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

by Lynn Painter

I sighed. “Should I have driven back to Chicago to deposit it in person, Ma?”

Her mother gave ME a headache, can't imagine talking to her while hungover after tequila

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.

I was his Sister Wives.

“I’m not embarrassed.” If it were anyone else in the world, I would laughingly admit that I got embarrassed super easily and all the time, which was what usually was to blame for my trips, spills, and general awkwardness.

I smiled. It felt wildly freeing to talk to someone who didn’t know me.

Trying to stay spoiler free but laughing so hard right now!

before wandering over to the windows that overlooked the city. I was obsessed with that part of the apartment. I could stand there—in front of those huge floor-to-ceiling windows—and watch the world for hours.

“Oh.” I walked over to the tiny laundry room, where he was leaning down into the fridge and presenting me with—wow—just the finest ass. I mean, his posterior looked as if he was forever doing squats and lunges; perhaps that was his sole method of mobility. Maybe Colin lunged everywhere he went.

He just winked, and my stomach dropped to my ankles.

“I don’t think your face is a word.” One day of living with my brother, and I was reverting to childhood behavior.

Sure enough, there was Colin, staring down at me with his head tilted slightly as if he was trying to figure out what he was seeing.

Roommate Colin was cockily attractive, but Smart-Businessman Colin was downright delicious.

“I can’t tell you how relieved I was to discover you weren’t alone in your fort.”

Mr. Wrong Number: Goodbye, Miss Misdial. And btw, I would totally get the slow block.

Mr. Wrong Number: Would you like dessert with that, sunshine?

What in the actual fuck?

Because I wasn’t fine or goddamned wonderful.

Apparently God had a sense of humor, and Olivia the Hottest Mess Marshall was my fantasy texter.

Yeah, I definitely had perverted librarian issues.

👓

Holy shit, if Olivia played with her pepper spray, she’d blind herself in minutes.

I got up and walked over to the windows, my favorite part of the apartment,

I think a tiny part of me actually expected a text from his mother informing me of his coma.

It feels like some kind of a patriarchal joke, you standing above me with your abs and pecs out like a Greek god while I subserviently gaze upon you from my spot on the floor raft like a peasant.

dropped down beside me on the air mattress with a force that nearly catapulted me across the room.

“Feel good about it, sunshine.”

Oopsie.

Paul dipped his crepe into some ketchup—what the hell?—and

Sounded like a recipe for disaster to me.

“Maybe you should stop thinking about my dress and focus on whatever cabana wear you’re sporting today. Does your grandpa know you raided his storage unit?”

I was too afraid of Hooters-loving runners and sexual healers to hit the coffee shop so soon.

Her hair was up in what I could only guess might’ve been a bun at one time,

Since moving in, I was pretty sure she’d spent more time staring out at the city than doing anything else. She was like me in that, her absolute adoration of downtown life.

Even though it was Olivia and I saw her every day, I missed what I thought it’d been.

“I was being nice, but now that you mention it, perhaps having your Liv luck in the building isn’t the best idea.”

I’m going to be here all the time. In fact, I think I’ll request an upper floor just so I can drop stuff down onto your deck.”

Jack’s sister, Jack’s sister, Jack Marshall’s little baby sister, dipshit.

it had a view of the city that made my soul feel alive.

He gave me a wide grin that was like the role model for all other smiles.

He was wearing a black T-shirt and jeans and—holy shit—those glasses. It was like he was trying to look like a hot nerd or something.

“This should be good.”

“What is this, though? Like . . . Cher meets Taylor Swift . . . ?”

I was tempted to kick them into the closet, but it’s not like my bad habits were any secret to Colin.

What in the holy shit have I just done?

He was wearing jeans and a fisherman sweater and those motherloving glasses,

Thank God I was at the end of the table and out of scooting range, although knowing my mother, she might make me sit with the elderly couple at the table next to us if there wasn’t room for him.

Then I fired off a text to that motherfucker.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so insecure in my entire life. Just be yourself, sunshine, and she will love you as much as I do.” I started laughing. “You’re such a dick.”

I would blow off anything to be with her, because everything was brighter when Olivia was around. She was funny, messy, clumsy, smart, and the sexiest human I’d ever met.

I swear to God I started sweating. Because—holy shit—what the hell had I just said?

“But all the damages are worth it. They’re but a small price. I wish I lived in the moment like you do.”

“Are you saying that I’m your hero? That I’m the wind beneath your—”

I let myself sink into it, no longer afraid. I wanted to dive into every fathomless ocean with him.