Right Kind of Wrong

  Jackass.

  With a muttered curse, I stomp into the small bathroom and try not to enjoy the smell of spearmint wafting into my nose and settling on my skin. Damn Levi and his hot-smelling soap.

  My freshman year of college ended two weeks ago, and since Arizona State dorms don’t allow students to stay during the summer, I had to find a new place to live and, consequently, a job. So I started working for my aunt Ellen at Willow Inn because one of the job perks—and I use that term loosely—is free room and board.

  And my free room shares a hallway and a bathroom with the only person I was hoping to avoid for the rest of my life.

  Levi Andrews.

  Hot guy. Handyman. My long-lost… something.

  Ellen conveniently forgot to tell me that Levi lived at the inn, so the day I moved in was chock-full of surprises.

  Surprise! Levi lives here too.

  Surprise! You’ll be sleeping next door to him.

  Surprise! You’ll be sharing a sink, a shower, and a daily dose of weird sexual tension with him.

  Ellen is lucky I love her.

  Had I known that Levi lived and worked here, I never would have taken the job, let alone moved in. But Aunt Ellen is one conniving innkeeper and, honestly, my only other option was far less appealing. So here I am, living and working right alongside a walking piece of my past.

  Since we’re the only two resident employees, Levi and I are the only people who sleep in the east wing—a setup that might be ideal were it not for the giant elephant we keep sidestepping during these epic encounters of ours.

  Memories start creeping up the back of my neck, and a hot prickle forms behind my eyes. I quickly blink it back and turn on the shower, scanning the bathroom for safer things to focus on.

  Little blue dots on the wallpaper.

  Purple flowers on my bottle of shampoo.

  Dots. Flowers. Shampoo.

  With the threat of tears now under control, I thrust my hand into the shower and relax a tinge when hot water hits my fingers. Stripping off my pajamas, I step into the spray with high hopes, but water has just hit the right side of my neck when it goes from warm to ice-cold.

  Sonofabitch.

  There will be suffocation tonight. There will be misery and pain and a big fat pillow over Levi’s big fat scruffy face.

  Biting back a howl of frustration, I turn off the water and wrap a towel around my half-wet body. No way am I taking another cold shower. I’ll just have to be unclean today. I hastily grab my stuff and yank the bathroom door open just as Levi leans into the hallway.

  He’s traded in his towel for a pair of low-slung jeans but hasn’t gotten around to throwing on a shirt, so I have to watch his chest muscles flex as he grips his bedroom doorframe.

  He looks me over with a smirk. “Done so soon?”

  I flip him off and enter my room, slamming the door behind me like a fourth grader.

  I throw on some clothes, pull my hair into a messy ponytail, and step into my paint-stained sneakers before looking myself over in the mirror. Ugh.

  I tug at the V-neck collar of my shirt for a good twenty seconds before giving up and changing into a crew-cut shirt instead. Much better.

  My phone chirps on the dresser, and I knock over a jar of paintbrushes as I reach for it. As I pick up my phone, paintbrushes go rolling off the dresser and onto the floor, where they join piles of discarded clothing and crumpled college applications. I glance at the text message and frown.

  Miss you.

  It’s from Matt.

  Miss you too, I text back. I do miss him. Sort of.

  Call me. I have news.

  I start to call Matt but pause when I hear Levi’s footsteps in the hallway, making their way back to the bathroom. I hear him plug something in, and the sound of his electric razor meets my ears. I set my phone back on the dresser as a wicked smile spreads across my face.

  Levi should know better by now. He really should.

  Casually moving around my room, I plug in every electric item I own and wait until he’s halfway through shaving. Then I turn everything on at once. The electricity immediately goes out and I hear the buzz of his razor die.

  “Dammit, Pixie!”

  Ah, the sweet sound of male irritation.

  Plastering on an innocent look, I open my door and peer across the hall to the bathroom. Levi looks ridiculous standing in the doorway in just his jeans—still no shirt—glowering at me with half of his face shaved.

  He stiffens his jaw. “Seriously?”

  I mock a look of sympathy. “You really should charge your razor every once in a while.” I exit my room and move down the hall, singing out, “Have fun rocking a half-beard all day.”

  As I head down the stairs, the wet side of my ponytail slaps against my neck with each step. Another smile pulls at my lips.

  If Levi wants to play, it’s on.

  2

  Levi

  Twelve days.

  Pixie’s been living here for only twelve days and I already want to stab myself with a spoon. Not because she keeps blowing the fuse, though that reoccurring shenanigan of hers is certainly stab-worthy, but because I can’t do normal around Pixie.

  But fighting? That I can do.

  After pulling a shirt on, I march downstairs and out the back door. The large lavender field behind the inn sways in the morning breeze, and thousands of purple flowers throw their scent into the wind, reminding me of things better left forgotten. Things I used to have locked down. So much for all that.

  I blame Ellen. Maybe if she’d given me a heads-up about Pixie moving in, I could have prepared better.

  Another breeze blows by and shoves more lavender up my nose.

  Or maybe not.

  The sky hangs above me, bright blue and free of clouds, and the early sun slants across the earth, casting a long shadow behind me as I walk the length of the building. I squint up at the white siding and notice one of the panels is cracked, which is nothing new.

  Willow Inn is nearly one hundred years old, and parts of it are just as broken as they are picturesque. It’s a quaint place, with white cladding and a wraparound porch beneath a blue-shingled roof, and it sits on ten acres of lavender fields and swaying willow trees. It has two wings of upstairs rooms and a main floor with the usual lobby, kitchen, and dining space.

  The newly remodeled west wing has seven bedrooms, each with their own bathroom. That’s where all the guests stay.

  The east wing has yet to be remodeled, which is why Ellen allows Pixie and me to stay there and why I’m a live-in employee. Along with my other handyman duties, I’m also helping Ellen gut the old east wing so she can have the area remodeled to accommodate private bathrooms in every room.

  I reach the fuse box at the edge of the inn and, flipping a breaker I’m far too familiar with, restore electricity to the east wing.

  Fortunately, all the gutting and redesigning requires the east wing to run on its own electricity and water supply, so guests are never affected by my hot water usage or Pixie’s electricity tantrums, but damn. We really need to find a less immature way to be around each other.

  I turn and follow my shadow back to the door, holding my breath as I pass the purple field. The wooden floors of the lobby are extra shiny as I walk inside, which means Eva, the girl who cleans the main house, probably came in early and left before anyone saw her. She’s tends to work stealthily like that, finishing her work before anyone wakes. Sometimes I envy Eva that. The solitude. The invisibility.

  Back inside, I see a figure up ahead, and a string of curse words line themselves up on my tongue.

  Daren Ackwood.

  I hate this douche bag and he’s headed right for me.

  “What’s happening, Andrews?” He gives me the chin nod like we go way back. We went to the same high school and I think we had a class together senior year, but we’re not pals. He looks over my partially shaved face. “What the hell happened to you?”

  “Pixie,” I say.


  He nods and looks around. “Is Sarah here?”

  Sarah is Pixie’s real name. The only people who’ve ever called her Pixie are me and Ellen and…

  “Why?” I cross my arms and eye the case of water he’s carrying. “Did she order water?”

  Daren is the inn gofer, delivering groceries and linens and anything else the place needs, so unfortunately he’s here twice a week with his preppy-boy jeans and nine coats of cologne. And he’s always looking for Pixie.

  “No, but you never know.” He lifts a cocky brow. “She might be thirsty.”

  “She’s not thirsty.”

  He looks over my facial hair again. “Oh, I think she’s thirsty.”

  And I think Daren’s throat needs to be stepped on.

  “Morning, Levi.” Ellen walks up with a smile and hands me my To Do list for the day. Her long dark hair slips over her shoulder as she turns and throws a courteous smile to the gofer. “Hey, Daren.”

  “Hey, Miss Marshall.”

  As Ellen starts talking to me about the fire alarm, I watch Daren’s eyes cruise down her body and linger in places they have no business lingering in.

  More than his throat needs to be stepped on.

  Ellen Marshall is a very attractive forty-year-old who’s used to guys checking her out. Not me, of course—Ellen’s like family to me and I respect her—but pretty much any other guy who sees her instantly fantasizes about her, which pisses me off.

  “… because the system is outdated,” Ellen says.

  “Routine check on the fire alarms,” I say, my eyes fixed on Daren, who is still ogling her. “Got it.”

  “Can I help you with something?” Ellen smiles sharply at him. “Looks like your eyes are lost.”

  He readjusts his gaze. “Uh, no, ma’am. I was just wondering where Sarah was.”

  “Sarah is working. And so are you.” Her hazel eyes drop to the case of water. “Why don’t you take that to the dining room? I think Angelo is stocking the bar this morning.”

  He gives a single nod and walks off.

  Ellen turns back to me and looks over my face. “Nice beard,” she says. “Pixie?”

  I rub a hand down the smooth side of my jaw. “Yeah.”

  She lets out an exasperated sigh. “Levi—”

  “I’ll check out the fire alarms after I finish shaving,” I say, quickly cutting her off. Because I don’t have the time, or the balls, to undergo the conversation she wants to have with me. “Later.” I don’t give her a chance to respond as I turn and head for the stairs.

  Back in the bathroom, I stare at my reflection in the mirror and shake my head. Pixie timed it perfectly, I’ll give her that. My facial hair is literally half-gone. I look like a before and after razor ad.

  I think back to the irritated expression on her face and a small smile tugs at my lips. She was so frustrated, waiting outside the bathroom door with her flushed cheeks and full lips and indignant green eyes…

  Why does she have to be so goddamn pretty?

  I turn on the razor and run the blades down my jaw, thinking back to the first time I saw those indignant eyes cut into mine. My smile fades.

  Pixie was six. I was seven. And my Transformers were missing.

  I remember running around the house, completely panicked that I had lost my favorite toys, until I came upon Pixie sitting cross-legged in the front room with my very manly robots set up alongside her very dumb dolls.

  I immediately called in the authorities—“Mom! Pixie took my Transformers!”—and wasted no time rescuing my toys from the clutches of the pink vomit that was Barbie.

  “Hey!” She tried to pry them from my hands. “Those are the protectors. They kill all the bad guys. My dolls need them!”

  “Your dolls are stupid. Stop taking my things. Mom! Mom!”

  Haunted eyes stare back at me in the mirror as I slowly finish shaving.

  I wish I would have known back then how significant Pixie was going to be.

  I wish I would have known a lot of things.

  Turn the page for an excerpt of the second book in Chelsea Fine’s Finding Fate series,

  Perfect Kind of Trouble

  Available now

  1

  Kayla

  On the other side of the casket, a middle-aged woman wearing a navy blue dress glares at me.

  The man in the wooden box has only been dead for three days and this woman already has me pegged as the slutty mistress he kept on the side. I’m probably an ex-stripper with a coke problem as well, based on the way she’s sizing me up. But this isn’t my first rodeo—or my first funeral—and deadly looks like the one Navy Nancy is angling at me are nothing new, unfortunately.

  Now feeling a little self-conscious, I slowly slide my black sunglasses on and tip my head down, concentrating on the casket in front of me as the preacher/priest/certified-online minister drones on about peace and eternity.

  It’s a nice casket, made of polished cherrywood with decorative iron handles and rounded edges. I should care more than I do about the deceased man within, but all I can think about is how that casket probably cost more than any car I’ve ever been in, and how the man inside is probably tucked against velvet walls lined with Egyptian cotton.

  And now I’m angry. Great.

  I promised myself I wouldn’t be angry today. Bitter? Sure. That was a given. But not angry.

  Taking a deep breath, I raise my head and try to avert my attention. Behind my dark shades, I glance around the cemetery. More people showed up than I had expected, most of them looking like they’re sweet and respectable. I wonder how well they knew James Turner. Were they friends of his? Coworkers? Lovers? Folks around here probably show up at funerals regardless of their relationship with the deceased. That’s the thing about small towns; everyone cares about everyone else—or at least acts like they do.

  “James was a good man,” the minister says, “who lived a solid life and has now gone on to a better place…”

  A roll of thunder sounds in the distance and I turn my eyes to the heavy gray clouds above. The weatherman said it’s supposed to rain tonight. They’ll bury James, cover his casket with dirt, and rain will fall and seal him into the earth. What an ideal passing.

  Screw him.

  A woman beside the minister begins to sing “Amazing Grace” as the pallbearers lower him into the grave. Across the way, a teenage boy openly gawks at me, his eyes gliding up and down my body like I’m standing here naked instead of fully clothed. I’m wearing a knee-length, long-sleeved, turtlenecked gray dress, in July no less. I’m ridiculously covered, not that Navy Nancy and Gawking Gary care.

  When the boy catches me watching him, he quickly looks away and his face burns bright red. I turn away as well and play with the bracelet on my wrist as I focus my attention on the back of the crowd.

  A huddle of women dab at their eyes with handkerchiefs. Beside them, a young family stands quietly with their hands clasped together. Nearby, an older couple mouths the words to “Amazing Grace” as the singer starts on the third verse. Looking around, I realize everyone else is singing along as well. Of course the people of Copper Springs would know the third verse of “Amazing Grace.”

  I really need to get out of here. I don’t belong in this tiny town. I never have. One last obligation tomorrow then I’m gone.

  In the far back of the congregation, a guy moves out from under a large oak tree and I tilt my head. He looks vaguely familiar but I can’t quite place him.

  He’s average height, with dark brown hair, and a dark purple button-down shirt covers his broad shoulders. The long sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows and he’s got on a pair of dark jeans to match the dark sunglasses that cover his eyes. Dark, dark, dark.

  He’s attractive. Dangerously attractive. The kind of attractive that can suck you into a sweet haze and undo you completely before you even know you’ve surrendered. I know I’ve seen him before but for the life of me I can’t remember where, which is probably a good thing.


  The singer wraps up the fourth verse of “Amazingly Depressing Grace,” and a long silence follows before the minister clears his throat. He glances at me and I subtly nod. With a few last words about what a wonderful man James Turner was, he concludes the funeral and I let out a quiet breath of relief.

  The end.

  People disperse, most of them heading to their cars while the rest pass by the lowered casket and throw a handful of dirt or a flower onto the shiny cherrywood top. I step to the side, sunglasses strictly in place, and watch the mourners. Navy Nancy glares at me again and I look away. Wow. She really must think I’m some sort of James Turner hussy.

  As offended as I am, I know she’s probably just hurting. She was the first person to arrive at the funeral today and she teared up several times during the ceremony so I’m assuming she and James were pretty close. And if judging me makes her feel better on this sad day, then I’ll let her hate me all she wants. I watch her leave the cemetery with a small group of other mourners. It’s not like I’ll ever see her again, anyway.

  The guy in the purple shirt steps up to the grave and drops a handful of red dirt on the casket. The red stands out against the brown dirt beneath it and I wonder what its significance is. Then I wonder about the guy in purple. He doesn’t seem to be here with anyone else, which is only strange because of how good-looking he is. Hot guys don’t usually travel places without an equally hot girl on their arm. But this guy is definitely alone.

  He strides to the parking lot and climbs into a black sports car, and all my wondering comes to an abrupt halt. I no longer care about who he is, or how he knew James, or why he looks familiar. Spoiled rich boys are the last thing I care about.

  When everyone has left the area except the funeral home people, I carefully walk up to the casket. The heels of my black pumps slowly sink into the soft grass as I stare down at the last I’ll ever see of James Turner. I try to muster up some sort of sadness, but all I come up with is more anger.