021 Cara Bastone

Cover illustration by Monika Roe

The right of Cara Bastone to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in this Ebook edition in 2021

by HEADLINE ETERNAL

An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

eISBN 978 1 4722 8782 3

HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

An Hachette UK Company

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ

About the Author

Cara Bastone is a full-time writer who lives and writes in Brooklyn with her husband, son and an almost-golden doodle. Her goal with her work is to find the swoon in ordinary love stories. She’s been a fan of the romance genre since she found a grocery bag filled with her grandmother’s old Harlequin Romance books when she was in high school. She’s a fangirl for pretzel sticks, long walks through Prospect Park, and love stories featuring men who aren’t hobbled by their own masculinity.

To find out more, visit carabastone.com or follow Cara on Twitter and Instagram @carabastone.

By Cara Bastone

Love Lines Series

Call Me Maybe

Sweet Talk

Praise for Cara Bastone

‘Cara Bastone is one of the most talented writers in the romance genre today. With her signature blend of heart, humor, and honesty, Cara’s books remind you that the best stories begin and end with hope’

Lyssa Kay Adams

About the Book

It’s officially booty o’clock, I’m alone again in my kitchen choking down a slice of terrible chocolate cake . . . and I’m pretty sure I just got drunk texted by the man I have a ginormous crush on.

I’ve been daydreaming about Eliot Hoffman’s dimples for two months, and even though I’m sure this was a mistake on his end, it doesn’t mean it’s not an opportunity on mine.

It’s the middle of the night, and I just wanna talk to him. So I text him back.

And then somehow we keep talking . . . ALL NIGHT. We’re both insomniacs, so talking all night soon turns into talking EVERY night. And talking about nothing soon turns into talking about something. And here we go from in-depth analysis of reality TV to my relationship with my family, to his amazing artwork. There’s no topic we don’t cover . . .

Except for who I really am.

It’s the only question of his I won’t answer.

As my crush turns into an avalanche of Eliot, I think of him all the time now. But if he knew who I was, the entire house of cards we’ve built this relationship on would come toppling down.

I want him to be mine, but we might never be more than just a sweet dream . . .

Dedication

For everybody with tool belts.

(Literal ones and emotional ones.)

If you work hard to fix problems, this book is for you.

Chapter One

Jessie

“Hey, you still up?”

I nearly choke to death on the humongous bite of dry chocolate cake in my mouth. It’s almost 2 a.m., I’m sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter in my dad’s apartment, and I’m pretty sure I just got drunk-texted by the man I have a debilitating crush on.

Only, that wasn’t just a text. That was a voice message he texted me. I was not expecting to suddenly hear that movie-star voice in the middle of the night, in the middle of this shoebox kitchen, in the middle of a slice of bad cake that will seriously not budge an inch down my throat. I try to swallow the bite again, and when it still doesn’t give up the ghost, I spear my fork into the center of the cake slice for safekeeping and lean over to drink straight from the faucet.

Water runs down my chin, over my ear, and into my hair, and I’m a soggy, gasping mess by the time I give my phone my full attention again. I play the voice message that was just texted to me one more time.

“Hey, you still up?”

This has to be a mistake, right? He’s never texted or called me before. Not even during daylight hours. I glance at the clock on the screen of the ancient microwave and even though it’s missing most of its pixels I still confirm that it is, in fact, the middle of the night. It’s officially booty o’clock and he definitely just you up?ed me.

The question is whether or not he knows who it is he just propositioned. This has to be a misdial?

So, where do I go from here? Pretend I didn’t get it and leave him to discover his mistake on his own? That’s probably best . . . but . . . the thing is . . . this guy is so cute. Like, stupid cute. And cute isn’t even usually my bag. But he’s got this big, handsome puppy thing going on that just really . . . makes me wanna . . . Look, there’s no way I’m not texting him back.

I’m sure this was a mistake on his end, but that doesn’t mean it’s not an opportunity on my end and it’s the middle of the night, and I just wanna talk to him.

I text back Yeah? with a question mark.

It’s kind of brilliant if you think about it.

A moment later another voice message pops up and his voice fills the kitchen again.

“I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

No, I text back. I was just eating chocolate cake.

I get another incoming voice message almost immediately. “Chocolate cake? At 2 a.m.? Weirdo.”

I laugh and text him back.

What did you expect?

“At 2 a.m.? That you’d either be sleeping and we’d just talk in the morning, or that you’d be racing to meet a shipping deadline,” he responds.

Who is this person that he thinks he’s texting? The middle of the night “you up?” text immediately points toward someone he wants to hook up with. But nothing else has been especially flirty. Not even his tone. In fact, I don’t think he’s drunk.

No work tonight, I text. Just cake.

“Ugh. Why are you making me read at this time of night?”

I blink and listen to that voice message one more time. He doesn’t like reading texts? I guess that explains why he’s voice-messaging me. I type a few replies, but I delete each one. Because each one is a lie or evasion, and that’s not really my style. Instead I press down on the voice-record button. No way out but the truth.

“Because I figured once you heard my voice, you’d realize that you were texting the wrong person.” Whoosh, I send the message.

I get another voice message almost immediately.

“Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. I texted the wrong person.”

“Yup. I figured. Have a good night.”

I send that last voice message with a sigh. Well, that was fun while it lasted. Four minutes of tepid texting with a guy who has me confused with someone else has unfortunately been the highlight of my month.

The sad thing is that not only do I want to talk to him, I really just wanna talk to anybody. Before that voice message, it had been almost twelve hours since I spoke a word aloud, and that was a simple “thank you” to Miss Laura in 5C when she dropped off the chocolate cake that almost took my life a few minutes ago. With Pops in the care facility, I’m alone almost all the time. Well, except for work, but that doesn’t count. My general demeanor doesn’t exactly foster small talk, and I don’t know anyone well enough for them to actually check in on me.

I hop down and dump the rest of the cake in the trash, because if I don’t, I’ll just keep eating it, and it tastes like a sponge someone used to wipe up some cocoa powder. I think she forgot the sugar.

I’m sudsing up the plate when my phone dings from the counter. I blink.

Did he text again? But I just have a good nighted him. I let him off the hook. There’s no reason for him to keep texting after that. I wipe my soapy hands on my sweats and pick up my phone.

“Okay, this is humiliating. But . . . would you mind telling me who you are?”

I gape at the phone for a second before jamming my finger on the voice-record button. I assumed he would have looked at the contact information and at least figured out who I was from that. Did he not save my last name or something?

“You still don’t know who I am? Then how am I saved in your phone?” I send the message.

A thought occurs to me, and I inwardly cringe. What if he did save my last name and that’s not the problem? The problem is that even with a first and last name he has no memory of who I am. This is . . . disheartening. Here, I’ve spent the last two months daydreaming about his dimples, and he can’t even put my face to my name. Ouch.

“I accidentally saved your contact as a bunch of mixed-up letters. I guess I wasn’t looking when I was typing it in. You’re right next to the person I meant to text in my contact list,” he messages.

Okay, so not quite as bad as I thought? I think back to the night he got my number from me. It actually makes sense that he would’ve mistyped in those circumstances. It was a pretty crazy night. He definitely wasn’t in his right mind. I guess I can forgive him this.

And now that I’m mulling it over, if he knew who I was, then we would have to stop texting because this would just be super awkward. But as it is, he has no idea who I am. So, I guess I can reply?

“Wow,” I send. And just like that he’s replying. “Okay, yes, I definitely deserve that judgmental wow. Like I said, this is majorly humiliating. I . . . take it that you know who I am?”

“Yes, Eliot Hoffman, I know who you are. I saved your name in my phone properly,” I send.

“Okay . . . I deserve that, too,” he replies. “All right, let me think. I recognize your voice, but I can’t place it. But I’m saved in your phone by both first and last name, right? Which I’m guessing means that we’ve met a few times but don’t know each other that well.”

I stare at my phone again for a long second. That assessment is scarily accurate. But that’s not the reason my heart has banged its way up into my throat. Is . . . is Eliot Hoffman chatting with me right now? I have a good nighted him at two in the morning, yet here he is, continuing to text me. I nearly take my thumbnail off in one nervous bite.

I thought the name of the game was going to be how to get out of this conversation with my pride still intact. But no. The name of the game is now chatting with a cute guy in the middle of the night without being the one to accidentally end the conversation first.

Let’s see . . . how to explain my overthinking. Ah. Okay. I’m not exactly known for my gentle touch with anything, but especially with guys. I’m one of those girls who punches the guy she likes too hard in the shoulder. If I think someone is cute, I don’t blush or bite my lip. I roll my eyes and mildly insult him.

But chatting with Eliot Hoffman right now is like realizing there’s some mythical creature standing in my kitchen next to me. If I freak out and rush him, he’s going to skitter away, gone for ever, no one would even believe he’d been there in the first place. This is a delicate dance. I clear my throat and think of how to reply.

“Ding ding ding. You get ten points,” I send.

He replies immediately, and my blood pressure skyrockets. I probably look like a weightlifter right now. Veins bulging, eyeballs bugging.

“I get points for this? I can’t believe you haven’t subtracted a million points for not knowing who you are. You’re a generous and forgiving soul.”

“Good point,” I message. “Minus ten points for not knowing who I am. You’re back to zero.”

He messages back right away. “Ha! I shouldn’t have said anything. Shot myself in the foot. How many points do I get if I outright guess who you are?”

“How many of these fictional points that mean nothing and literally exist only in our brains?” I respond.

“Yes, exactly. Those points.”

“Umm. Two hundred.”

“Okay, deal. If I guess who you are outright, I get two hundred points. But also, if I build up to two hundred points with good guesses, then you just have to tell me.”

“Considering the fact that you’re currently at zero, I’m not concerned. So, deal.”

“Fair warning, though. I’m very competitive.”

“So let’s hear a guess, then.”

“Laura Hepburn?”

I am instantly and completely consumed with hatred for Laura Hepburn. Whoever she is, I hope that she, um . . . what are the worst things that could happen to a person? Ah! I hope she has a lifetime of sneeze tickles that never actually turn into a sneeze.

“Minus twenty,” I message.

I would make it minus a million if I didn’t think it would scare him off.

“What?! Minus twenty for wrong guesses? That’s way harsh, Tai.”

Either he’s bored, or secretly he’s just as lonely as I am, because he just quoted Clueless to a near-stranger that he has absolutely no obligation to be talking to. Why isn’t he sleeping right now? Why did he reach out in the middle of the night to whoever he thought I was at the beginning of this conversation? Why does he seem to be just as down to chitchat as I am?

“Plus five for the Clueless reference. Now you’re at negative fifteen,” I send.

“I’m moving up in the world. So, not Laura, huh? Well, that’s a blessing considering the last time I saw her she threatened to report me to HR for wearing Chucks to work.”

“She’s a work friend?”

“Ha! Friend. No. She’s a former work associate who thought my job was completely superfluous.”

There’s clearly no love lost between them, and I internally rescind my sneeze curse on Laura Hepburn. She sounds unpleasant, but my ire for her has dissolved – miraculously – in the face of Eliot’s distaste. What a cavewoman I apparently am.

“I thought you were a freelancer?” I message.

“So, you know a little bit about my work! Which means either we’ve worked together or we must have at least had surface small talk in the past.”

“One of those things is true.”

“Does that earn me five points?”

“Sure. You’re obsessed with the points.”

“I told you I’m competitive.”

“You’re the only one playing.”

“That means it would be even more pathetic if I lose. I’m at negative ten now. What are other ways for me to get points?”

“Besides guessing who I am?”

“Yeah. How about if I make an accurate leap in logic then I get points. And . . . if I make you laugh I get points. Just for funsies.”

Remember what I said about how he’s just a big, handsome puppy? Well, this is officially the only time in my life I’ve ever had a crush on someone who said stuff like funsies. But somehow it works on him.

I’m currently sitting on my kitchen counter in a ball, balanced perfectly, about to roll off in a heap if he texts me one more cute thing. I’m going to have to stick to one-word answers here if I don’t want him to know that his playfulness actually has me grinning like the Joker at my cell phone.

“Okay,” I message.

And then, because I’m terrified of him getting bored, I add a quick:

“Good luck.”

“So ominous. It’s like you know for a fact that I’ll never be able to successfully make you laugh.”

Little does he know that for the past fifteen minutes I’ve been giggling like a maniac every time my cell phone buzzes. It would probably be cooler if I remained aloof. But like I said before, I’m nothing if not honest. So . . .

“I never cheat when I play games. So, in that case, I’m going to have to award some retroactive points and bring your total up to zero.”

“To what do I owe the honor of these unexpected points? Wait! That means I already made you laugh at some point. Right?”

“Maybe.”

“It was Clueless, right? Or no. Funsies. I definitely got you with funsies.”

“Minus two points for arrogance.”

“Crap! Good call. Good call. You’re tough but fair.”

“Gotta stay humble, Hoffman.”

I instantly regret last-naming him. Is there anything that says you have a crush on a guy more than spontaneously last-naming him? If we were in high school, I’d be drawing a picture on the ground with my toe and twisting my hair around one finger. I’d be asking to wear his letterman’s jacket. He’s going to realize that he’s accidentally texted his secret admirer and block my ass before his bunny gets boiled.

But he doesn’t block me. Instead, he texts me back.

“Good advice, JD.”

“JD? Is that someone you know? Is it an official guess?”

“No! You just used my last name so I wanted to use yours, but obviously I don’t know yours so I used the last two letters of the way you’re saved in my phone. Officially, your name according to me is Vplkjdjd. Or JD for short.”

This little development has me hopping down off the counter and pacing from one side of the kitchen to the other. I’ve gotta move. I step into the living room and immediately backtrack into the kitchen. The sight of my blankets folded up on the couch makes me grimace.

My phone buzzes again in my hand. He’s texted me again.

“Hey, I’m not keeping you up too late, am I? I don’t want to be a bother.”

“No. I’m a night owl. If I weren’t talking to you I’d probably be—”

Unfortunately my finger slips and I send the voice message before I finish it. And honestly, maybe it’s a good thing my finger slipped because I was about to get real chatty.

“You’d probably be what? You can’t just cut off mid-sentence!”

There’s no way I’m telling him.

“Take a guess, then. It’s an opportunity for points.”

“Ah. Okay, okay. I see where you’re going with this. Okay, let me think. If you weren’t talking to me you’d probably be . . . watching cringey dating shows on Netflix?”

I jolt when I hear his message and stupidly glance around me as if he could magically be standing in my kitchen with me, observing my every move without me having previously noticed. I cannot believe he guessed it in one. It would be great if I was more into lying because I’d love to save face right now but . . .

“That’s . . . some serious psychic shit right there,” I message.

“HAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAA!!”

His entire message just consists of his hysterical laughter. I’m laughing, too. It’s impossible not to. He texts again a moment later.

“You’re kidding. I was right? That’s amazing. Gotta be worth at least fifty points, don’t you think?”

I make a valiant effort to swallow down my laughter.

“I’ll give you twenty-five points. Twenty for the guess, and five for the laugh.”

“I am smoking this game. I’m gonna get to two hundred in an hour. Tops.”

I sink down, my back sliding along the kitchen cabinets, and breathe deeply. There’s no chance in hell I’ll ever let him actually figure out who I am, but . . . he’s down to do this for another hour?

“Seriously, though,” I message. “How’d you guess that about the dating shows?”

“Isn’t that what everyone does when they can’t sleep?”

“Is that what you do when you can’t sleep, Hoffman? Watch reality television?”

“Lately. Are you watching the dating show where they’re handcuffed together or the one where they’re in masks?”

“Handcuffs. The masks one is trash.”

“Really? Why? I liked the masks one!”

“Because after their faces were revealed they all ended up being hot anyway. It’s like, if you’re gonna make people fall in love without seeing each other, why not cast normal-looking people, you know?”

“Good point. Yeah. Now that I think about it, the show would have been way better if they’d been regular people. I guess nobody wants to see regular people fall in love.”

“I do! And, I wouldn’t exactly call what they did on that show ‘love’.”

“Another good point. You’ve got a remarkably discriminating eye for reality television, JD.”

“Thanks?”

“Okay, considering you watched Blinded Dates in its entirety I’m going to take an educated guess based on viewership demographics and say that you’re between the ages of twenty-five and forty.”

“Five points.”

“Boom! Okay, I can now eliminate the middle-aged to elderly contingent of women in my life.”

“You’ve got a lot of middle-aged to elderly women saved in your phone?”

“I’ve got my mom and aunts. Most of my mom’s friends. An old boss or two. A couple neighbors from my building. All in all, yeah. I’d say I have a very respectable number of older ladies saved in my phone.”

“You sound proud of that.”

“I mean, I’m not NOT proud of it . . . Hey, JD?”

“Yeah?”

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