Wrong Number, Right Koala

Sometimes the wrong number is the exact one you need.

I’m just trying to confirm a delivery with a client. One quick call, that’s it. But thanks to my co-worker’s horrible handwriting, I spend days leaving messages at the wrong number instead.
Finally, the number calls back. I expect them to be pissed. Their furniture is still in our warehouse and not in their living room as promised. Instead, I discover my mistake as Remy, the man I harassed all day, explains why it took so long for him to return my calls, ones not meant for him. He’s never heard of our store, much less ordered from us. I want to keep talking to him, but the customer I’ve been attempting to contact barges into the store and our call is cut short. They are livid.
A week goes by, and I can’t stop thinking about Remy. I want to call him, talk to him more, and listen to him ramble on about his day, but that would be wrong. He never gave me his number. I got it by accident, and that isn’t the same. It’s best to let it go. If only it were that easy.
I’m about to cave, to give in to my need to hear his sweet voice again, when he walks into the store. The second I see him, I know he’s mine. It doesn’t make any sense, but when has love ever made sense?