The Pucking Wrong Number

THE PUCKING WRONG NUMBER THE PUCKING WRONG BOOK #1 C.R. JANE CONTENTS Join C.R. Jane’s Readers’ Group TPWN Soundtrack Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Epilogue Epilogue No. 2 The Wrong Pucking Number Bonus Scene The Wrong Pucking Guy Mrs. Bentley’s Chorizo Breakfast Burritos Sneak Preview Prologue Preface Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Acknowledgments About C.R. Jane Books by C.R. Jane The Pucking Wrong Number by C. R. Jane Copyright © 2023 by C. R. Jane All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review, and except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact: [email protected] This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Cover Design: Cassie Chapman/Opulent Designs Photographer: Cadwallader Photography Editing: Jasmine J. JOIN C.R. JANE’S READERS’ GROUP Stay up to date with C.R. Jane by joining her Facebook readers’ group, C.R.’s Fated Realm. Ask questions, get first looks at new books/series, and have fun with other book lovers! Join C.R.’s Fated Realm To S- The only person I ever needed to love me…was you. THE PUCKING WRONG NUMBER One text to the wrong number…mine…and everything changed. He won’t tell me his last name, and maybe that should throw up a thousand red flags, but when I’m all alone in a new city and struggling to make ends meet, his texts are the lifeline I’ve been desperate for. But I never would have answered that text if I’d known that Lincoln Daniels, superstar hockey player extraordinaire was the one sending them. He’s trying to sweep me off my feet now. He says he’s obsessed. He wants me wearing his number…permanently. The question is…is he still the wrong number, or can this hockey god prove he’s Mr. Right? Mastermind Taylor Swift Hurt Johnny Cash Chasing Cars Ryan Waters Band bloody valentine-Acoustic Machine Gun Kelly, Travis Barker Young & Beautiful Lana Del Rey Eyes Closed Ed Sheeran Pretty Heart Parker McCollum The Most Beautiful Things Tenille Townes All Eyes on Me Bo Burnham Never on the Day You Leave John Mayer Vulnerable Selena Gomez Turning Tables Adele Someday OneRepublic Anti-Hero Taylor Swift Listen to the full playlist here. "Why is a puck called a puck? Because dirty little bastard was taken." —Martin Brodeur PROLOGUE MONROE “Monroe. My pretty little girl,” Mama slurs from the couch. She’s staring up at the ceiling, and even though she’s saying my name, I know she’s not talking to me. Or at least the me that’s standing right here, scrubbing at the vomit stain she left on the floor. She’s talking to the me from the past, or wherever it is her brain takes her when she’s high as a kite. There’s a knock on the door, and I glance at it fearfully, dread churning through my insides. Because I know who it is. One of her “customers” as Mama calls them. The door opens without either of us saying anything. I’m not sure Mama even heard the knock. In steps a sweaty, pale-faced man that I’ve seen once or twice before. He has rosy cheeks and a belly that protrudes over his jeans. Like a perverse Santa Claus. Not that I believe in that guy anymore. He’s certainly never come to our place on Christmas Eve. The man’s eyes gleam as he stares at me, but then Mama groans in a weird way, and his attention goes to her. “Roxanne,” he says in a sing-song voice as he makes his way over there. I want to say something. Anything. Tell him that Mama’s in no shape for company, but I know it’s no use. Besides, Mama would be furious with me later on if she missed out on the money she needs to get her fix. I leave the room and lock myself in the one bedroom we have in this place. Mama and I share the room, but more often than not, she can’t make it any further than the couch. The disgusting noises I’ve learned to hate start, so I turn on the radio, trying to drown them out. I fall into a fitful sleep, and my dreams are haunted by the image of a healthy mother that cares more about me than she does about escaping the life she created. I wake with a start, panic blurring the edges of the room until I can convince my brain that everything’s fine. Except everything doesn’t feel fine. It’s so quiet. Way too quiet. I creep towards the door, pressing my ear against it to see if I can hear anything. But there’s nothing. I slowly open the door and peek out into the room. There’s no sign of the man, or my mother. Thinking the coast is clear, I make my way out of my room, only to come to a screeching halt when I see my mother on the ground by the front door, a pile of green liquid by her face. I sigh, thinking of the clean-up ahead. Again. I hate these men. Every time they come here, they take a piece of her, while leaving her with nothing. It’s always like this after they’re done with her. When I walk over with a rag and bucket, I see