Mr. Wrong Number (Mr. Wrong Number, #1)

by Lynn Painter

Was not owning pants my rock bottom?

He was wearing his I’m-better-than-you smirk and dickish good looks while I traversed the apartment in underpants and a too-small shirt like some sort of Winnie-the-Pooh variety of dipshit.

Omaha was one of those small-town-in-a-city places where everyone knew everyone else’s cousin,

Tell me all your stuff. Where’d you grow up, what do you do, have you ever murdered, are you in a cult, that sort of thing.”

You aren’t a hot mess at all, Livvie. You’re just this . . . this . . . human tornado who is so alive, so filled with the energy of the moment, that there occasionally is a little collateral damage.”