Genre Fiction
![Lynn Painter - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B08ZYZLTC7.jpg)
Mr. Wrong Number
Things get textual when a steamy message from a random wrong number turns into an anonymous relationship in this hilarious rom-com by Lynn Painter.
Bad luck has always followed Olivia Marshall...or maybe she's just the screw-up her family thinks she is. But when a "What are you wearing?" text from a random wrong number turns into the hottest, most entertaining-albeit anonymous-relationship of her life, she thinks things might be on the upswing....
Colin Beck has always considered Olivia his best friend's annoying little sister, but when she moves in with them after one of her worst runs of luck, he realizes she's turned into an altogether different and sexier distraction. He's sure he can keep his distance, until the moment he discovers she's the irresistible Miss Misdial he's been sort of sexting for weeks-and now he has to decide whether to turn the heat up or ghost her before things get messy.
Bad luck has always followed Olivia Marshall...or maybe she's just the screw-up her family thinks she is. But when a "What are you wearing?" text from a random wrong number turns into the hottest, most entertaining-albeit anonymous-relationship of her life, she thinks things might be on the upswing....
Colin Beck has always considered Olivia his best friend's annoying little sister, but when she moves in with them after one of her worst runs of luck, he realizes she's turned into an altogether different and sexier distraction. He's sure he can keep his distance, until the moment he discovers she's the irresistible Miss Misdial he's been sort of sexting for weeks-and now he has to decide whether to turn the heat up or ghost her before things get messy.
Editorial Reviews
"Smart, sexy, and downright hilarious. Mr. Wrong Number is an absolutely pitch-perfect romantic comedy."-Christina Lauren, international bestselling author of The Unhoneymooners
"This book made me burst out laughing while on the treadmill and I almost lost my balance and fell to my demise. So. Don't read it while running on the treadmill, because you WILL explode with laughter at Olivia's terrible luck, and you will absolutely swoon over Colin, and you will definitely fall in love with the two of them and root for them with all of your heart. One of my favorite romcoms, heavy on the 'com' and steamy on the 'rom'!"-Jesse Q. Sutanto, author of Dial A for Aunties
"This book is an absolute blast, a classic rom-com setup with a modern twist. Lynn Painter's clever, charming voice sparkles on every page."-Rachel Lynn Solomon, author of Weather Girl
"Filled with laugh-out-loud situations and moments of heart-fluttering swooniness, Mr. Wrong Number is a true romantic comedy. I loved reading about Olivia's messy, passionate approach to life. And the sexual tension was off the charts! I'll read anything Lynn Painter writes and I'm already impatiently waiting for her next book."-Kerry Winfrey, author of Very Sincerely Yours
"If you find me wheeze-laughing on the floor, I'm thinking about Mr. Wrong Number. If you find me fanning myself, I'm thinking about Mr. Wrong Number. If you find me dreamily staring into the distance, I'm thinking about Mr. Wrong Number. Because Mr. Wrong Number is the most sidesplittingly funny, shenanigan-packed, sexual tension-filled book I've read in a long, long time. I dare you not to fall in love with Olivia and Colin, but most of all I dare you not to fall in love with Lynn Painter's writing!"-Ali Hazelwood, author of The Love Hypothesis
"Mr. Wrong Number puts the 'com' in rom-com, delivering energetic, laugh-out-loud hilarity from page one. Painter's mastery of sexy slow-burn tension and whip-sharp banter will have readers smiling from ear to ear. Perfect for fans of Christina Lauren, this deeply relatable romance proves that love may be closer than you expect."-Amy Lea, author of Set on You
"A delightfully mes...
"This book made me burst out laughing while on the treadmill and I almost lost my balance and fell to my demise. So. Don't read it while running on the treadmill, because you WILL explode with laughter at Olivia's terrible luck, and you will absolutely swoon over Colin, and you will definitely fall in love with the two of them and root for them with all of your heart. One of my favorite romcoms, heavy on the 'com' and steamy on the 'rom'!"-Jesse Q. Sutanto, author of Dial A for Aunties
"This book is an absolute blast, a classic rom-com setup with a modern twist. Lynn Painter's clever, charming voice sparkles on every page."-Rachel Lynn Solomon, author of Weather Girl
"Filled with laugh-out-loud situations and moments of heart-fluttering swooniness, Mr. Wrong Number is a true romantic comedy. I loved reading about Olivia's messy, passionate approach to life. And the sexual tension was off the charts! I'll read anything Lynn Painter writes and I'm already impatiently waiting for her next book."-Kerry Winfrey, author of Very Sincerely Yours
"If you find me wheeze-laughing on the floor, I'm thinking about Mr. Wrong Number. If you find me fanning myself, I'm thinking about Mr. Wrong Number. If you find me dreamily staring into the distance, I'm thinking about Mr. Wrong Number. Because Mr. Wrong Number is the most sidesplittingly funny, shenanigan-packed, sexual tension-filled book I've read in a long, long time. I dare you not to fall in love with Olivia and Colin, but most of all I dare you not to fall in love with Lynn Painter's writing!"-Ali Hazelwood, author of The Love Hypothesis
"Mr. Wrong Number puts the 'com' in rom-com, delivering energetic, laugh-out-loud hilarity from page one. Painter's mastery of sexy slow-burn tension and whip-sharp banter will have readers smiling from ear to ear. Perfect for fans of Christina Lauren, this deeply relatable romance proves that love may be closer than you expect."-Amy Lea, author of Set on You
"A delightfully mes...
Readers Top Reviews
Kindle Great Boo
Colin & Olivia are a force to be reckoned with. She's high energy and emotion, he's grounded. They have a history that Olivia struggles to get past. Enjoy the journey, it's super sexy, angsty and lovely, cuz HEA! One of my favorite books!!
jennie millerKind
Love love love Lynn Painter’s way with words and banter and chemistry and sheer unputdownableness! This book is why I haven’t done anything else for days.
Shirley Gay Norri
I had to laugh when I finished the book and saw the cover. I thought I was reading another book by a different author. And I was surprised that she was writing such a great romance novel. I enjoyed every minute.
Amie G.Shirley Ga
I enjoyed this fun read with several laugh out loud moments. Colin sounds absolutely dreamy and Liv is completely relatable! Great read!
Kindle Amie G.Sh
This was a fun sexy wrong number story! Some mattress company should have paid an advertising fee to the author! I loved this and had to finish it in one setting bc I couldn't put it down! Great talent. Thanks for creating and sharing with me
Short Excerpt Teaser
1
Olivia
It started the night after I burned down my building.
I was sitting on top of the fancy granite island in my brother's kitchen, inhaling a bag of his pretzels while systematically knocking back the bottles of Stella that'd been in his fridge. And no, I didn't have a drinking problem. I had a life problem. As in, my life sucked and I needed to fall into a coma variety of sleep if I were going to have any shot at formulating a plan for my future when I woke up.
Jack had agreed (after much begging) to let me stay with him for a month-enough time to get a job and find my own place-as long as I agreed to be on my best behavior and stay out of his roommate's way. He seemed a little too old to have a roommate, if you asked me, but who was I to judge?
Big brother had given me a hug and a key and left me for fifty-cent wing night at Billy's Bar, so I was home alone and bawling to Adele on his Alexa. It was already woe-is-me music, but when she started crooning about a fire starting in her heart, it made me think about the fire that started on my deck, and I totally lost it.
I was full-on ugly crying when my phone buzzed and halted the meltdown. A number I didn't know texted:
So tell me exactly what you're wearing.
A pervy wrong number? I wiped my nose and typed: Your mom's wedding dress and her favorite thong.
No more than five seconds went by before Mr. Wrong Number texted: Um, what?
I texted: Seriously, babe, I thought you'd think it's hot.
Mr. Wrong Number: "Babe"? Wtf?
That actually made me snort out a tiny laugh, the thought of some dude getting cold-showered via text. It was super weird that babe was where he was getting tripped up, as opposed to the monstrosity of an oedipal-lingerie suggestion, but he'd also used the tired what are you wearing line, so who could really say about a guy like that?
I texted: Would you prefer something less mommish?
Mr. Wrong Number: Oh, no-it sounds totally hot. You cool with me rocking cargo shorts, socks with sandals, and your dad's jockstrap?
That made me smile in the midst of my full-on life collapse and resultant crying binge.
Me: I'm so turned on right now. Please tell me you'll whisper dad jokes in my ear while we bonk.
Mr. Wrong Number: Yeah, baby jokes and weather anecdotes come fully loaded. And bonk is the sexiest word in the English language, btw.
Me: Agreed.
Mr. Wrong Number: I texted the wrong number, didn't I?
Me: Yeah, you did.
I hiccuped-the beer was finally kicking in-and decided to give the guy a break. I texted: But go get after it, bud. Land that bonk.
Mr. Wrong Number: This is the weirdest text exchange I've ever had.
Me: Same. Good luck and good night.
Mr. Wrong Number: Thanks for the support, and good night to you, as well.
Once the Stella started making me tired, I decided to shower-bye-bye, smoky hair-and go to bed. I dug through my duffel for clothes, but then I remembered-duh-the fire. All I had were the clothes thatÕd been in the bottom of my gym locker and some rando mismatched separates thatÕd fallen onto the floorboards of my back seat on multiple laundry days. I found a Cookie Monster pajama top, but discovered I didnÕt actually own a single bottom; no pajama bottoms, no jeans, no shorts-the only pants I owned now were the stinky gym shorts currently covering my ass.
Was not owning pants my rock bottom?
Thank God I had clean underwear. I had one pair of neon-yellow boy shorts that said Eat the Rich across the back, and their presence in my life kept me dangling from the balcony that hovered just above Bottom.
I took a thirty-minute shower, tipsily smitten with the pouring-rain showerhead and Jack's roommate's expensive conditioner. I accidentally dropped the slippery plastic bottle, which made the pump top break off and sent the majority of the luxurious crme slathering out all over the slick floor of the shower. I knelt down and scooped as much as I could back into the bottle, setting it carefully on the shower shelf and hoping no one would notice.
Spoiler: They always noticed.
But two hours later I was still wide-awake, lying on the floor of my brother's office on his squeaky old air mattress, staring at the ceiling through puffy eyes and replaying over and over again all of the terrible things that'd happened before I fled Chicago.
The layoff. The cheating. The breakup. The fire.
And then I said, "Screw. This."
I got up, went into that shiny kitchen, cracked the seal on a bottle of tequila that had a smiley mustachioed sun on the bottle, and I made myself the world's biggest night-night toddy. I...
Olivia
It started the night after I burned down my building.
I was sitting on top of the fancy granite island in my brother's kitchen, inhaling a bag of his pretzels while systematically knocking back the bottles of Stella that'd been in his fridge. And no, I didn't have a drinking problem. I had a life problem. As in, my life sucked and I needed to fall into a coma variety of sleep if I were going to have any shot at formulating a plan for my future when I woke up.
Jack had agreed (after much begging) to let me stay with him for a month-enough time to get a job and find my own place-as long as I agreed to be on my best behavior and stay out of his roommate's way. He seemed a little too old to have a roommate, if you asked me, but who was I to judge?
Big brother had given me a hug and a key and left me for fifty-cent wing night at Billy's Bar, so I was home alone and bawling to Adele on his Alexa. It was already woe-is-me music, but when she started crooning about a fire starting in her heart, it made me think about the fire that started on my deck, and I totally lost it.
I was full-on ugly crying when my phone buzzed and halted the meltdown. A number I didn't know texted:
So tell me exactly what you're wearing.
A pervy wrong number? I wiped my nose and typed: Your mom's wedding dress and her favorite thong.
No more than five seconds went by before Mr. Wrong Number texted: Um, what?
I texted: Seriously, babe, I thought you'd think it's hot.
Mr. Wrong Number: "Babe"? Wtf?
That actually made me snort out a tiny laugh, the thought of some dude getting cold-showered via text. It was super weird that babe was where he was getting tripped up, as opposed to the monstrosity of an oedipal-lingerie suggestion, but he'd also used the tired what are you wearing line, so who could really say about a guy like that?
I texted: Would you prefer something less mommish?
Mr. Wrong Number: Oh, no-it sounds totally hot. You cool with me rocking cargo shorts, socks with sandals, and your dad's jockstrap?
That made me smile in the midst of my full-on life collapse and resultant crying binge.
Me: I'm so turned on right now. Please tell me you'll whisper dad jokes in my ear while we bonk.
Mr. Wrong Number: Yeah, baby jokes and weather anecdotes come fully loaded. And bonk is the sexiest word in the English language, btw.
Me: Agreed.
Mr. Wrong Number: I texted the wrong number, didn't I?
Me: Yeah, you did.
I hiccuped-the beer was finally kicking in-and decided to give the guy a break. I texted: But go get after it, bud. Land that bonk.
Mr. Wrong Number: This is the weirdest text exchange I've ever had.
Me: Same. Good luck and good night.
Mr. Wrong Number: Thanks for the support, and good night to you, as well.
Once the Stella started making me tired, I decided to shower-bye-bye, smoky hair-and go to bed. I dug through my duffel for clothes, but then I remembered-duh-the fire. All I had were the clothes thatÕd been in the bottom of my gym locker and some rando mismatched separates thatÕd fallen onto the floorboards of my back seat on multiple laundry days. I found a Cookie Monster pajama top, but discovered I didnÕt actually own a single bottom; no pajama bottoms, no jeans, no shorts-the only pants I owned now were the stinky gym shorts currently covering my ass.
Was not owning pants my rock bottom?
Thank God I had clean underwear. I had one pair of neon-yellow boy shorts that said Eat the Rich across the back, and their presence in my life kept me dangling from the balcony that hovered just above Bottom.
I took a thirty-minute shower, tipsily smitten with the pouring-rain showerhead and Jack's roommate's expensive conditioner. I accidentally dropped the slippery plastic bottle, which made the pump top break off and sent the majority of the luxurious crme slathering out all over the slick floor of the shower. I knelt down and scooped as much as I could back into the bottle, setting it carefully on the shower shelf and hoping no one would notice.
Spoiler: They always noticed.
But two hours later I was still wide-awake, lying on the floor of my brother's office on his squeaky old air mattress, staring at the ceiling through puffy eyes and replaying over and over again all of the terrible things that'd happened before I fled Chicago.
The layoff. The cheating. The breakup. The fire.
And then I said, "Screw. This."
I got up, went into that shiny kitchen, cracked the seal on a bottle of tequila that had a smiley mustachioed sun on the bottle, and I made myself the world's biggest night-night toddy. I...
