One Crazy Week Read online

  One Crazy Week

  The Jetty Beach Series Book 2

  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 Crazy: A Jetty Beach Romance

  www.clairekingsleybooks.com

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  About This Book

  1. Melissa

  2. Jackson

  3. Melissa

  4. Jackson

  5. Melissa

  6. Melissa

  7. Melissa

  8. Jackson

  9. Melissa

  10. Jackson

  11. Melissa

  12. Melissa

  13. Jackson

  14. Melissa

  15. Jackson

  16. Melissa

  17. Jackson

  18. Jackson

  19. Melissa

  20. Melissa

  21. Jackson

  22. Jackson

  23. Melissa

  24. Melissa

  25. Jackson

  26. Melissa

  27. Jackson

  28. Melissa

  Epilogue

  Messy Perfect Love: Chapter 1

  Afterword

  Also by Claire Kingsley

  About the Author

  About This Book

  One Crazy Week was originally published as Must Be Crazy: A Jetty Beach Romance.

  It’s not supposed to mean anything… until it does

  The hot guy in a suit, sitting next to me at the bar? I don’t know who he is, but when he tries to pick me up, he seems surprised when I sass him and turn him down. Truth? He’s practically irresistible, and I almost say yes.

  Turns out, he’s Jackson Bennett, a cocky billionaire with a playboy reputation. And he has a very interesting proposition for me.

  He wants to whisk me away for a week. No strings. No expectations. Just a crazy, lust-filled week of luxury with the hottest man I’ve ever met.

  We come from different worlds, and it isn’t supposed to mean anything. But the fire between us is scorching hot—in and out of the bedroom.

  Our hearts are supposed to stay out of this, but apparently mine didn’t get the memo. And when things get complicated—really complicated—it puts both of our hearts on the line.

  1

  Melissa

  I push the cart down the aisle, tossing in packages of markers, index cards, and ballpoint pens. School supplies—this is some sexy shit right here. The little drug store on the corner has an inexplicable early summer sale on school stuff, and I want to stock up my classroom.

  When I was a student teacher, my supervisor told me I was getting into a profession that would require all of me: intellect, heart, and wallet. She wasn’t wrong. But I budget for four or five big shopping trips a year, watch the sales, and manage to keep pencils and erasers in my students’ grubby tween hands.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the screen, even though I know it hasn’t dinged. It’s a weird habit, borne of boredom more than anything. Now that the insane relief at finishing the school year has more or less blown over—I literally spent three days drunk off my ass after the last day of school—I find myself feeling antsy most of the time.

  It’s like being a kid again, growing up in a family with no siblings. Just me and my dad. Long summer days stretch out before me, full of boredom and possibility.

  I wish I felt more of the possibility and less of the boredom.

  My phone actually dings—a text from Nicole, my bestie. I smile. Despite the fact that she’s newly engaged, I get to see a lot more of her since she moved back to Jetty Beach to live with her fiancé. It’s great having her close by. We can do lunch, get together for drinks.

  It’s Friday, and I texted her earlier, hoping she’ll be available to hang out later. I’m not interested in spending another Friday night on my couch with nothing but Netflix to keep me company.

  Sorry Mel. Can’t tonight. Dinner with the Jacobsens.

  Damn. So much for that idea. No worries. I’ll catch up with you later.

  I finish shopping and my phone lights up again while I’m at the register. I’m off work and free now. Coffee?

  I never say no to coffee. Definitely. Meet you at Old Town.

  I drive my old Ford pickup to the little strip we call downtown, and find a parking space. I’m surprised. It’s a Friday afternoon in the midst of the tourist season, and good spots are usually hard to come by. People wander down the tree-lined sidewalks, some carrying shopping bags, others with ice cream cones. A cool breeze blows in off the water. I’m not close enough to see the beach, but there’s no mistaking the place for anything but a beach town. Half the shops sell kites and windsocks, the other half beachy and nautical decor. Restaurants line the street—everything from my favorite coffee shop, the Old Town Cafe, to a great fish and chips place up the way.

  Nicole just started working for the city a couple of weeks ago, and her office isn’t far. I see her coming down the sidewalk, and wait outside the cafe for her to catch up.

  Her blond hair hangs around her shoulders, held back by sunglasses perched on her head. She’s in a pretty cream blouse, a pair of light slacks, and cute baby blue heels that let her painted toenails show. Nicole always looks professional and put together. I glance down at my jeans and plain black t-shirt. I have flip-flops on my feet. But, meh, I’m not going to worry about it. It’s not like I have anyone to impress.

  “Hey,” she says, flashing me her sunny smile. I love seeing her so happy. It makes up for her fiancé almost screwing things up.

  We hug and go inside. After ordering our coffee, we pick a little table next to the window overlooking the street.

  “So what’s up with you?” I ask.

  “You know, wedding stuff, work,” she says. “The usual. How about you?”

  “School supplies,” I say, my tone wry.

  “So exciting,” she says.

  “It’s really not,” I say. Nothing about my life is exciting lately.

  “Met anyone recently?” she asks.

  “Like, a guy?” I ask. “No, unfortunately. My social life includes you, Ryan, his brothers—who are nice enough guys, but not really my type—and … yeah, that’s it. I hang out with you guys.”

  Nicole laughs as the waitress sets down our coffee. “You need to get out more,” she says.

  “Not everyone is going to fall down in front of the love of their life in a parking lot,” I say. That’s how Nicole first ran into Ryan. “Although maybe I should just go out and get drunk tonight. It’s not like I have anything else going on.”

  “Melissa, stop being so pitiful,” she says.

  “I am not pitiful.”

  “Yes, you are. What about one of those dating websites? You should make a profile. I can help if you want.”

  I groan. “Oh my god, do not even suggest that. I’m not going to try to meet a guy online. Are you serious?”

  “Why not?” she asks. “It’s not like you’re going to meet someone down at Danny’s Tavern.”

  “I might.”

  She arches an eyebrow. “
Well, you can’t exactly count on it.”

  “What’s wrong with being single, anyway?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” she says. “You’re the one who keeps complaining that your life is boring.”

  “Okay, fair enough,” I say. “I’m just in a rut, I guess. I’m restless because I’m off work. Maybe I need a new hobby.”

  “That’s a good idea,” she says.

  “What the fuck kind of hobby would I have?” I say, laughing. “I don’t think drinking Scotch qualifies.”

  Nicole laughs. Her phone makes a noise that sounds like wind chimes and she glances at the screen. “Hang on,” she says while she types. “I’m just telling Ryan I’ll be home in time to go to his parents’ place for dinner.”

  I watch out the window, gazing at the people walking by. An elderly couple goes past, arm in arm. She’s wearing a tacky fanny pack and they both have bright white sneakers. Across the street, a young couple stands next to a tree. The girl tilts her face up to the guy and he leans in to kiss her.

  I sigh. I’m not much of a romantic, but I also haven’t dated anyone in over a year. I miss being kissed.

  I miss other stuff, too. A lot.

  “Maybe I should ask Cody if he knows anyone who’s single,” Nicole says.

  Cody is her fiancé’s older brother. “I don’t know, that’s kind of weird,” I say.

  “He’s a doctor,” she says. “Maybe he has some hot doctor friends.”

  “They’re probably all married,” I say.

  Nicole rolls her eyes. “Fine, since you don’t want my help…”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Don’t listen to me, I get restless every summer. Life is just always … the same. I work my ass off all school year, which is fine. And then summer comes and goes. Work picks up again, and pretty soon another year is over. I’m going to wake up one day, realize I’m fifty, and I’ve never done anything.”

  “You need to get laid,” she says.

  “Fuck yeah, I do,” I say. I love that I can talk to Nicole without holding back. “I need to get the shit fucked out of me hard core, but I don’t see that happening anytime soon.”

  Nicole laughs, but I don’t faze her. We’ve been friends since we were kids, so she’s used to me. “Either that or I’m going to get you like, five cats, and you can resign yourself to being the crazy cat lady.”

  “I think the cats are more likely,” I say. Nicole scowls at me. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop moping. You know what, I’ll even look at the online thing. I think it’s probably a fucking terrible idea, but I’ll look at it.”

  “Yeah?” she says, her face brightening. “If it’s dumb, you can just delete your profile.”

  “It has to at least be good for some laughs,” I say.

  Later that evening, I settle down on my couch with some takeout Chinese and my laptop. I already regret telling Nicole I’ll set up a profile on some dating site. But I know she’ll call me tomorrow and ask if I did it. And what the fuck do I have to lose, anyway?

  I pick a site at random and fill in my information. I choose a profile picture that barely shows my face. I don’t do social media at all—it feels too weird to have my personal information on the Internet. But I figure I can keep it vague enough to give it a try, and delete everything if I need to. It doesn’t make me put in my last name, so I’ll stay fairly anonymous.

  I set up my profile, struggling to answer some of the questions. Interests? I’m a teacher, sure, but that’s work. It isn’t like I enjoy giving fifth grade math lessons in my spare time. I don’t actually want to list drinking—that would send the wrong message, although I do enjoy a nice beverage. I throw in a few random things, like reading, beachcombing, and watching movies. I press enter, and it asks me to make sure my information is correct. It all looks kind of stupid, if you ask me, but I hit enter again.

  I turn on a random reality show and eat my dinner on the couch. The sun starts to go down and the sound of seagulls carries through the windows. I glance at my laptop screen. The little notifications tab is highlighted on the dating site, so I click to see what it is.

  Three replies to my new profile. That’s interesting. I open the first one.

  Hey, you’re really gorgeous. Is that your real picture? Will you send me more pics? I need to know if that’s really you. Are you fat?

  I laugh so hard that I snort, and have to put my dinner down so I don’t spill everywhere. Is this guy serious? I click on his profile. His username is godsgifttowomen69. This can’t be real. It has to be a fake account, designed to punk people. His profile picture shows a heavyset man, probably in his thirties, with thick glasses and an awkward smile. He’s so cliché, there’s no way he’s legit. I delete his message and open the next one.

  Hi. I think we might have things of which are common. Fun times? Send me phone numbers. I text you.

  Oh my god. I click on this guy. He has a shaved head and a tattoo on his face, just below his eye socket. His expression makes me wonder if he just murdered someone. He looks like a serial killer. I figure maybe he doesn’t speak English very well, but his crazy eyes creep me the fuck out. I delete his message, too.

  I open the third one and shriek, closing my laptop as fast as I can. The dude sent me a picture of his dick. His fucking dick. I shudder and push my laptop to the other side of the couch.

  I am officially done with online dating.

  I finish my dinner and clean up. I don’t want to spend the night sitting around at home, so I grab my purse, slip on my flip-flops, and head out. I can walk to Danny’s Tavern; it’s only a few blocks away. It might not be a glamorous Friday night, but it beats sitting home alone—again.

  And I need to get away from my laptop. I still don’t want to open it. Some things you can’t unsee.

  2

  Jackson

  I stand on the balcony of my penthouse hotel room, looking out over the water. This town doesn’t have the sort of accommodations I’m used to, but my room isn’t terrible. The view is amazing, even if the furnishings are rather pedestrian. I watch the sunset with a drink in my hand, the Pacific Ocean spread out in front of me. There’s nothing wrong with that, although I regret not bringing someone along. The spacious room is too quiet, the room too empty.

  I should have left town this afternoon. I intended to come down just for the day—I had a quick meeting with the art gallery owners, hammering out the details of the sale. For some reason, I decided to buy the Sunset Art Gallery in Jetty Beach. I spent a summer here as a kid and it’s one of the only places that has good memories from my childhood. I like the idea of investing in the town, making it nice again. I didn’t need to come in person, but I like this quirky little place. And fuck it, it’s a Friday, and it isn’t like anyone in the office can tell me no. A little ocean air sounded like a nice change.

  But by about nine o’clock, I’m fucking bored. I figure my options are: drive home late, because I didn’t have a driver take me out here, which sounds shitty; hang out in my hotel room drinking by myself, which sounds pathetic; or go out and see what people in this sleepy little town do on a Friday night.

  Not much, it turns out.

  I eat a mediocre dinner in the restaurant at my hotel. Alone, which isn’t as terrible as I fear. Of course, the reasonably attractive waitress lingering at my table allows for some light conversation. But the novelty wears off pretty quickly and I find myself restless. I wander around the little downtown for a while, but everything is closed. I’m just about to give up when I see lights. A bar, and it’s open. It looks … dismal. A few cars out front, a neon sign in the window, the dark wood walls and door all blending together. It’s not the sort of place I usually frequent.

  But … what the hell.

  I push open the door. The inside isn’t bad. It isn’t good either, but it isn’t the disgusting dive I expected. It’s one of the few places in town that doesn’t look like a beachside antique store threw up in it. The light is dim, and a long bar takes up most of the back wall. On one
side of the room, people play pool and toss darts. Most of the small tables on the other side of the room are taken. It’s busier inside than I thought it would be, given the lack of cars out front; I guess a lot of people must walk.

  I take a seat at the bar, glancing up at the liquor selection. Pretty standard. The bartender is nowhere in sight, so I pull out my phone and wait.

  How I didn’t notice the woman sitting down the bar, I have no idea. I look up and there she is. Dark hair pulled back in a messy bun, a tight black t-shirt showing the perfect curve of her breasts. Skinny jeans hug a shapely ass, and a pair of flip-flops dangles from her toes. She has a couple of empty shot glasses sitting in front of her. Her face turns toward me just enough to see the soft lines of her jaw, her full lips, dark eyes. A cute little nose. She’s magnetic. Her tongue runs along her bottom lip and I can’t help but smile. Finally, something in this town worth doing.

  I’m just about to talk to her when the bartender appears in front of me. The guy fits the ambiance perfectly. Scruffy beard, shirt with the sleeves rolled up. If he was drying a glass with a white towel, it would be perfect.

  “What can I get you?” he asks.

  “Highland Park Thirty,” I say.

  The bartender arches an eyebrow at me. “All right.”

  “Hold on there, Danny. He doesn’t want the Highland Park Thirty.”