Must Be Fate: (Cody and Clover) (A Jetty Beach Romance Book 3)
Read Must Be Fate: (Cody and Clover) (A Jetty Beach Romance Book 3) 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
Books By Claire Kingsley
Must Be Love (Nicole and Ryan): A Jetty Beach Romance Book 1
Must Be Crazy (Melissa and Jackson): A Jetty Beach Romance Book 2
Must Be Fate (Clover and Cody): A Jetty Beach Romance Book 3
Must Be Home (Emma and Hunter): A Jetty Beach Romance Book 4 ~ Coming Fall 2016!
All the Jetty Beach Romances are full-length stand-alone novels, and can be read independently. They have interconnecting characters and are most fun if read in order.
Always Have: A Bad Boy Romance ~ Coming Fall 2016
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.
