Inappropriately Yours (Camassia Cove #3)

by Cara Dee

  Inappropriately Yours

  Cara Dee

  Copyright © 2017 by Cara Dee

  All rights reserved

  Edited by Silently Correcting Your Grammar, LLC

  Disclaimer: This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with others, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. All references to ancient or historical events, persons living or dead, locations, and places are used in a fictional manner. Any other names, characters, incidents, and places are derived from the author’s own imagination. Similarities to persons living or dead, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of any wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction.

  Warning: This story contains scenes of an explicit, erotic nature and is intended for adults, 18+. Characters portrayed in sexual situations are 18 or older.

  Proofread and formatted by Rachel Lawrence.

  Camassia Cove is a town in northern Washington created to be the home of some exciting love stories. Each novel taking place here is a standalone, and they will vary in genre and pairing. What they all have in common is the town in which they live. Some are friends and family. Others are complete strangers. Some have vastly different backgrounds. Some grew up together. It's a small world, and many characters will cross over and pay a visit or two in several books. But, again, each novel stands on its own, and spoilers will be avoided.

  Inappropriately Yours is the third novel taking place in Camassia Cove. If you're interested in keeping up with the characters, the town, the timeline, and future novels, check out Camassia Cove's own page at Cara's website.

  www.caradeewrites.com

  Part I

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  Part II

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  19.

  20.

  21.

  22.

  23.

  24.

  25.

  Epilogue

  Part I

  1.

  Isla Roe

  If a curtain fell on me, there wouldn’t be any applause. Definitely no cheering for an encore. A week after my public ridiculing, I was still shell-shocked.

  "Eat, honey."

  "I'm not hungry." I pushed away my plate and massaged my temples. I'd lost count of the headaches. "I'm a fucking mess, Dad."

  I might as well go back to being his PA.

  "Use it." He grabbed a pen from his haphazard man bun and scribbled something on his hand. The image was so entirely him that I found a bit of comfort in it. "It's what every good artist does—even the literary ones. Use that chaos and put it on paper."

  A couple thick tendrils of his hair fell forward as he furrowed his brow and filled his hand with his chicken scrawl.

  Knowing how scatterbrained he was, I waited until he'd jotted down whatever thought was running through his mind before I spoke again. Multitasking was not one of his virtues.

  "Clearly, I'm not an artist," I replied. "Did you not read the billion reviews stating I tainted your name?"

  Because, although he couldn’t multitask to save his life, he'd earned his fame and status by being a literary genius instead. He didn’t know failure. Even his debut novel, Gypsy Girl, had been a hit, and that was pure art.

  "To hell with the reviews." He patted his pockets and found a new home for his pen, then reached for his beer. "Get back on the horse and keep writing."

  I wanted to, except I was completely discouraged. I hadn't expected any praise, really. Maybe some reviews saying I had potential, though. I was proud of my book—or I had been. Obviously, it sucked. The world said so.

  That same world worshiped the ground Dad walked on. It'd gotten to the point where he had readers who bordered on being fangirls. Even I—when I idolized him the most—rolled my eyes at the words some of them used to describe him.

  "Ruggedly hot" was common enough, presumably due to the scruff and aforementioned man bun, which was ridiculous. In reality, he was just too lazy to get a haircut and preferred to wrestle the characters in his head into submission. Even more cringeworthy was "lumbersexual," because…what, he wore a lot of flannel with his cargo pants? If only the more, um, persistent fans knew he rocked flannel shirts because they hid food stains, and he tended to forget to change clothes when he was working. And he sure as hell didn’t wear pants with so many pockets 'cause he was outdoorsy. Their sole purpose was to serve, once again, his crappy memory.

  When you lived in your head and forgot where you put your keys, phone, wallet, pens, sticky notes, and messages, you needed a place to dump everything. At some point, he'd turned pocketing into an art. Now when he misplaced an item, he checked his pockets until he found what he'd been looking for.

  Even so, with these romanticized notions…it was his passion and hard work that'd landed him his success.

  You didn’t put in half as much effort as he does.

  I winced internally and bit my thumbnail. I thought back on the last three years I'd been his personal assistant, a gig that was supposed to be temporary. But, he was my dad. Nobody knew him as well as I did. From his thought process and work, to quirks and habits—I'd been an awesome PA to him.

  The only problem was, I didn’t want to be a personal assistant. I wanted to write.

  "Ugh." My forehead landed on the table.

  Even as a skinny nine-year-old curled up in a beanbag in Dad's study, I'd known I wanted to become an author. Just like him. I wanted to create and solve mysteries in amazing universes the way he did, and he made it look so goddamn effortless.

  "Hmm, maybe…" I heard Dad mutter.

  I should've let him read the damn book before I sent it off to the editors. Instead, I'd fallen for the bullshit. I'd thought they respected me. Now it was clear that the publishing house didn’t give two bits about me. They would've published my grocery list simply because they could slap the name Roe on it. I was only a name. I was Dad's name.

  He had warned me that the publishing world had changed. Talent wasn’t necessarily top priority. It was about what could sell.

  Did I listen? Nooo.

  The critics decided who had talent, not the publishers.

  "I may have an idea," he said pensively, and I lifted my heavy head and blinked tiredly. "You remember Jack, right?"

  "Obviously." Jack was his best friend from college. Jack Grady. He'd never liked LA much and had returned home to Washington shortly after graduating.

  I knew they met up in Seattle a couple times a year when work brought Dad there.

  He inclined his head. "He owes me a favor, and you know what he does."

  I straightened in my seat. "What do you have in mind?" Though I hadn't seen Jack in ten years, I knew plenty about him. At sixteen, I thought he was intimidating and cutting. Now I could recognize he was merely assertive and didn’t believe in beating around the bush.

  He was an editor. Freelance, if I wasn’t mistaken. According to Dad, an author either loved or hated Jack because he did more than correct mistakes and make helpful suggestions. He butted in, questioned everything, had the most critical eye for character development, and…oh. It hit me, and I widened my eyes.

  "No
way!" I shook my head quickly. "I've already had my ego smashed to pieces. I don't need him telling me what I should've done. God, Daddy. Don't you know you're not supposed to kick a person who's already on the ground?"

  Dad leveled me with a serious look. He was a laid-back man, kind and understanding. So when he meant business, you fucking listened.

  "I should've done this from the beginning," he told me. "You didn’t want me to read your book before because you were nervous. I understood that. Now you won't let me read it because reviewers say it's awful." He paused. "Here's the thing, pumpkin. It's better if your errors are brought to light by editors and friends. They are your line of defense. You had no defense, so it was the public that pointed out what went wrong."

  I wrung my hands in my lap, fidgety and anxious.

  "Do you want to write? Do you want to be better?" he asked.

  "Of course."

  He nodded. "Then you'll bring your book and go see him for a weekend."

  Whoa, what the crap?

  Shock colored my cheeks. I'd expected possibly to send Jack Grady a copy of my book…that he could run over and make notes in, notes that ended up having a bigger word count than the actual novel. But Dad was talking about my flying to some podunk town in Washington. He wanted me to sit down with this beast who trashed the written word for a living.

  I was not one of the writers who would love Jack Grady.

  "He'll tear it apart." I sighed and shifted my hair forward, combing my fingers through it. Part of me wanted to beg Dad to come with me, if Jack even agreed, but I was a grown woman. Time to suck it up.

  "That’s possible," Dad admitted. "He'll also teach you a lot. And that, my sweet Isla, is invaluable. Keep that in mind. I know what he does. I wouldn’t send you into the lion's den if I didn’t believe it would help you immensely." Grabbing our plates, he stood up and walked over to put them in the dishwasher. "I love you and have a world of faith in you, baby. Since you don't want my help—and frankly, it's best to get an unbiased opinion—go with Jack. I'll go call him right away."

  Wonderful…

  2.

  Jack Grady

  "You're gonna bulldoze the poor girl, aren't you?" Jameson asked.

  "I should." I crossed the living room to pull the blinds down a bit. The windows were large, and the evening sun tended to turn my home into a sauna. Today was worse; it'd rained recently, and the light was bouncing off the cobblestone street outside. "You read that nonsense. Aiden's daughter or not, I can't let her think that shit's any good."

  It'd taken me three days to agree to my old friend's request. I did owe him. He once got me out of a contract that'd made me downright miserable. I detested working for publishing houses and did much better on my own. I had him to thank for escaping and starting my own business. What he asked in return was steep, though. Next time we met up in Seattle, he was picking up the bar tab.

  I'd read Isla's book. It was so horrible I had called my little brother—who was a part-time writer—and asked him to read it. Because surely, no one would publish something this awful. Thankfully, Jameson found it abysmal as well, and the book was proof that publishing houses would print any kind of drivel as long as it sold a lot of copies.

  In my opinion, the reviews were kind.

  Jameson smirked and leaned back in his seat on the couch. "So Little Miss LA ventures up to Camassia. Girl must really wanna learn to be better."

  I wasn’t sure what he was implying. Aiden was down-to-earth, despite his wealth. They lived modestly. From his stories about his daughter—and my memories of a rail-thin teenager with curly hair and freckles—she was no LA snob, either.

  I turned from the window and frowned. "Are you calling our town a dump or Isla a clichéd rich girl?"

  Personally, I hadn't been able to get away from LA fast enough and much preferred our small town. Besides, in my district—the Valley—there was plenty of nightlife, should I want it.

  "LA people…" Jameson made a face.

  I shook my head and stifled my amusement.

  "Anyway." He grunted as he stood up, and he gestured at the coffee table. "I only came to drop off the book, and now I have, so…"

  "How's the deck coming along?" I asked.

  I should visit once my next contract was done. Nothing cleared my head like a weekend in the woods with my brothers, and Jameson and our eldest brother happened to own a cabin up in Westslope. They'd built it themselves, instead of going to therapy for having the worst luck imaginable with relationships.

  "Good. Should be ready before summer," Jameson replied. "We'll have you and Adam over for steaks and poker when it's done."

  I smiled wryly at the thought of my twin brother. "If we can drag Adam away from work, sure." Checking my watch, I saw Isla would be here any minute, so I followed Jameson to the hallway. "Have you spoken to Mom and Dad lately?"

  He snorted. "You mean about their trip?"

  "Yes." Our parents often traveled, though they were never gone for very long. Now they were planning to see South America for a whole year. "I suppose, whatever makes them happy."

  "Yup. They asked Alex to house-sit."

  That was good. Then I wouldn't have to turn them down if they asked me.

  "Well, have a great fucking time this weekend, bro." Jameson was far too amused by my misery. "Alex and I will throw some burgers on the grill, work on the deck, maybe go for a swim in the lake…"

  "I hope you drown," I said flatly. There was no describing how badly I wanted to trade. They could come down here and tutor the child, and I could enjoy a relaxing weekend surrounded by forest, and… My words died out as Jameson opened the door.

  There was a young woman standing there, about to knock. I knew those pale green eyes. As for the rest… Her hair wasn’t curly. The red mess had transformed into soft waves of dark auburn. A natural tan had faded most of her freckles, and she wasn’t the gangly girl with chicken legs I remembered. Her hips had filled out. So had her chest…area. Jesus Christ.

  She fidgeted nervously with the strap of her carry-on, gaze flicking between my brother and me.

  How fucking foolish was I? I'd thought of her as a teenager, not a stunning twenty-six-year-old woman. Aiden's stunning daughter.

  "Oh hell, Jack—" Jameson barked out a laugh and clapped me on the back. "This is some funny shit." He turned to Isla and grasped her hand. "Good to meet you, hon. I'm his brother, and I'm outta here."

  3.

  Isla Roe

  I was not welcome. I could tell. Jack Grady looked pissed. His laughing brother slipped out, and I was alone with a man I wouldn’t dare to greet by first name. I already knew he was very handsome, but the last decade had added a lot. His dark hair had a smattering of silver at his temples now, his laugh lines made him appear incredibly strict, and his stormy gray eyes looked like they could turn a defenseless writer whose book had recently been shredded…into ice.

  "Hi. I'm Isla… I don't know if you remember me. Is, uh, this a bad time?"

  He snapped out of whatever state he'd been in and opened the door wider for me. "Of course I remember. Come in."

  I released a nervous breath and entered his townhouse. My eyes took in the sight of the living room, and I was in awe. I'd been impressed before I'd even parked my rental. The whitewashed brownstone was covered in ivy, a very narrow home with three stories. It was all his. And his living room… Holy hell.

  Wall-to-wall with books. There was no TV. A fireplace, though. The room was both cozy dark and industrially cool. Brick walls and dimmed spotlights met thick rugs and an old coffee table that belonged in an antique shop.

  Shit. My book was on that table.

  "Did you find the place okay?" Jack asked tightly.

  I nodded dazedly, eyeing the big couch. I was so tired. "Yes, sir. I want to thank you for letting me come here."

  His mouth twitched, and he put his hands into the pockets of his fitted slacks. "Don't thank me yet." Uh-oh. He gave the spiral staircase slightly behind us a
chin-nod. "I'll show you to your room."

  I pushed down the handle to my roll-aboard luggage and picked it up.

  "Need any help?" He glanced at me over his shoulder as we climbed the metal steps.

  "No, thank you. I pack light."

  I was determined to survive this weekend. It was Friday now, and I'd be returning my rental in Seattle first thing on Monday morning. Then I was on the next flight back to safety.

  The second floor had soft carpet instead of the dark wood downstairs. Jack pointed at the two doors and explained they led to his bedroom and bathroom. Then we continued up to the third floor, where he told me he had his study and a guest room.

  I'd been sitting on my ass the past seven months to finish my book, so I was a bit out of shape. And winded by the time I reached the landing.

  My room had its own bathroom, and the view from the large windows was beautiful. The street was lined with more townhouses, narrow, some colorful, some not, a few of them covered in ivy. The trees along the sidewalks had lights in them, and I could see the mountains in the distance.

  "You have a lovely home, Mr. Grady." I smiled politely and put down my bag.

  Could the knot in my stomach disappear already?

  "Thank you." He inclined his head, staying in the doorway. "You can call me Jack, though." He checked his watch. "Are you tired? I was thinking I'd order a pizza, and we could go through your book while we eat."

  "That sounds great." It didn’t. It really didn't. I was all but dead on my feet, though I wasn’t about to be any more of an inconvenience. "I'll just freshen up a bit."

  "Of course." He gestured toward the bathroom. "Everything you need should be in there. I'll be downstairs."

  The minute he closed the door behind himself, I blew out a heavy breath and fell down on the bed. Lord, it was soft. And fluffy.

  It was difficult to believe I was actually here. Last week, I'd been looking forward to some quiet time before I began researching my next novel. Oh, how life could throw wretched curveballs.