Perfect Imperfections (Moments Book 1)

by J Wells

  * * * *

  Perfect Imperfections

  Moments Series – Book One

  Copyright © 2017 by J & L Wells

  Cover design by Kellie Dennis of Book Cover by Design

  Formatting and interior design by JT Formatting

  Proofreading and editing by Sarah Cheeseman

  PA – Lady Amber

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This book is written by British authors, and all spellings are British English.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

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  We would like to dedicate this book to a very dear friend, Sarah Cheeseman,

  who has worked with us from day one.

  Thank you to the wonderful people who helped make our book what it is:

  Kellie Dennis, Julie Titus, Sarah Cheeseman, and Lady Amber

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Preview of Perfectly Flawed

  Thank You!

  A Message from the Authors

  Christmas Day, December 2012, and I’m on the other side of the world wearing a flimsy cheesecloth top and black linen shorts. I could laugh at the thought of England as she sits in a deep freeze, with her open fires, roasted chestnuts and those stupid Santa jumpers, which until now I’ve been lucky enough to avoid.

  It’s early evening, around 6.30. I look up to the sky, where the sun resembles a large ball of fire as it hangs motionless. Totally alone and in silence, Josh and I saunter along the shore. We’ve been walking for ages. I sink slightly as I place one foot down in front of the other; it feels as though my steps are endless. The sun lowers itself onto the horizon and slowly begins its journey, disappearing before our eyes into the turquoise sea in a spectacular show of vibrant yellows and oranges that merge and soften the picturesque view.

  I gasp in a warm breath of sea air, choking as Josh’s aftershave catches in my throat. He always wears the same one, the one his mother buys him every birthday. I feel myself shaking my head; the woman has no sense of smell whatsoever. I am quick to exhale, ridding it from my nostrils.

  I glance down upon feeling the warm water of the Caribbean Sea as it washes like luxurious silk between my toes. With every rolling wave I imagine each particle of sand chipping away at my French-painted nails and loosening the tiny silver diamanté perched so prettily on top. I look up and back along the vast stretch of beach. My blonde hair lifts as the warm breeze teases it away from my face, kisses my cheeks and then leaves.

  Josh coughs, clearing his throat. Tilting my head slightly, I gaze up into his mid-blue eyes; they appear even lighter than usual with the reflective light of the setting sun bouncing off them. He attempts a smile, though his teeth seem to pull at his bottom lip in an awkward manner. It’s a kind of wide sarcastic grin that I return, and making a loose fist, I punch the top of his arm. He grabs my hand, and in the next moment I feel our fingers interlink. He’s not his usual chatty self. My eyebrows draw into a frown.

  “Natasha,” he blurts out, stopping me dead.

  Waves of jet-black hair spill across his angular face, partially concealing the sunburn to his forehead and cheeks. Releasing my hand, he flicks his hair back, then reaches down, searching for my fingers. Once again, his hand takes mine and he guides me away from the water’s edge. I can only guess that after an hour of walking, with just the sound of the waves, he’s grown bored and wants to head back to the hotel bar for a cold Jack Daniels and coke before bed. He pulls me off balance and I launch forwards, tripping over my feet.

  “Josh, you big oaf…” I giggle, righting myself.

  Rolling my eyes, I follow his ungainly movement as he lowers himself onto the white sand. I titter as he balances on one knee, then lifts his head, staring up at me.

  “Very funny.” I grab at the loose sleeves of his shirt, pulling him back up. “Josh, get up, stop messing around.”

  He squirms free. “I’m not…”

  For a split second, it’s like something out of a movie. His hand reaches into the side pocket of his green Bermuda shorts. He clears his throat, opening his mouth to speak.

  “Tash…”

  He lifts his eyes and creases appear on his forehead as he pulls out a red velvet box.

  “Josh, don’t…” I roll my eyes and step forward to continue our walk.

  “Not so fast.”

  My head shoots round. Like the stealth of a snake striking, he grabs my left ankle, taking my legs from under me. Somewhat undignified, I fall back on my ass, the sand cushioning where I land. I attempt to get up, but he circles my wrists with his fingers, pulling me closer, close enough that I can almost taste his minty breath as it warms my cheek. I lean away, brushing the sand from my shorts, and stand up.

  “God, Tash, don’t leave me hanging…”

  The waves allow me a moment to think, a welcome distraction.

  “Well, are you guna say yes then?”

  He blinks slowly; it’s his feeble attempt at being romantic.

  I don’t understand; we don’t do romance, we don’t do sexy, we just do us, and us works, and has done since we started going out eight years ago. We often chatted about getting married and having kids. Kids were something that would always be on the agenda, though I’d made it more than clear that marriage wasn’t for me; I wasn’t that kind of girl, I liked my own name, I guess I felt it meant keeping a bit of independence. And Natasha Louise Braithwaite-Scott? Seriously? I couldn’t imagine blighting a child of mine with a name like that. I’m more than happy with my own name, Natasha Louise Smith, and for the foreseeable future that’s how I’d like it to stay.

  “Well…?”

  I’m jolted from my thoughts.

  “Are you seriously asking me what I think you are? Marriage? Me? You know how I feel. I thought you felt the
same?”

  It’s as if his jokey persona has been swallowed up. I gaze into his eyes, but I’m looking at a stranger; his jaw is set, his face so serious. I know it’ll crush him if I turn him down.

  I bite hard at the inside of my cheeks, so hard they hurt.

  “Joshua, I love you with everything I am and you love me… Why spoil us with formality? We don’t need to be like everyone else.”

  He blows out between his narrow lips, his expression unreadable. I want to say so much, yet I’m lost for words. Even on one knee, I can’t believe what he asks of me. Marriage sucks all the love and any fun out of a relationship. I twizzle my hair round and round and think of Mum, Dad and his folks, Angela and Hughie, the same old shit, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year just going through the motions of protocol. I don’t want that for us.

  “Over eight and a half years, Tash. You’re more to me, much more than a girlfriend.”

  He opens the small red box and holds it up towards me. I peer inside; a diamond solitaire peers out.

  “Wearing my ring would be a start, and the wedding,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders, “forget the wedding if you like, maybe a few years down the line, eh?” His head moves forwards. “Whatever, or whenever you want.”

  My eyes widen so much that my face actually aches. I’m conscious that my left eyebrow always inches itself higher than my right. I’ve never been great at hiding my feelings. Adrianna, my sister, once joked that my face holds a million and one expressions; shock, I guess, being my most readable.

  I shake my head while allowing my brows to return to their rightful place. My fingers are tugging at my loose curls. I release the knotted strands immediately as Mum’s words spring to mind: ‘Natasha, your hair is to be admired. If you keep pulling it in the way that you do, you’ll end up with split ends or, worse still, an unsightly bald patch.’

  My eyes wander back to where Josh still kneels. A solitary droplet of sweat trickles from his temple. I follow it as it forges its way down the side of his face, running under his chin and onto his neck. As my stare lengthens, I make out the erratic pulse under his jawline. Memories flood back; it’s almost a re-run of when he asked me to be his partner at our end-of-year school prom, and then again on a college trip to Nottingham ice-rink. A pang of nostalgia finds its way into my stomach. I look up to the darkening sky and remember. It’s ironic really, he was also on one knee then, but on that occasion it was not to propose; he was removing his skates and asking me if we could go steady. We were seventeen. I smile to myself; we’ve been through so much together—school, college, the house, moving in together.

  The house had felt empty somehow, and without my knowledge Josh went out and returned with our ‘practice baby’, or so he called him; a googly-eyed pug called Larry. They say you can love something too much, literally killing it with kindness, and that’s true of fat Larry. He’s seen more than his fair share of the treat jar, and with his small squat legs now well hidden by folds of loose skin, he looks more like a squidgy-faced rugby ball than a dog.

  “Okay, Tash.” I watch the box snap shut. “I get it; guess we just don’t want the same things. If you won’t even wear my ring, then where’s this relationship going? Where are we going?”

  There’s an awkwardness between us and I’ve got no idea what to say, yet still he waits.

  “For God’s sake, Tash, say something.”

  I gaze out to sea and wish I were the person on that solitary little boat that passes far out from shore, disturbing our perfect horizon.

  “You win.” His voice cracks.

  My thoughts return to the now and I frown.

  “You what?”

  He shakes his head. My throat burns, tears prick the back of my eyes; I’m losing him. He buries the ring box back in the confines of his pocket.

  “I couldn’t love anyone like I love you, I love you more than life itself, but what’s the point?” He shrugs, and his shoulders drop. “The ‘us’ was all in my head.”

  I drop to my knees; we’re face-to-face, staring into each other’s eyes. This face is all I’ve known, his dark eyes and, though not visible now, those small laughter lines that take to their corners. The amber freckle, almost a perfect heart, that sits on his left cheek. Everything between us feels so comfortable. I can’t imagine a morning waking up and him not there beside me. Wake up, Tash.

  “Okay … yes, okay! Josh, I do, I will…”

  “Are you serious?”

  I nod, but there’s no upward turn of my lips, creases don’t form at my eyes. I know my face holds no expression.

  “Fiancée yes; as for marriage…”

  I guess he can see the way I look and quickly butts in.

  “We’ll forget that, for now.”

  He smiles an open-mouthed smile. Brushing loose sand from my fingers, he pulls the ring box out from his pocket again and in one smooth movement slips the cool gold band into place. His minty lips find their way onto mine.

  “I love you,” he murmurs softly, and again at the top of his voice as if he wants the whole world to hear.

  Bunching me in his arms, he lifts me, holding me slightly away from himself. Laughing, he spins me round and round before returning my feet to the soft sand. My surroundings move around me as I try to focus on Josh’s face. I’m not sure how I should reply, so lucky for me my words are lost in his kisses. I must be crazy, I can’t believe what he’s managed to cajole me into, but I try to convince myself that it’s just a ring and nothing between us is going to change.

  He seems to have found his tongue and hardly comes up for air during our walk back to the hotel. Although I hear, I don’t actually listen to a single word he utters, my mind a world away from his chuntering. I can best describe my mind as a blank canvas and all I seem able to concentrate on is turning the ring round and round on my finger; it is so small, yet already feels heavy.

  The sun held on as long as she possibly could, then finally, having no other option, she surrendered herself to darkness. Hand in hand we amble into the grounds of our hotel, The Pineapple, brightly lit. With Josh slightly in front, we weave between dressed tables set out by the poolside. Guests sit chatting while dining alfresco. Standing to the left-hand side of the Christmas-themed buffet are bare-chested Jamaican men, wearing grass skirts and playing steel drums.

  “Fancy a drink?”

  “Can do.” I nod.

  There are two bars. I gaze from one to the other and at the pretty fairy lights looped around the top of the wooden framework, watching the pretty colours as one seems to catch up with the next. We stop off at the less busy bar, a quirky-looking building in the shape of a horseshoe.

  I try to pull myself up onto a tall black stool.

  “Want a hand, short arse?” he says, squeezing my sides.

  “Hey!” My body creases. “Josh, get off!”

  He knows how much I hate to be prodded and tickled, and that means he does it all the more. With him pissing around I lose the stool anyway, and some lanky Northern lass sits down with a pint in her hand.

  Short arse.

  “Cheeky git.” I snigger.

  Suppose next to his 6ft 1inch my 5ft 2inches may seem a little on the short side. But Mum always said that the best things come in small packages. My eyes flash towards his crotch; well, maybe not everything. I guess he wonders why I’ve got a stupid smile plastered on my face, but that’s one for me to know.

  Josh lifts me off my feet, sitting me down on a ladder-backed chair. He raises his hand in the air to be served. Both of the bar tenders seem preoccupied, spinning bottles of spirits while dancing and mixing cocktails in silver shakers. My eyes dart between diners, quite expecting Tom Cruise to jump out.

  “JD and coke, make it a large one,” Josh shouts over the music.

  Dark eyes meet mine.

  “Cider, please.”

  The barman grabs a bottle from the counter and a pint glass from underneath.

  I wave my finger towards him. “You can ke
ep the glass. I like mine as it comes, straight from the bottle.”

  I gasp as a glass chinks heavily on the side of my bottle.

  “To us, to our future,” Josh calls out, though his eyes are anywhere but on me.

  I can feel myself moving my head, trying to catch his gaze, but he seems miles away, so I focus on the steel band, tapping my foot in time to the beat, and bend a thin cardboard coaster between my fingers.

  “Come on, Tash, dance with me.”

  Josh slams his empty glass down, pulls the coaster from between my fingers, then grabs my hand. Like a child, he drags me towards a clearing, some kind of makeshift dance floor which the staff have opened out between the buffet and dining tables. I squeeze his hand back, bubbling inside; now this is the Josh I know and fell in love with.

  We dance our way the ‘Josh and Tash’ way. It only took us a few drinks back home and we’d spend hours practising, goofing around, then fall on the floor out of breath, laughing at each other. We have the art of making stupid look stupid, and boy don’t we do it well.

  Our arms and legs in sync, we manoeuvre round the dance floor like a couple of drunks at a wedding. Laughing at Josh, I peer round and can’t miss people’s snide looks, but funnier still I can see their kids trying to imitate our outlandish moves and their parents pulling them back to their chairs. Fuck ‘em, fuck ‘em all… They don’t know what it’s like to live in the moment. I toss my head back; they’re old before their time, missing out while we live.

  A reggae piece comes to an end, and Josh stops dancing. He pulls me close, nodding his head towards one of the band members who holds up his thumb and nods in return.

  I gaze up from his chest, leaving a smudge of mascara staining his blue shirt.

  “What’s going on?”

  The drums strike up again, though no reggae beat this time but a strange rendition of the wedding march. Chairs squeal, people leave what they’re eating and take to their feet, and looking towards us both they clap their hands and cheer. What the fuck? is on the tip of my tongue. I feel a sharp tap on my shoulder, jump, spin round and gasp.