CALL ME, MAYBE

Ellie Cahill

Releasing on February 9, 2016

Loveswept

 “Ellie Cahill is definitely one to watch!” raves bestselling author Cora Carmack,
and this steamy, upbeat modern romance about connecting in all the best ways
proves it once again.

Clementine Daly knows she’s the black sheep. Her wealthy, powerful family has watched her very closely since she almost got caught in an embarrassing scandal a few years ago. So when Clementine’s sent on a mission to live up to the Daly name, politely declining isn’t an option. Of course, the last thing she does before boarding the plane is to grab a stranger’s phone by
mistake—leaving the hunky journalist with her phone. Soon his sexy voice is on the
line, but he doesn’t know her real name, or her famous pedigree—which is just
the way Clementine likes it.

Despite all the hassles, Justin Mueller is intrigued to realize that the beautiful brown-eyed girl he met at the airport is suddenly at his fingertips. They agree to exchange phones when they’re both back in town, but after a week of flirty texts and wonderfully intimate conversations, Justin doesn’t want to let her go. The only problem? It turns out that Clemetine has been lying to him about, well, everything. Except for the one thing two people can’t fake, the only thing that matters: The heat between them is for real.

“Is that okay? If I listen to your music, I mean.”

“Yeah, go ahead.” He seemed excited. I liked the sound of his voice like that.

“Anything you’d recommend?”

“I’ve only got a few playlists. Just pick one.”

“Okay.” I was curious to check out his music preferences, but not so curious that I wanted to

end our chat. There was something about his easy manner that made me want to keep talking

to him. “You can check out my music if you’d like.”

“I’m gonna have to. What am I supposed to do while I work out, listen to my own thoughts?”

I laughed, knowing exactly what he meant. “I do have Spotify and all that if my musical

tastes are not to your liking. And plenty of data, so go for it.”

“You’re not a big Adult Contemporary fan, I hope?”

“No, pretty much not. But . . . well, you’ll see.”

“I’ll have to report back to you.”

A lull fell between us, and I knew I should let him go back to his family, but I was reluctant to

break the easiness between us. “So, what part of Florida are you from?”

“Central. Near Orlando.”

“No beach?” I asked.

“Sadly no.”

“I guess I’ll just have to enjoy the beach for both of us this week.”

“Send me a picture.”

“I—what?” Total Zack flashbacks. My heart hammered noisily in my head, making my

temples throb while my armpits prickled with fear-induced sweat.

“I meant—sorry. Was that weird?” For the first time he sounded nervous. “I just meant I like

the beach. You could send me a picture of the beach. Or not. It’s—I’m not stalking you, I swear.”

My pulse throttled back a bit. Okay. Maybe he wasn’t one of those guys. His distress was so

obvious, I almost wanted to laugh, but I knew it would be one of those weird, ugly laughs.

Instead I managed to say, “I-I could send you a picture of the beach.”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah?”

“Sure.”

Another little silence fell and I squirmed in my seat.

“This is frustrating, isn’t it?” Justin said softly.

My stomach fluttered. “What do you mean?”

He exhaled into the microphone. “I wish we’d actually met at the airport.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I’m pretty sure I would have asked for your number, and now I’ll never know if

you’re only talking to me because you feel bad that you stole my phone.”

Was that a line? I couldn’t tell. “Oh, come on. I’m sure you say that to all the girls who fall on

top of you and nearly break your laptop.”

“Well, I am a Southern boy, remember. We’re all about chivalry.” He spoke with an awful,

thick accent.

“I didn’t think Southerners acknowledged the existence of Florida.”

He laughed and tried the accent again. “How dare you insult my people!”

Ugh, he was so damn charming. It wasn’t fair to be inhumanly gorgeous and charming. And

yet I found myself wanting to respond in kind. “I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.” I gave him my best

Scarlett O’Hara, which was, admittedly, not very good.

“That was terrible.”

“So much for chivalry.”

“I’m sure you have many fine qualities, but your Southern accent is not one of them.”

“I speak Hindi in a passable accent,” I volunteered. Which was just plain stupid, because the

entire goal was to not let this guy know too much about myself. I was completely failing at

keeping this professional and it had been all of thirty hours. It was no wonder I was the family

disappointment.

“Seriously?” Justin pulled me back from my self-flagellation.

“Yes.” And I could say a few useful phrases in a handful of other languages as well, but I’d

said enough about that thank you very much.

“Why Hindi?”

“I was born in India and I lived there until I was three.” Stop talking, Clementine.

“Why did you leave?”

“My mother was doing graduate work over there at the time.” Oh my god, stop talking,

Clementine.

“That’s kind of cool.” Justin sounded genuinely impressed.

I shrugged. “I guess. It’s a real pain in the ass getting through airport security.”

“Why?” He laughed.

“I’m technically an Overseas Citizen of India, because I was born there. And that’s

apparently enough to get you labeled a ‘person of interest’ by the TSA. I get searched all the

time.”

“So, are you a ‘person of interest’?”

“No. I’m not even a terribly interesting person most of the time.”

“Now I know that’s not true.”

“You don’t really know me at all,” I reminded him.

“All right, tell me something else about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?” The little voice in my head telling me to stop threw up her

hands in total resignation.

“I don’t know. Anything. Let’s start with your last name.”

Oh crap. Of all the things he could have asked, it had to be that.

There is one thing you learn early when you grow up in a family like mine—a lot of people

will treat you differently as soon as they find out your net worth. A lesson I’d learned the hardest

possible way when I was nineteen. Thus the code names and the nearly blank phone.

Of course, not everyone is after you for your money, but even if they never want a dime,

most people get a little weird once they know they’re dealing with the American equivalent of

royalty. My great-great-aunt was an actual English duchess, and her grandson was the current

duke. You have to admit, if you found out you’d been chatting casually with a princess, you’d

freak out. At least a little. Anyone would.

So even though it wasn’t Justin’s fault that we’d been forced into this odd little relationship, I

did what I’d had drilled into my head: I lied.

“Davis,” I said.

“It’s nice to meet you, Miss Davis,” he said, then after a pause asked, “It is miss, right?”

I laughed. “I’m not married.”

“Just checking.”

“And you are?”

“Justin Mueller with a –u-e.” He pronounced it “Miller.”

“Hi.” I felt the familiar mixture of guilt and apprehension that I always felt when I lied to a new

acquaintance.

“Well, now that we’ve been formally introduced I should get going,” he said. “My mother is

watching me through the patio door and it’s giving me bad high school flashbacks.”

“My . . . friend is probably wondering what happened to me.” I’d already given more personal

details about myself than I should have, so I randomly held back on saying I was with my

cousin. Yeah, that’ll throw him off the scent, Clem. Nice work.

“Okay, well . . . I’m sure I’ll talk to you later,” he said. “Listen to that song I told you about,

okay?”

“I will.”

We said goodbye.

I blew out a loud sigh and propped my feet on the bedpost as I lifted Justin’s phone up to

eye level and tapped my way into his picture album again. There he was, gorgeous as ever.

What was wrong with me? I had seen this man in person for approximately fifteen seconds.

Why on earth was I obsessing about him like this?

I pressed the power button, blanking the screen.

Then I rolled onto my stomach and powered the phone back on. I searched his music

collection for the song called “Clementine” and let it play while I browsed the rest of his list.

Classic rock, classic rock, classic rock. To be fair, his taste in the classics seemed to run the

gamut from the almost clichéd Led Zeppelin and Rush to the less-expected Jefferson Airplane

and Cream. He seemed to have it all from the ’60s, right up through today. If a band had an

easily recognizable lead singer and an unmistakable guitar style, Justin was into it.

I sent him a text message: Try the playlist I’m Not Cool.

The song he’d recommended was soft, acoustic guitar, and sweet vocals. I liked it, just as

he’d predicted. I smiled as I moved out of his first two playlists. The next one raised my

eyebrows. It was called Original Classics, and was populated by the likes of Beethoven and

Bach. Next, I checked one called Softer. There, I found the home of The Decemberists and

some other more recent artists. Very alternative and generally soft, soothing music that I tended

to favor myself.

It was the last playlist, however, that made me smile and get all swoony again. It was called

Standards and it was inhabited by Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, Nat King Cole, and even a few

more obscure performers of the Great American Songbook. I rolled onto my back again, holding

his phone to my chest and feeling like I’d just been handed the last ingredient in a recipe for

falling in love. Was this guy for real?

My heart was beating hard, and the phone began to slip, so I slid it farther down to rest on

my stomach, just below the inverted V made by my ribs.

I wanted him. Not that I could do anything about it, but at least I could admit it. I’d wanted

him since the moment I laid eyes on him, and so far he’d done nothing to discourage my desire.

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Ellie Cahill is a freelance writer and also writes books for young adults under the name Liz Czukas. She lives outside Milwaukee, Wisconsin, with her husband, son, and the world’s loudest cat.

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