Operation Get Her Back
The Jetty Beach Series Book 4
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 Home: A Jetty Beach Romance
www.clairekingsleybooks.com
Created with Vellum
Contents
About This Book
1. Emma
2. Hunter
3. Emma
4. Hunter
5. Hunter
6. Emma
7. Hunter
8. Emma
9. Hunter
10. Emma
11. Hunter
12. Emma
13. Hunter
14. Emma
15. Hunter
16. Emma
17. Emma
18. Hunter
19. Emma
20. Hunter
21. Emma
22. Emma
23. Emma
24. Hunter
25. Emma
26. Emma
Epilogue
Weekend Fling: Chapter 1
Afterword
Also by Claire Kingsley
About the Author
About This Book
Operation Get Her Back was originally published as Must Be Home: A Jetty Beach Romance.
She’s the most important mission of his life
I know two things with absolute certainty. Second chances don’t come easy. And I’m going to marry Emma Parker.
Ten years ago, I was troubled and angry, looking for an outlet for my rage. To protect the people I love, I made the choice to join the Marines—and leave the love of my life behind.
Emma moved on. But now we’re both back in our hometown, and I’m determined to earn her forgiveness. To show her we belong together. I’ve made loving her my mission, and I’m determined not to fail.
1
Emma
The cork on the champagne bottle comes off with a pop. I don’t have any champagne flutes, so I fill a regular wine glass. Full. Why not? I might be celebrating alone, but celebrate I will.
I stopped at a fancy bakery on the way home and bought myself a slice of chocolate cheesecake. It looks positively decadent: rich brown with a shiny drizzle of dark chocolate criss-crossing the top. A single mint leaf holds a fresh raspberry for a little pop of color. So pretty. I felt like treating myself, and this is just the thing. After all, it isn’t every day that your divorce is final.
All the paperwork is signed, recorded, and whatever else they had to do to get me my freedom. It’s been a long year, from the moment I packed a bag and walked out on my life, to this one. The moment when my life begins again.
We all make mistakes when we’re young. Unfortunately, mine included a legally binding contract and a promise to stay with Wyatt for the rest of our lives. I knew, even when I was saying my vows, that it was a mistake. That probably makes me a terrible person. I spent the entire reception wondering how long I could hold out. Could I really make a life with him? Would this last?
Spoiler: it didn’t.
I bring my party for one over to the tiny kitchen table and sit. I try not to be disappointed that I’m alone in my crappy apartment while I do this. I’ve heard of women throwing divorce parties—going out with their girlfriends to male strip shows and getting drunk together. I would love to go out and do something silly or crazy, let loose a little. But that sort of thing would require girlfriends to go out with, and being married to Wyatt wasn’t conducive to having friends. He didn’t like any of my friends, and in my quest to keep the peace, I let those relationships drift away.
I let a lot of things drift away. Friends. Family. Myself.
I take a sip of champagne. It was cheap, but it’s decent. The slice of cheesecake cost almost as much as the bubbly. I take a bite and close my eyes, letting out a soft groan. Worth every penny. It’s smooth and creamy, the chocolate flavor so rich. It’s the best thing I’ve eaten in a long time.
I think about what Wyatt would say if he saw me drinking champagne and eating chocolate cheesecake. Probably something shitty about letting myself go. Then he’d laugh and act like it was a joke, and accuse me of being too sensitive when I got mad about it.
Fuck that guy.
I take a gulp of the champagne. Maybe I should have bought something stronger. Of course, I’m fairly broke, so even the champagne and cheesecake were a splurge. Lawyers are not cheap, and Wyatt fought me every step of the way. Because of course he did. I wanted nothing from him—not the car, the housewares, the furniture. He could keep it all, as far as I was concerned. All I wanted was my freedom. I wanted my name back, and a chance to have a life without walking on eggshells, tiptoeing around a moody bastard all the time. In the end, he couldn’t stop me from divorcing him. By the look on his face the last time I saw him in court, I think he was pretty shocked by that fact. He really thought he could keep me.
No one can. Not now. Not ever. I am officially done with men.
I take my time with the cheesecake and pour another glass of champagne. It’s a Thursday, so technically I have to work tomorrow, but luckily I work from home. I’m a copy editor for a company that builds websites—a job I got and kept for a year before Wyatt knew about it. He didn’t want me to work, and in the beginning I thought putting effort into the marriage meant doing what he wanted, so I went along with it. I was such an idiot. Luckily, I was able to leverage my English degree into the job that ultimately made leaving him possible.
The second glass of champagne goes down quicker than the first. I flip through some shows on TV, only half paying attention. I figure champagne doesn’t keep very well, so I get up to treat myself to another glass. While I’m out there, I check the bowl I keep underneath the sink cabinet, to make sure it isn’t full. Stupid leak. Stupid apartment. This place has been a nightmare since I moved in, and they still haven’t fixed half the problems.
My job is going well, and that was the first step in my plan to reclaim my life. Leaving Wyatt and getting a place to live was the second. This apartment isn’t much, but it’s mine and I don’t have to share it with anyone. That’s progress. Now that the divorce is official, I need to start thinking about what comes next. Project Get Emma Back should be in full swing, but I’m not sure if I know what that means. I was twenty-one when I got married, and still trying to figure out who I was. I spent the next six years trying to be who I thought Wyatt wanted me to be.
Now I’m honestly not sure who I am.
A sharp knock at the door makes me jump, and champagne sloshes out over my jeans. Shit. I take a deep breath to steady myself. It’s seven o’clock on a Thursday. Who would be here?
Oh god. Did Wyatt find out where I live?
I’m not hiding from him, exactly. He was a dick to live with, but he’s not the dangerous type. But I like the feeling that he doesn’t know where I am. Plus, I have nothing more to say to him. If I never see him again, it’ll be too soon.
I could pretend I’m not home and hope whoever it is goes away. But it could also be building maintenance; in addition to the leaky sink, I h
ave a list of other things they’ve been promising to fix. This place is literally one step removed from a fucking crack house, and the neighbors smoke so much pot I’m pretty sure I’ve been high at least a dozen times since I moved in. But it’s cheap, and not in a completely horrible neighborhood. If it’s a maintenance guy, I should probably answer the door.
I take another breath and go to the front door. It’s all of four or five steps from the couch. My apartment is beyond tiny. If it’s Wyatt, I’ll simply tell him to go away, and close the door. He can bang on it all he wants, I don’t have to let him in. And if it is maintenance, I can give him an earful about the wretched state of this shithole.
I pull the door open—fast, like ripping off a Band-Aid. No one. The doorstep is empty, and there’s no sign of anyone on the stairs. I poke my head out and look around, but I don’t see anyone.
That’s weird.
I’m just about to close the door when I realize there’s a folded piece of paper taped to the outside. I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Way to get worked up over nothing, Emma.
It’s probably an advertisement. People flood this apartment complex with fliers all the time. After closing the door and making sure it’s locked, I grab my champagne and sit down to check this out. I unfold the paper and see the apartment logo at the top. My eyes dart across the page, my stomach clenching with every word.
Infestation.
Insects.
Hazardous.
Vacate the premises.
I have to be out of my apartment for at least a week? Starting tomorrow? Son of a bitch, they must be joking. Where am I supposed to go? They can’t just kick me out like this. I don’t care if they’ll prorate my rent; I need a place to sleep.
I slump down on the couch, the letter falling from my listless fingers. Shit. This is not the first time this stupid apartment has had issues. First it was the plumbing. Then the roof leaked. They made me live without power for three days when something happened to the electricity. And now this? I really need to get out of here.
But I’m not sure where to go. I don’t exactly have friends I can call up and ask to crash on their couch. I could rent a hotel, but I don’t think I can afford it. Not yet. Getting divorced is freaking expensive.
That leaves family. I could stay with my mom. But she moved into a small condo a few years ago, and she doesn’t have a lot of room. Plus, being in close quarters with my mother for an extended period of time (as in, more than an hour) is akin to torture. That leaves one person: Gabriel.
I bring up my brother’s number and give him a call.
“Hi, Sis,” he says. “You caught me with about two minutes before I have to go. What’s up?”
Gabriel is the head chef at the Ocean Mark, a beautiful fine dining restaurant out in Jetty Beach, the town where we grew up. He lives and breathes his job.
“Okay, I’ll do this quick. I have to be out of my apartment while they spray for bugs or something. I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
“Say no more, Emma,” he says. “You know you can stay here anytime. I’m hardly ever home, anyway.”
“Thanks, Gabe,” I say.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Okay,” he says. “If I’m at work, let yourself in. And come up to the restaurant. I’ll feed you.”
I smile. Gabe’s cooking is amazing. “I’ll take you up on that.”
“Good,” he says. “See you then.”
I hang up with a sigh. My brother is a great guy, and staying at his place won’t be so bad. It’s the town I’m dreading.
I hate Jetty Beach, with a seething passion that is probably not healthy. I lived there most of my life, but I avoid going back as much as possible. It’s been years since I spent more than a day there. Even when I first left Wyatt, I didn’t go home to my mom’s, or to Gabriel’s. I paid for a hotel those first few nights, and was happy to do it. It meant I didn’t have to go home.
And now I have to go back?
I close my eyes and lean against the couch cushions. There’s nothing actually wrong with the town, it just holds too many memories—both good and bad. The bad ones came last, and things ended so horribly that I associate all that pain with the place. Every time I drive through that stupid little beach town, all I can see is him.
All I can see is Hunter.
2
Hunter
I hit the punching bag, feeling the force reverberate through my arm, across my back. I step to the side and hit again. Sweat drips down my bare chest, runs in rivulets down my back. I may not be able to run anymore, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let myself get out of shape. My breath comes fast, a jolt of adrenaline coursing through me. Slam. My fist hits with a low thud and the chain clinks.
I drop to the ground and knock out twenty push-ups. It’s late afternoon, and this is my second workout today, but I felt too restless to sit around.
My phone rings, so I get up to answer it. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, Hunter,” she says. “Can you pick up some bread on your way over tonight?”
Family dinner. “Sure, what kind?”
“French.”
“You got it.”
“Thanks, honey,” she says. “I’ll see you in a couple hours.”
“Yeah, Mom, see you then.”
I hang up and grab a towel to wipe off my face. Technically, Maureen isn’t my mom, but in every way that matters, she is. My dad took off when I was a baby, and I was not an easy child. My mother was single, working two jobs, and the Jacobsens became my second family. I spent more time at their house than I did at my own, going there after school and staying until my mom got off work. They bought their younger son Ryan bunk beds so I had a place to sleep when I stayed over—which was about half the time.
Then my mother got sick, and I hardly ever went home.
Maureen and Ed took care of me while my mom went through chemo. And when it didn’t work, and cancer took her, I just stayed with them. I was thirteen at the time, and didn’t have any other relatives. There was never a formal adoption—and I’ve always kept my last name, Evans, mostly to honor my mother—but Maureen was mom.
I didn’t actually call her Mom when I was a kid. I never felt like I had a right to. Despite the way they took me in without question, and loved me as much as they loved Cody and Ryan, I felt like an outsider. They introduced me as their son, but I called them Maureen and Ed until the day I left home to join the Marines.
The first time I called her Mom, I was an adult. It was the day I called and asked if I could come back. I was in the hospital, recovering from surgery after a car accident when I was serving overseas. I knew a medical discharge was coming. It was my third surgery, and the doctors had told me I wouldn’t ever get back to where I was before. I lay there, staring at the harsh fluorescent lights above the bed, and knew it was time I faced my past. I’d left them without a word, sneaking out of the house late at night, leaving nothing but a note.
Nine years later, it was time. I called Maureen.
Mom, can I please come home?
She cried. I cried, and I can admit that without the slightest bit of shame. I was battered and broken and heartsick. It was time to go home.
To my absolute amazement, the Jacobsens welcomed me back. Okay, so Ryan hit me the first time he saw me, but it was no less than I deserved. Once we had a chance to hash things out, both of the Jacobsen brothers were glad I was home. And I’ve spent the last year or so trying to repay the debt I owe them, knowing I’ll never be able to.
I figure a shower is in order, since I’m sweaty as hell. I pull my t-shirt back on and head out to my truck. I live in town, but I have a big piece of property outside Jetty Beach. It’s where I work, and I’ve built a gym out in the shop. I like to come out here, even when I’m not working. It’s peaceful. But I shouldn’t show up to dinner smelling like a dirty sock, so I head back to my place and clean up.
About an hour later, I drive out to my
parents’ house, half dreading dinner. I’ll never get tired of Mom’s cooking, so the weekly family get-togethers have that going for them. But since Ryan got married last month, and Cody got engaged, I feel like the seventh wheel. Ryan and Nicole are still disgusting in their starry-eyed newlywed bliss, and Cody and Clover are embarrassing with how much they touch and kiss each other, even in front of our folks. I always wind up sitting next to Mom, talking with her about her garden, deflecting questions about my love life, while I try to ignore the lovey-dovey brigade at the table.
It’s pouring down rain, which isn’t that uncommon for Jetty Beach, even in July. I go inside and find everyone in the kitchen. Mom’s taking a big batch of lasagna out of the oven, filling the house with the smell of baked cheese. My mouth waters. I think I can handle my brothers’ PDA if I get to eat that for dinner tonight.
“Hey, Son,” Dad says. My heart still swells a little when he calls me that. He always has, ever since my mother died. Just like Cody and Ryan. When I was younger, I thought he was harder on me than he was on them, but looking back, I needed it. I still feel guilty for how much I resented them in those days.
“Hey, Dad,” I say. “Mom, this smells amazing.”
“Did you bring the bread?” Mom asks.
I set the bag with four loaves of French bread on the counter. “Of course.”
“Good boy,” Mom says, and pats my cheek.
Operation Get Her Back Page 1
