Page 11 of One Little Mistake
My hands were shaking. I had already chewed up my lips. I kept scanning every face that passed by… and I hadn’t even realized when he appeared right in front of me.
“Hey.”
His voice had sounded just like it did over the phone—but his appearance… God, he was ten times more attractive in real life. Especially his eyes. How was it even legal for a man to look that good?
I had opened my mouth to say something, anything—but all I had managed was a shaky exhale.
“I’ve got the right girl, yeah? You’re Ginger?”
He had raised an eyebrow, studying me, waiting for confirmation.
“Ginger”—that was the nickname he’d given me because of my bright, fiery hair. And for the first time ever, it hadn’t bothered me. The way he said it… it had sounded different. Special. Ours.
“Yes, it’s me,” I had breathed out, finally letting it sink in: this really was my Max.
It had felt strange—talking to him in person instead of over the phone.
I kept feeling like I was somehow cheating on the guy who still lived in my messenger.
I had caught myself listening closely to his voice, trying to recognize the tone I knew so well. Casually, I had slipped in a few questions—ones only the real Max could’ve answered—just to make sure this wasn’t some elaborate joke.
It was probably paranoia, but my brain hadn’t been able to reconcile the image. Yes, he had looked somewhat like the guy from the photos—but in real life, he was completely different.
A little shorter than I’d imagined; Broader shoulders, smaller nose, wider cheekbones, different haircut.
Charismatic. Quick on his feet. Clean-shaven.
The only thing that had been exactly the same was that wide, easy smile.
I had worried that the magic would vanish the second we were alone, that things would feel awkward between us—like they usually did during first dates.
But it hadn’t happened. On the contrary, it felt like we’d known each other forever.
And as silly as it sounded, if he had invited me over to his place that night—I would’ve said yes. On our very first date. But he hadn’t.
Instead, on the way home, he had bought me a bouquet of flowers and kissed me softly—warm and fragrant, the kind of kiss that lingered. His cologne had driven me crazy, made me want to bury my face in his chest and never leave.
I had hesitated. Had thanked him more times than necessary, stalling, dragging out the goodbye, unable to bring myself to open the car door and step out.
After four months of nonstop talking, that man had felt like home to me.
I had known nearly everything about him—his favorite food and drinks, his fears, his past relationships, the music and books he loved... even a few intimate details he probably hadn’t meant to share.
I had never believed in love at first sight.
But now, looking at him—I just knew.
He was mine.
And I wasn’t letting go.
“What time do you get off work tomorrow?” he asked, snapping me out of my strange trance.
“Six,” I replied, and deep inside, a flicker of hope lit up—this couldn’t be the end. We were definitely going to see each other again.
“Then I’ll get us movie tickets.”
“I’m in,” I said, unable to hide my happy smile. I stared into his eyes for a few seconds without blinking, and then reluctantly stepped out of the car.
