Messy Perfect Love
The Jetty Beach Series Book 3
Claire Kingsley
Copyright © 2016 Claire Kingsley
All rights reserved.
No part 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.
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, or incidents are products of the author’s imagination and used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is purely coincidental or fictionalized.
Edited by Larks and Katydids
Cover by Kari March Designs
Published by Always Have, LLC
Previously published as Must Be Fate: A Jetty Beach Romance
www.clairekingsleybooks.com
Created with Vellum
Contents
About This Book
1. Clover
2. Clover
3. Cody
4. Clover
5. Cody
6. Clover
7. Cody
8. Cody
9. Clover
10. Cody
11. Clover
12. Cody
13. Clover
14. Cody
15. Clover
16. Cody
17. Clover
18. Clover
19. Cody
20. Clover
21. Clover
22. Cody
23. Cody
24. Clover
25. Cody
26. Clover
27. Cody
28. Clover
Epilogue
Operation Get Her Back: Chapter 1
Afterword
Also by Claire Kingsley
About the Author
About This Book
Messy Perfect Love was originally published as Must Be Fate: A Jetty Beach Romance.
When opposites attract, it’s messy… and perfect
From the moment Clover crashes into my life, she turns my world upside down. She’s quirky and fun—unlike any woman I’ve ever known.
Her wild ideas pull me out of my comfort zone, and I love the way she makes me feel. But her free spirit longs to roam, and I don’t know if she can do the one thing I really need. Stay.
I’m sure fate led me to Jetty Beach, but until I meet Cody Jacobsen, I’m not sure why. The small-town doctor—with his gorgeous body, ridiculous dimples, and adorable bedside manner—sweeps me off my feet and saves the day. Literally.
Our chemistry is off the charts. But to a man like him—mature and put together—I’m a wild breeze who throws him off kilter. And for a woman like me—who never truly lets anyone in—he might want more than I can give.
He might want everything.
1
Clover
The line is practically out the door, and I can’t make espresso fast enough.
My mass of curly blond hair keeps trying to break free of my hair tie while I work. I blow a curl out of my eye while I steam a pitcher of two percent. That’s right, isn’t it? The customer wants two percent? Or was that the customer before? Crap, I can’t remember. The café has been slammed for the last hour and my head is spinning.
I finish up the drink and put a lid on the cup. I hate working in a place that uses paper cups, but what are you gonna do? I need to make rent.
“Mark,” I call out, reading the name on the cup. “Twelve-ounce double shot vanilla latte.”
A man in a button-down shirt and tie comes forward. I flash him my friendliest smile. He looks annoyed.
“Thanks for coming in,” I say, my voice cheery.
His face softens as he grabs his coffee, and he gives me a closed-mouth smile. I feel my grin grow larger. He had to wait for his coffee, but I broke through his grumpy exterior. I call that a victory.
I take a deep breath, and go to work on the next drink. One of my coworkers brushes past me and I freeze. I don’t want to spill anything. I’m on thin ice with Dean, my boss, already; screwing up in the middle of a rush will probably get me fired.
I cannot afford to get fired.
“Clover, can you work the register for a second?” Dean asks as he walks by me.
I run the back of my arm over my forehead and nod. “Sure.” My feet are killing me, but my shift is almost over. I just have to get through this line, and I can go home.
“What can I get for you?” I ask the next customer in line.
“Are you guys short-staffed or something?” he asks.
“Oh, you know, unexpected rush,” I say. “Sorry for the wait. We’ll make sure the coffee is worth it.”
He orders his drink and I write it down on the side of the cup. I break out my smile again for the next customer. Her order is so complicated I have to ask her to repeat it three times before I get it right. Seriously, why can’t people just order a cup of coffee? Why all this sixteen-ounce quad shot two pump mocha with nonfat milk in a twenty-ounce cup with a lid and two straws nonsense?
“Hey Clover, can you take this out to the table by the window?” Dean asks, handing me a ceramic mug of black drip coffee. Most customers take theirs to go, but once in a while someone wants to sit with a regular mug. “I’ll take the register.”
I glance at the guy sitting by the window, and my heart flutters. He’s really good-looking. And sitting alone. His dirty-blond hair is kind of messy, and he’s wearing these adorable nerd glasses. He’s sitting with his headphones hooked to his laptop, his eyes intent on the screen.
“You bet,” I say, with slightly more enthusiasm than necessary. I take the cup and hold it with as much care as I can possibly muster. It’s hot, but the tips of my fingers are pretty impervious to heat at this point. I’ve worked in a lot of coffee shops—it tends to happen.
I navigate my way past the never-ending line of customers toward his table, trying not to let the coffee slosh out. He looks up as I approach, and I give him my friendliest smile.
“Here you go,” I say. I slide the mug onto the table, breathing out a sigh of relief. Oh thank God, I didn’t spill. He doesn’t bother removing his headphones, just gives me a little nod and turns back to his screen.
Well, that’s disappointing. But at least I didn’t drop his coffee. I managed to break a blender yesterday, and last week I dropped a whole tray of mugs, shattering four of them. I don’t know why these things happen to me. I swear, sometimes I’m sure the universe is out to get me.
I turn around to go back behind the counter, and crash into a customer. My eyes widen as most of the iced blended green tea latte he’s carrying slides down my front, drenching my boobs.
“Oh my god,” I say. “I am so sorry.”
The cup is smashed between us and green slush covers his white shirt. His mouth is wide open and he stares at me.
I cringe. “Please, let me fix this.” I run over to the counter and grab a handful of napkins. He stands in one spot, as if the drink froze him solid. The ice in my bra burns my skin, and I’m keenly aware of everyone in the café staring at me—even Mr. Good-Looking Headphones Guy. I try to mop up the damage, but the customer glares at me and steps away.
“Just, don’t,” he says.
Dean comes out, a fresh drink already in his hand. “Sir, I am so sorry. Here, we’ll of course pay for dry cleaning. And have a gift card as well.” He hands the customer the drink and the gift card, shooting me a glare in the process.
Tears sting my eyes, and I back away. I want to go hide. A guy in line snickers, putting a hand to his mouth. The woman behind him gives me a look of pity. I sniff, forcing down the lump in my throat, and go to the back to clean up.
I grab a roll of paper towels and shove one down my shirt. I have blended green tea shit everywhere. This bra is a goner. Hopefully Dean will let me go a little bit early. My shirt is soaked, clinging to my skin. Even with my apron on, I can’t face customers like this.
“Clover,” Dean says. “Can I see you in my office?”
My tummy rolls over. That does not sound good.
“Yeah,” I say. I pat my shirt with another paper towel, but at this point it’s pretty much futile.
Dean has a little office at the back of the store, not much more than a closet. There’s enough space for a small computer desk and one chair in front of it. I’ve been in this office several times—the first, when I interviewed, was a nice experience. I’m awesome at interviews. They’re usually really fun. The other times, not so much. The blender. The broken mugs. There was another mishap, but I can’t remember now what it was. I’ve only been working here for about three months, and already I’ve had more than my share of in-the-boss’s-office meetings. I sit down across from him, chewing on my lower lip. I was so sure this café is where I’m supposed to be. The signs were all there. Why did it go so wrong?
“Clover, you’re a sweet girl,” he says.
Oh great, here we go.
“But you’re … well, you’re accident prone,” he says. “I don’t know if you’re just careless, or if you don’t have a good sense of the space around you. But we’re a little shop, we don’t have a lot of room. Our baristas have to be able to navigate around each other without constantly running into things. And people.”
I do not constantly run into things. Just … once in a while.
“This is the second time you’ve spilled on a customer,” he continues.
Is this the second time? It can’t be. No, wait. It is the second time. Damn it. “Dean, I’m so sorry. I was being so careful with the other guy’s coffee, and that dude was right there behind me.”
“Yes, but this isn’t the first time we’ve had problems with you,” he says. “I hate to do this, but I don’t think our café is a good fit for you.”
I slump back in my seat and look at the floor. Fuck. Fired.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “I’ll work on it, I swear. Dean, I really need this job.”
Dean sighs. “I’ll give you a week’s pay, but that’s the best I can do.”
I bite my lip so my eyes stop tearing up. “Okay, well, thanks for the opportunity.”
I get up and don’t look back to see Dean’s face. I don’t want to see him feeling sorry for me. I leave his office, grab my things, and go out the back door.
2
Clover
The walk home makes me feel considerably better. Yeah, I was fired, but I didn’t like that job anyway. I’ll just have to find another one. It’s not the first time I’ve found myself in transition. Not by a long shot.
I ignore the stares of the people passing by. My bra is showing through my damp white t-shirt, the smear of pale green running down to the hem. There isn’t anything I can do about it—the weather is warm, so I didn’t wear a coat, and I had to leave my apron at the café. I just need to get to my apartment, shower, and figure out what to do next.
The sun shines, and a little trickle of sweat runs down my back. It’s a hot one. When I crossed the border into Washington state last year, I expected to drive into a rainy, green forest. It turns out the eastern side of the state is dry, not terribly green, and hot as hell in the summer. I picked the town of Walla Walla because the Internet said it was in Washington’s wine country—and come on, who could resist that name?
Wine country turned out to be less romantic than it sounded when I was five hundred miles away, but there are good things about this town. The shops are cute, and I didn’t have trouble finding a job. Keeping one is another story, but that isn’t my fault—although I can’t help but wonder if maybe I should try a new line of work. Or go to school.
After high school, college seemed pointless. My parents didn’t go to college, and did fine for themselves. Granted, we moved around a lot, and neither of them had what you’d call a career. And then they went and moved to Thailand the day after I turned eighteen. But they’re free spirits. We spent most of my childhood living in an RV, not owning much of anything, moving from place to place. It wasn’t a typical way to grow up, but there’s nothing typical about my family.
I miss them sometimes. I haven’t seen my parents in years.
I turn into the parking lot of my apartment building. Flower pots spill fragrant blooms, and there’s a little playground in the center. It isn’t a bad place to live. My upstairs neighbors are night owls, which is a bummer, but I absolutely adore Mrs. Berryshire, the little old lady who lives in the unit next door. As usual, she’s sitting in an old rocking chair right outside her door, dressed in a pale pink bathrobe, with curlers in her white hair.
“Hi, Mrs. Berryshire,” I say.
“How’s my sweet Clover doing today?” she asks.
“You know what,” I say, “I wasn’t having such a good day, but everything will be fine.”
“You bet it will, sweetie,” she says. “You want a cookie? I made cookies.”
“Oh, no thanks, Mrs. Berryshire,” I say. I learned within the first few hours of living here that you never eat Mrs. Berryshire’s cookies. Her vision isn’t the best, and she tends to mix up ingredients—like salt and sugar.
“All right then,” she says. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
“I sure will.”
I smile as I unlock my door. My day is already looking up. I can take a nice hot shower, put my aching feet up, and see if I can find any job postings online. I figure I’ll find something by next week. Maybe I’ll try for something different this time—like a job that doesn’t involve so many breakables and liquids.
I set my bag on the floor and flip the light switch. Nothing happens. That’s weird. I try to turn the light on and off a few times, but it doesn’t work. The light bulb must be burnt out.
The light in the kitchen also doesn’t turn on. I look at the clock on the microwave. It’s dark. A feeling of dread creeps through me. The fridge is still cold, but the light there doesn’t work either. I walk through my apartment, trying to turn things on, but nothing responds.
Oh no.
I poke my head out the front door. “Hey, Mrs. Berryshire, do you have power in your apartment?”
“I think so,” she says.
“Do you mind if I check?”
“Sure thing, sweetie,” she says.
I step into her apartment, and all the lights are on. She definitely has power. I do a quick run-through of her place, turning off most of her lights. She tends to forget things like that.
“Yours work,” I say when I came out. “I wonder what’s wrong with mine?”
“Call maintenance,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say, giving her another smile. “Maybe the breaker is out or whatever.”
I go back inside and grab my phone to call the manager. My basket of unopened mail catches my eye. That’s a pretty big stack. I paid my electric bill, didn’t I? I’m sure I did.
I put down my phone and go through the mail. My heart falls down to my toes. I find an envelope with a red PAST DUE stamp on the front. How did I miss that? I open it to find a very overdue electric bill with a disconnect date. Yep, that’s today. I guess they really meant it.
I sigh, and set the bill down. I know I have to deal with it, but first things first—I’m still sticky from green tea latte. Hoping I still have a little hot water, I go into the bathroom and turn the shower on. It gets warm, so I risk it. The water never gets very hot, but at least it isn’t freezing. I clean up, get out, and put on some fresh clothes.
I check my bank balance to make sure I have enough to cover the electric bill and call the utility to make the payment. They tell me my power should be back on in a few hours. I groan. Hours? I guess it’s my fault for getting behind in the first place.
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nbsp; Sitting around with no power is depressing, so I grab my laptop and head to a little Greek restaurant down the road. It’s such a great place, and I’m pretty sure they have Wi-Fi. The host shows me to a table by the front window and I order an appetizer. I’ll have to make do with pita bread and hummus for dinner; it’s one of the cheaper things on the menu. Until I get a new job, I need to be careful with my money. I fire up my laptop, intending to look for a job.
I check social media first, because why not? I’ve had a long day and deserve a little time to unwind. Then I check my horoscope.
Today, change is in the air. You will be faced with important decisions that will have long lasting consequences for your life—especially your love life. Now is the time to ride the wave of change, let the breeze carry you somewhere new. Don’t be surprised if this leads you to an unexpected place, either physically or emotionally. Your optimistic nature will serve you well today.
I stare at the screen. A sign. I always know them when they appear. Sometimes they’re in my horoscope. Other times I’ve seen signs in the clouds, in the stars, in the headlines of magazines. A deep feeling of purpose will steal over me, and I’ll know. This one means something. I’ve been following my signs for years—to what end, I’m not sure. But I’m positive they’re leading me somewhere great.
Okay, they’ve mostly led me in circles as I’ve zig-zagged across the country over the better part of the last ten years, moving from town to town. But I’ve met the most amazing people, so I can’t regret it.
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