by Claire Cain
ALMOST PERFECT
AN OPPOSITES ATTRACT SMALL TOWN ROMANCE
CLAIRE CAIN
Copyright © 2022 by Claire Cain
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
This book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All opinions are those of the author and in no way represent any entity or person other than the author at the time of writing.
Cover design by Emma Robinson
E-Book: 978-1-954005-21-1
Print: 978-1-954005-23-5
CONTENTS
Content Warning
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Epilogue
Also by Claire Cain
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Sneak Peek: Almost Real
To the fans of the Silver Ridge Resort Series. Thank you for loving Wyatt and waiting patiently for him to have his turn.
CONTENT WARNING
Dear reader,
Almost Perfect is a sweet small town romance about two people falling in love while healing and growing. While it’s generally lighthearted, it may contain content not suitable for some readers.
The characters’ pasts include drug overdose of a loved one and death of a parent at a young age.
I’ve added this so that readers who might find this content to be particularly sensitive can make the best decision for their health and happiness when choosing to read this book. I want you to walk away with only happy, lovely feelings, and hope you’ll feel safe proceeding with this information in mind.
My very best to you,
Claire
ONE
Calla
Being late didn’t bother me anymore.
Whoever was waiting? They could wait. They’d live.
Or at least, that’s what I told myself. I’d gotten so used to Candy making me late, I’d had to come up with this whole I’m the most important person in the room mindset to cope with it. That came naturally after being in the spotlight so long anyway, but a lot of people got sick of that attitude.
So that was one more thing I didn’t have to do anymore. I’d shown up on time for every obligation I’d had in the last eighteen months since she’d passed. Good for me.
Cue crashing, gnawing guilt.
“Did you get everything you need?” the cabbie asked from his seat.
“Think so. Thanks.”
I adjusted my sunglasses like that would help. He’d gotten more talkative in the ten minutes between the small mountain airport where the private plane had landed, and entering the small mountain town of Silverton, Utah and waiting while I ran into the grocery store.
Now he wound his way through the snowy downtown, which I happened to know wasn’t the fastest way to get to my destination. He couldn’t be driving up the fare because we’d settled on a flat rate. Normally, I’d take a hired car, but none could meet me at the requested time, and I hadn’t wanted to wait.
“You been here before? It’s grown a ton in the last five years or so. More in the last three for sure, since the gigantic new hotel they built got crazy popular. Nice little ski town now.”
Had I been to Silverton before?
“I have, but it was in another life.”
Cryptic enough it didn’t invite questions. Also, true. Coming back was like hopping onto a spaceship to another planet. I’d become someone else since then, and twice over too—I’d had to. So much so, I hardly remembered the person who’d started life in this small town so long ago.
That I’d grown up in this town until just shy of fifteen felt more like a weird piece of trivia someone might dig up and wave around more than something that had shaped me.
It had, though. Hadn’t it? Why else had I come back after as many years gone as I’d spent here?
I brushed away those thoughts. I had plans to fully wallow in the circumstances, but not yet. I sure as hell wasn’t about to break down in front of Jarrod, the cabdriver. Nice enough guy, but the more questions he asked, the more likely it was he recognized me. I’d hoped maybe I could avoid having him sign an NDA, but this was what you got when you didn’t make reservations with a private car service. Oh well.
I could hear my PA Kristoffer chiding me and could feel my security team’s glares from here. Getting out of LA without a small contingent of staff had taken no small amount of convincing, and I wasn’t about to spend my time thinking about them while here.
Yeah? How’s that working for you?
As if on cue, my phone rang. Rad Bickman, my manager. Again. Like he wasn’t a huge part of why I’d fled LA and a huge part of everything that’d gone wrong leading up to getting on the plane to come here.
Nope! Ignore. Couldn’t deal with that right now.
Outside my window, the quaint downtown positively burst with life—definitely a different version of Silverton than I’d had as a kid. I’d read about the sleepy settlement going through a boom since Rockstar Jamie Morris had bought a house and developed land here around the same time he got married—the tabloids had had a field day declaring music’s most eligible bachelor was off the market—a handful of years ago. Paired with the growth of the resort itself, including a luxury hotel on site, it felt like a real hoity-toity ski town now. Not as much as Aspen or Park City, or even Jackson Hole. I’d been to all those places but never ventured back here.
“That’s the Egyptian Theater. Odd trend out here, but lots of the towns have ’em. Usually function as regular theaters until February when the film festivals start,” Jarrod shared.
I eyed the old building with pastel coloring and intricate geometric shapes on the front, my belly swooping low as that par
ticular aesthetic pushed me back in time. Candy—or as I’d known her then, Mom—and I had gone there fairly often. Sunday matinees the last weekend of the month were usually half-priced, so we’d catch whatever we could.
No one would remember me anymore, especially without Candy. But even with her, I doubted anyone would’ve placed us. My mom had never been social, and even if she had, she’d been the far more sophisticated Candice then.
Shifting in the squeaky back seat, I admired the shops lining Main Street just as Jarrod piped up again.
“You’ll wanna try Guac for the best Mexican food in the state, and I’m not joking. Rise and Shine for breads and coffee, also award-winning. Fancier restaurants on Elk Street one block over. Here, you’ve got a few stores and such as well. Plus if you’re a pasta lover, I highly recommend Basta.”
“Sounds great,” I said, taking in the adorable storefronts and metal signs arching along the street, which reminded me more of a European city than what I’d remembered of this place. They must’ve been there all along, but at fourteen, I hadn’t noticed them.
None of the restaurants looked familiar. I remembered the Elk Street Grill, but we didn’t eat out much when we lived here, so maybe the others had always been here too. Even for a tight-knit community like this one, Candy and I were outsiders. I did okay at school, wasn’t bullied or anything, but I’d left Silverton before I ever made it out of my awkward teen stage.
And then you had your awkward teen stage photographed non-stop, indefinitely. Nope. Didn’t want to think about the modeling career either.
I’d landed late afternoon and happily missed the hour-and-fifteen-minute drive from Salt Lake City thanks to the new private airport. My pop into the grocery had taken me ten minutes, max, but here we were, driving through town, and the January sky had already dimmed. Streetlights flipped on as we passed, and twinkle lights lit up trunks and branches of the trees lining the sidewalks.
Quaint. Beautiful. A little piece of my frozen heart thawed a touch. Not enough to feel the wretched thing stubbornly beating there, but enough to feel something like warmth as we crawled by the old Silver Ridge Lodge, then the massive, surprisingly pretty hotel that’d helped put the place on tourist destination lists since it opened a few years ago.
Once on the road out of town, he asked, “Have you stayed at this place? I haven’t taken someone this far up before.”
He didn’t glance back as he drove, for which I was thankful.
At least he was mindful of the twisting canyon road he’d turned onto. Out of the bustling town and into the canyon, the light disappeared even more as we followed the road cutting between two of the Silver Ridge mountains. The larger was Silver Ridge Peak, but I couldn’t remember the river’s name that slipped by next to us.
“I haven’t. Seems pretty new.”
The only reason I’d been able to find an open StayBnB so last minute during peak ski season was thanks to total luck and perfect timing. I’d been scouring the website, checking back every few days, when it popped up. I hadn’t even looked that closely, just told Mr. Warrick Saint I wanted his place for at least a thirty-day stay.
He’d accepted immediately, thank goodness. When I’d landed, I had a message from the owner. “Sorry for the inconvenience. My brother Wyatt will be meeting you today. I will check in first thing tomorrow, but please let Wyatt know if there’s anything you need this evening.”
Warrick and Wyatt? I’d forgotten the kitschy Utah trend of naming everyone in a family with the same first letter. Two brothers wasn’t so bad, though.
That little train of thought failed to distract me from the knot tightening in my stomach. By now, the sensation had become an old friend. Was I even alive if I didn’t feel nauseated from anxiety with a side of impending doom?
The thirty-five-minute drive up the second canyon slipped by in a smear of brown and white. It must’ve snowed in the last few days, but much of it had melted off at lower elevations. The higher we got into these mountains, the more covered everything was. And the more pure.
I fit in better with the dirty, melting remnants of snow than the powdery fresh stuff.
“Looks like this is it?” Jarrod asked, as though I’d know.
We’d skirted a fenced-in field for a few miles after leaving the canyon and now sat on the abandoned-looking road in front of a high wooden arch with a sign that said “All Saints Ranch.”
“Yep. The directions said drive up to the main house, then turn right and we’ll see it.” Crap, I hope we see it.
I’d chosen this place primarily because it was the only option. The bonus of its secluded location had seemed like a stroke of genius. No crowds from in town. No curious neighbors. But wow, this place was out here.
“Here’s hoping the Saints, whoever they are, aren’t psychopaths and murderers!” He chuckled heartily at his joke. “Just kidding. They’re totally nice. You’re safe with them.”
The knot in me doubled in size.
Maybe Jarrod did know the Saints. Maybe they’d paid him off to lure unsuspecting women up to their murder cabin.
You booked this online, genius. Oh yeah.
But was I a complete idiot? Obviously, yes. More so than most people, though? Had I just set myself up to get axe-murdered by some country bumpkin Utahan cattle ranchers? Aside from Kristoffer, no one would know I was here. No one would find my body.
No one would be asking. If anyone did ask, they’d all be people who’d crack champagne and toast your demise.
I scrunched my eyes shut, banishing that barrage of thoughts. Not helpful, brain! Get yourself together!
Jarrod drove the long stretch of road flanked by fenced pastures all the way to a large farmhouse. A sprawling two-story home, it looked huge as we approached. Coach lamps lit the front to show stonework and wood—it had already grown too dim to see the full design. But it looked nice. Definitely nicer than something a murderer would own… right?
“Fancy,” Jarrod said as he turned right. “The Saints are good people, though. You’ll be fine.”
A little gust of relief swept through me. The building sat less than a quarter mile away, and it had that same warm glow as the main house. Warrick, or Wyatt, or whoever, had turned on the outside lights, and it looked like a few inside too.
Another shard of ice dropped off and melted in me. My chest warmed at the cozy-looking cottage. Well, from what I could tell, it looked like a barn, and the description had said it was a converted small barn. Hopefully, I wouldn’t freeze to death, but based on the smoke rising out of the chimney, the fireplace worked.
That I had no idea how to make a fire and no one to do it for me would be… interesting. Maybe the owner could teach me. I’d have to face any number of things I didn’t know how to do on this trip, and that was part of the point, wasn’t it? To haul myself out of this rut, if not to actually find myself.
“Well, all set here, I think. Oh, good, looks like somebody’s here to greet you. I would’a felt weird just droppin’ ya here in the middle of nowhere.” Jarrod exited the car and popped the trunk.
I swallowed, pushed out an exhale, and braced myself. The next few minutes could get weird, but I’d handle it. And then I could go inside—and hopefully not get axe-murdered—and finally, finally cry myself to sleep.
The trunk slammed before I shut my door.
“Here ya go, Miss Mayhem.”
Crap. Definitely recognized me—my stage name was pretty conspicuous. I’d traveled and booked under my real name, but no one knew me as anything but Miss Mayhem. That name was too notorious. It’d served me well the last decade as I clawed my way into pop icon status, but I’d always been just on the edge of disfavor. Too bold. Too revealing. And lately, too wrapped up in the horrible mess with Candy and repeated failed records.
Fortunately, this guy didn’t seem all that fazed.
“Thanks, Jarrod. Can I have you sign a quick non-disclosure for me? I know it’s odd, but I have to—”
“Say no more, s
ay no more. I’ve done it plenty of times.”
Thank Goodness. I swiped into the app on my phone, asked for his full name, and presented him with the signature block. This wasn’t the way I normally did things. Who cared if a cab driver knew where I was staying? But I couldn’t afford a crowd here, and I couldn’t afford anyone knowing anything. The bad news could follow me into a cave, and I didn’t need to do anything but simply exist to fuel the fire these days.
“Thank you. I don’t mean to be a jerk, but I will have to use that if anything leaks. I—”
“Don’t worry. I can keep my trap shut. Want me to stay ’til you get inside?” He glanced back toward the house.
Whoever had been here to greet me had disappeared. The front door to the little cottage stood wide open and light spilled out, so someone was still in there.
“Nah. I’ll be fine.” Or I’ll get murdered. Tomato, tomahto.
“If you’re sure…”
Ah, sweet Jarrod. Trying to keep me from showing up as a celebrity victim on a true crime podcast.
“I’m sure. Thanks again for the drive, and the, well, you know.” No idea why it felt weird to reference the NDA he’d just signed, but it did.
He nodded, and without another word, loaded back into his car and left.
