The Wrong Number

The Wrong Number BAD FOR ME Lindsey Hart CONTENTS CONTENTS COPYRIGHT CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 2 CHAPTER 3 CHAPTER 4 CHAPTER 5 CHAPTER 6 CHAPTER 7 CHAPTER 8 CHAPTER 9 CHAPTER 10 CHAPTER 11 CHAPTER 12 CHAPTER 13 CHAPTER 14 CHAPTER 15 CHAPTER 16 CHAPTER 17 CHAPTER 18 CHAPTER 19 EPILOGUE AUTHOR’S NOTE COPYRIGHT All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, or transmitted by email without permission in writing from the publisher. While all attempts and efforts have been made to verify the information held within this publication, neither the author nor the publisher assumes any responsibility for errors, omissions, or opposing interpretations of the content herein. The book is for entertainment purposes only. The views expressed are those of the author alone and should not be taken as expert instruction or commands. Copyright © Passion House Publishing Ltd 2023 All rights reserved. Edits by Charmaine Tan. Cover design by Cosmic Letterz. Need to get in touch with the author? Email: [email protected] Facebook: facebook.com/groups/lindseyhartromance CHAPTER 1 Victoria Most people don’t kick off their twenty-first year of life sunk up to their waist in their own porch. I suppose I could stop and smell the roses while I’m down here, but great-aunt Elinore’s property—now my property—doesn’t have any roses. Thistles, thorns, and six-foot-tall weeds are about the only species of plant life out here. This place is the barren wasteland of my family. The property had been abandoned and left unattended for years. The house was left to my mom and dad, but they literally didn’t want it, so they gifted it to me as a surprise twenty-first birthday present. Surprise, Victoria, happy birthday! Here’s the old abandoned, maybe slightly haunted house we could never sell, and since it’s been the bane of our existence, you should really love it! They gave me the keys, which were wrapped in a little black velvet box complete with a red bow and everything for the momentous occasion and shooed me out of their basement so I would get out into the world and start my life as an adult. I was only living in their basement until I finished college, which I did just over a month ago. I’m twenty-one, but since I’m more of the bookish type, I took more than a full load of classes and did some online classes on top of it. I went to school in spring, summer, fall, and winter. So now I’m the proud owner of a shiny, new, freshly minted English degree, one tarnished key complete with the red bow still attached, one haunted house, seven acres of barren land, the best wishes of my family, and one rotten porch that I just fell through. Oh, you thought the whole up to my waist in my own porch wasn’t literal? It is. I try very hard not to sigh as I grasp the edges of the splintered, rotten boards and brace my elbows against them. They smell musty and like old mushroom soup left out in the sun for approximately eight days, four hours, three minutes, and thirty-one seconds. Or maybe just old mushrooms. I swear there is a whole farm growing under this porch. A porch that hasn’t seen a loving touch or the soft tread of a human footstep in over four years. Great-aunt Elinore passed away six years ago in a care home, but the house was left abandoned for four years before she died. For a decade, it languished, but two years ago, my parents made an effort to sell it. I pity the poor agent who had to come and list it. I imagine they walked across the porch a few years ago, but maybe I’m wrong. Maybe they just stuck the sign at the end of the driveway, snapped a few photos, and got the hell out of Dodge. Either way, the house didn’t sell, and my parents constantly fought about it. My mom and dad love each other; they really do. But my brother and I always knew if anything could pit them against each other to the point of divorce, it was this place. They solved their Aunt-Elinore’s-haunted-house problem neatly enough. As soon as I graduated from college, that was the end of the fights. I thought maybe they’d worked it out and decided to be civil about it. But nope. Just. No. It took me a few months to get everything in order. The titles and legal stuff were the worst parts, but I also had to pack my things and say goodbye to my little basement room. I know for a fact that when I checked the rearview mirror this morning as I drove away, I didn’t imagine my parents’ grins. They’re empty nesters now and proud as freaking punch about it. My older brother, Mike, has already moved out for ages. He has his own condo—a nice condo. With electricity and running water. Two things this house once had, but I doubt it does now. Thinking about my parents reminds me that I should call them to let them know I got here alive, even if I am still ultra peeved about the whole giving up my nice comfy basement room for this dump thing. I hoist myself up, stirring up another foul brew of mushrooms, dead leaves, rotten everything, and earthy aroma as I kick up and pull up on my arms. I scramble out of the hole, earning a few splinters in my palms from the weathered porch floorboards for my effort. The whole thing creaks and groans, and I swear