The rain poured down in relentless sheets, soaking him to the bone as he stood on the doorstep, shivering and frustrated. Water dripped from his hair, pooling around his feet, but the worst part wasn’t the cold. "Fuck, that’s the wrong house."
Since moving in with Emmie and Jo, his life had started changing in ways he never expected. He’d gone to school, made friends—or something like them—and, somehow, against all odds, landed a date. Him. With his scarred face and ice-cold glare. The idea still felt surreal.
But now here he was, standing on the wrong doorstep. Too late, he glanced at the address to double-check it against the one on his phone. The damage was already done—he’d rung the bell.
“So fucking stupid,” he muttered under his breath, clenching the bouquet in his hands so tightly the stems bent. He felt ridiculous. The borrowed suit clung to him uncomfortably, damp and wrinkled, and his shoes squelched every time he shifted his weight.
His only hope now was that an old lady answered the door, someone who’d laugh it off and kindly point him in the right direction.
But as the door creaked open, he realized with dread that luck was not on his side.