Must Be Love: (Nicole and Ryan) (A Jetty Beach Romance Book 1)
Read Must Be Love: (Nicole and Ryan) (A Jetty Beach Romance Book 1) Online
Authors: Claire Kingsley
Contents
Copyright © 2016 Claire Kingsley
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written consent of the copyright holder, except for brief quotations for the purpose of reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, events or incidents are products of the authors imagination and used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, places or events is purely coincidental or fictionalized.
Edited by Tammi Labrecque of
Larks and Katydids
Cover and title plate by
Wicked Good Book Covers
By the time I realize I’m drunk, it’s too late.
"I really love you. Do you know that?" I say, leaning my head against Melissa's shoulder. Melissa has been my best friend since forever. My mom still keeps a faded picture on the fridge—the two of us as toddlers, dressed in matching splatter-paint t-shirts and neon pink bike shorts, ridiculous spiky pigtails sticking out at all angles.
"I know, baby," Melissa says. She pats me on the hand like a mother coaxing a child into bed.
Our waitress sidles up to the table with a cheery smile plastered to her face. "Can I get you ladies anything else?"
"You are just the cutest," I say. "Didn't I used to babysit you when you were like, this high?" I hold out my hand, finding it surprisingly hard to keep it steady. "You're so pretty."
"Okay, I think we're ready for the check," Melissa says. She scoots what’s left of my mojito across the table.
"Hey!"
The waitress nods and scampers off.
"You took my drink," I say. I slump down into the booth, despondent. "Why are we here, anyway? I hate this restaurant."
I worked in this restaurant for two summers during high school. The Porthole Inn. What does that mean, anyway? Like half the places in Jetty Beach, it’s strewn with nautical decorations. Rope and old ship's wheels hang from the wood paneled walls, and half the light fixtures are old lanterns. A faded life preserver greets customers when they walk in the door.
"If you hate this restaurant, why did you suggest it?" Melissa asks, fiddling with the zipper on her hoodie. She’s dressed in a pair of distressed jeans and a black tank top, her hoodie falling carelessly from her slim shoulders. She’s probably even wearing flip flops, but of course she looks amazing. Melissa makes anything look good.
"Why are you so gorgeous?" I ask.
"You're drunk."
"I am not."
"You so are," she says. "You always start telling everyone how gorgeous they are when you're drunk."
"I do not." Of course, she’s right; I totally do. "Why aren't you drunk? I shouldn't be doing this alone."
"You probably shouldn't be doing this at all," she says. "What am I going to tell your parents?"
I blow out a breath through pursed lips, spraying spit onto the table. For reasons only rum can tell, I find that hilarious, and cover my mouth to stifle a fit of giggles.
"At least you're in a better mood," Melissa says.
"I'm always in a good mood."
Melissa mumbles something. Okay, so that’s not quite true. I've been in a terrible mood. But who can blame me? I’m back in the tiny beach town where I grew up. Worse than that, at twenty-seven, I’m crashing at my parents’ house. Despite rumors to the contrary, my generation are not a bunch of freeloaders who are happy to live off mommy and daddy forever. I’m an independent woman. I made a life for myself, away from this town. I was going places. Until—
A sob bursts from my mouth, my mojito-induced good mood skittering away in the face of my awful reality.
"Honey," Melissa says, patting my back.
It occurs to me that I can’t remember when she moved from her seat across the table to sit next to me.
"What am I going to do, Melissa?" I ask between breaths. "This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me."
"Actually, it's probably the best thing that’s ever happened to you," she says. "You just don't realize it yet."
"That isn't possible," I say, although it comes out sounding more like
pobbible
. I lean forward and put my head down on the table.
I can’t seem to get over the feeling that my world has utterly collapsed. A week ago, I was sitting at work, doing my job, wondering what my boyfriend Jason and I were going to do on Friday night. Hours later, I got home to find another woman straddling him. Naked. Very naked.
The sense of hopelessness is so pervasive, there are days I can barely be bothered to get off the couch. Melissa came over earlier and literally dragged me to the bathroom to shower, claiming what I needed was to get out of the house. Considering it’s my parents’ house, she was probably right. But now that I’m sitting in a booth in the stupid Porthole Inn, a place Jason and I went to before almost every stupid high school dance, I don’t think it was such a great plan.
My stomach churns and suddenly the five mojitos don’t seem like such a great plan either. Was it five? Or were there six? I honestly have no idea.
"Jason is a douche," Melissa says. "That little fucktard can rot in hell."
I sit up and swipe a hand under my nose. "He is a dickwad."
"Damn right he is," Melissa says. "Atta girl."
I sniff again and take a sip of water. I thought Jason was the love of my life. Everything was perfect. He was the hot football player every girl wanted—and he picked me. We dated for two years, and then he got a football scholarship to Linfield. Sure, it was a small college, and it meant moving to Oregon, but Jason and I were meant to be together. He seemed excited when I decided to go with him to Linfield. We had a lot of fun in those days. We partied some, and did the whole college thing. After graduation, I was expecting a proposal. After all, isn't that how it works? High school, college, careers, marriage? He got a job with a big insurance company in Seattle, and I was happy to move back to Washington. I started with an event planning and PR company, we got an apartment in the city, and life was good. Sure, he was moody sometimes, and maybe we fought a little. But he missed football, so I understood. Going from college to adult life was a big deal. He just needed time.
Five years later, and still no ring? I should have at least started to wonder.
Melissa raises her glass—is that still her first drink?—and hands me my water. "No more dipshits!"
I lift my glass. "No more dipshits!"
The waitress returns and slips the bill onto the table. Melissa plunks a credit card onto the black plastic tray. "I got this."
"No," I say, mumbling something and trying to find my purse. "I can pay."
"Nicole Marie Prescott," she says, using her teacher voice.
"Yes, Ms. Simon?"
She smacks me across the arm.
"Ouch!" I rub the skin as if she's hurt me and stick out my lower lip, but the sting actually feels good. Better than the empty feeling in my chest.
"The least I can do is buy you a few drinks. Or maybe it was more than a few," Melissa says, spinning the bill around to look at it more closely.
"I'm sorry," I say.
"It's fine, Nic. I just … I don't know what else to do for you. We've binged on ice cream, burned his sweatshirt on the beach, drank our fucking weight in wine, and if I have to watch
The Notebook
even one more time, I am literally going to stab out my own eyeballs."
Tears flood my eyes and run down my face. "They fucking died together, Mel." Sniff, sob. "He loved her so much they died together."
My shoulders shake with sobs and Melissa rubs slow circles across my back.
"Holy shit, Nicole, pull yourself together." She lifts my chin and wipes beneath my eyes, then holds up her finger. It’s smudged with black mascara. "You look like hell."
I sniff again. "I don't care."
"Yeah, well, you probably should," she says. "Come on, let's go to the bathroom and get you cleaned up before someone sees you like this. If you need to ugly-cry, let's go do it in private, m'kay?"
Coming from anyone else, that would probably hurt, but even drunk as I am, I know what she means. I’d do the same for her.
She shuffles me to the bathroom, holding tight to my arm so I won’t stumble. It’s a Tuesday night, and early spring, so the Porthole is practically empty. During the tourist season, it would be packed even on a weeknight, but we more or less have the place to ourselves. Something in the back of my mind tells me I'll be grateful for that fact in the morning.
I’m not as unstable as I thought I might be. The floor stops trying to trip me after my first few steps, and although my head is fuzzy, I can walk kind of straight. Melissa ushers me through the door to the ladies’ room, letting it bang shut behind her.
The face that stares at me from the smudged mirror is not a pretty one. Mascara runs in little black rivulets down my face, and I left most of my lipstick on my mojito glasses. Melissa takes a wet tissue and tries to mop up the damage. I stand there, pouting while she wipes beneath my eyes.
All at once, my bladder clenches. My knees buckle and I grab my crotch. "Oh shit, I have to pee."
"Go." Melissa pushes me toward the stall.