Behind His Eyes

by Claire Kingsley

  BEHIND HIS EYES

  THE JETTY BEACH SERIES BOOK 1

  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 Love: A Jetty Beach Romance

  www.clairekingsleybooks.com

  Created with Vellum

  CONTENTS

  About This Book

  1. Nicole

  2. Nicole

  3. Ryan

  4. Nicole

  5. Ryan

  6. Nicole

  7. Nicole

  8. Ryan

  9. Nicole

  10. Nicole

  11. Ryan

  12. Nicole

  13. Ryan

  14. Nicole

  15. Ryan

  16. Ryan

  17. Nicole

  18. Ryan

  19. Ryan

  20. Nicole

  21. Nicole

  22. Ryan

  23. Nicole

  24. Nicole

  25. Ryan

  26. Nicole

  Epilogue

  One Crazy Week: Chapter 1

  Afterword

  Also by Claire Kingsley

  About the Author

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  Behind His Eyes was previously published as Must Be Love: A Jetty Beach Romance.

  Some wounds only love can heal

  I never thought Nicole Prescott would walk back into my life—adorably drunk and dropping things, no less. But here she is, more beautiful than I remember.

  She’s been hurt, and I understand pain all too well. But I shouldn’t be the guy to help her through it. I came home to get my own life together. I can’t pick up the pieces of hers.

  Ryan Jacobsen and I were kids together, but he’s all man, now. Sexy and sweet, with brooding green eyes that hide a universe of secrets.

  His stubbly jaw, delicious abs, and artistic soul make him irresistible. (And have I mentioned the things he can do with his tongue?) My heart—and my body—want more. They want everything.

  Although the gravity between us is inescapable, he tries to push me away. The pain behind his eyes holds him back, and it just might tear us apart.

  1

  NICOLE

  By the time I realize I’m drunk, it’s too late.

  "I really love you. Do you know that?" I say, leaning my head against Melissa's shoulder. Melissa has been my best friend since forever. My mom still keeps a faded picture on the fridge—the two of us as toddlers, dressed in matching splatter-paint t-shirts and neon pink bike shorts, ridiculous spiky pigtails sticking out at all angles.

  "I know, baby," Melissa says. She pats me on the hand like a mother coaxing a child into bed.

  Our waitress sidles up to the table with a cheery smile plastered to her face. "Can I get you ladies anything else?"

  "You are just the cutest," I say. "Didn't I used to babysit you when you were like, this high?" I hold out my hand, finding it surprisingly hard to keep it steady. "You're so pretty."

  "Okay, I think we're ready for the check," Melissa says. She scoots what’s left of my mojito across the table.

  "Hey!"

  The waitress nods and scampers off.

  "You took my drink," I say. I slump down into the booth, despondent. "Why are we here, anyway? I hate this restaurant."

  I worked in this restaurant for two summers during high school. The Porthole Inn. What does that mean, anyway? Like half the places in Jetty Beach, it’s strewn with nautical decorations. Rope and old ship's wheels hang from the wood paneled walls, and half the light fixtures are old lanterns. A faded life preserver greets customers when they walk in the door.

  "If you hate this restaurant, why did you suggest it?" Melissa asks, fiddling with the zipper on her hoodie. She’s dressed in a pair of distressed jeans and a black tank top, her hoodie falling carelessly from her slim shoulders. She’s probably even wearing flip flops, but of course she looks amazing. Melissa makes anything look good.

  "Why are you so gorgeous?" I ask.

  "You're drunk."

  "I am not."

  "You so are," she says. "You always start telling everyone how gorgeous they are when you're drunk."

  "I do not." Of course, she’s right; I totally do. "Why aren't you drunk? I shouldn't be doing this alone."

  "You probably shouldn't be doing this at all," she says. "What am I going to tell your parents?"

  I blow out a breath through pursed lips, spraying spit onto the table. For reasons only rum can tell, I find that hilarious, and cover my mouth to stifle a fit of giggles.

  "At least you're in a better mood," Melissa says.

  "I'm always in a good mood."

  Melissa mumbles something. Okay, so that’s not quite true. I've been in a terrible mood. But who can blame me? I’m back in the tiny beach town where I grew up. Worse than that, at twenty-seven, I’m crashing at my parents’ house. Despite rumors to the contrary, my generation are not a bunch of freeloaders who are happy to live off mommy and daddy forever. I’m an independent woman. I made a life for myself, away from this town. I was going places. Until—

  A sob bursts from my mouth, my mojito-induced good mood skittering away in the face of my awful reality.

  "Honey," Melissa says, patting my back.

  It occurs to me that I can’t remember when she moved from her seat across the table to sit next to me.

  "What am I going to do, Melissa?" I ask between breaths. "This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me."

  "Actually, it's probably the best thing that’s ever happened to you," she says. "You just don't realize it yet."

  "That isn't possible," I say, although it comes out sounding more like pobbible. I lean forward and put my head down on the table.

  I can’t seem to get over the feeling that my world has utterly collapsed. A week ago, I was sitting at work, doing my job, wondering what my boyfriend Jason and I were going to do on Friday night. Hours later, I got home to find another woman straddling him. Naked. Very naked.

  The sense of hopelessness is so pervasive, there are days I can barely be bothered to get off the couch. Melissa came over earlier and literally dragged me to the bathroom to shower, claiming what I needed was to get out of the house. Considering it’s my parents’ house, she was probably right. But now that I’m sitting in a booth in the stupid Porthole Inn, a place Jason and I went to before almost every stupid high school dance, I don’t think it was such a great plan.

  My stomach churns and suddenly the five mojitos don’t seem like such a great plan either. Was it five? Or were there six? I honestly have no idea.

  "Jason is a douche," Melissa says. "That little fucknut can rot in hell."

  I sit up and swipe a hand under my nose. "He is a dickwad."

  "Damn right he is," Melissa says. "Atta girl."

  I sniff again and take a sip of water. I thought Jason was the love of my life. Everything was perfect. He was the hot football player every girl wanted—and he picked me. We dated for two years, and then he got a football scholarship to Linfield. Sure, it was a small college, and it meant moving to Oregon, but Jason and I were meant to b
e together. He seemed excited when I decided to go with him to Linfield. We had a lot of fun in those days. We partied some, and did the whole college thing. After graduation, I was expecting a proposal. After all, isn't that how it works? High school, college, careers, marriage? He got a job with a big insurance company in Seattle, and I was happy to move back to Washington. I started with an event planning and PR company, we got an apartment in the city, and life was good. Sure, he was moody sometimes, and maybe we fought a little. But he missed football, so I understood. Going from college to adult life was a big deal. He just needed time.

  Five years later, and still no ring? I should have at least started to wonder.

  Melissa raises her glass—is that still her first drink?—and hands me my water. "No more dipshits!"

  I lift my glass. "No more dipshits!"

  The waitress returns and slips the bill onto the table. Melissa plunks a credit card onto the black plastic tray. "I got this."

  "No," I say, mumbling something and trying to find my purse. "I can pay."

  "Nicole Marie Prescott," she says, using her teacher voice.

  "Yes, Ms. Simon?"

  She smacks me across the arm.

  "Ouch!" I rub the skin as if she's hurt me and stick out my lower lip, but the sting actually feels good. Better than the empty feeling in my chest.

  "The least I can do is buy you a few drinks. Or maybe it was more than a few," Melissa says, spinning the bill around to look at it more closely.

  "I'm sorry," I say.

  "It's fine, Nic. I just ... I don't know what else to do for you. We've binged on ice cream, burned his sweatshirt on the beach, drank our fucking weight in wine, and if I have to watch The Notebook even one more time, I am literally going to stab out my own eyeballs."

  Tears flood my eyes and run down my face. "They fucking died together, Mel." Sniff, sob. "He loved her so much they died together."

  My shoulders shake with sobs and Melissa rubs slow circles across my back.

  "Holy shit, Nicole, pull yourself together." She lifts my chin and wipes beneath my eyes, then holds up her finger. It’s smudged with black mascara. "You look like hell."

  I sniff again. "I don't care."

  "Yeah, well, you probably should," she says. "Come on, let's go to the bathroom and get you cleaned up before someone sees you like this. If you need to ugly-cry, let's go do it in private, m'kay?"

  Coming from anyone else, that would probably hurt, but even drunk as I am, I know what she means. I’d do the same for her.

  She shuffles me to the bathroom, holding tight to my arm so I won’t stumble. It’s a Tuesday night, and early spring, so the Porthole is practically empty. During the tourist season, it would be packed even on a weeknight, but we more or less have the place to ourselves. Something in the back of my mind tells me I'll be grateful for that fact in the morning.

  I’m not as unstable as I thought I might be. The floor stops trying to trip me after my first few steps, and although my head is fuzzy, I can walk kind of straight. Melissa ushers me through the door to the ladies’ room, letting it bang shut behind her.

  The face that stares at me from the smudged mirror is not a pretty one. Mascara runs in little black rivulets down my face, and I left most of my lipstick on my mojito glasses. Melissa takes a wet tissue and tries to mop up the damage. I stand there, pouting while she wipes beneath my eyes.

  All at once, my bladder clenches. My knees buckle and I grab my crotch. "Oh shit, I have to pee."

  "Go." Melissa pushes me toward the stall.

  I can’t figure out the latch, and my bladder feels like it’s going to explode. This is how I’m going to go. Not wrapped in the arms of my soulmate, passing peacefully into the next life with my one true love. Nope. I’m going to die on the bathroom floor at the fucking Porthole Inn because I can’t close the damn stall door and my bladder explodes.

  "Oh for fuck's sake, I'll hold the door," Melissa says.

  I fumble with my jeans, pull them down, and sit. Bliss. I gasp, unsure for a second as to whether I've managed to get my panties down.

  "You okay in there?"

  "Yeah." Panties, check. "Just ... never mind."

  Melissa's phone goes off, blaring out some ridiculous dubstep music. "Nic, you okay? I gotta take this. I'll be outside."

  The stall door shifts a little and I hear her flip-flops flapping as she leaves. I finish, pull up my jeans, and pay extra attention to make sure they’re properly buttoned and zipped—I’m not that drunk. After washing my hands, I shoulder my little black purse and wander out in search of Melissa.

  I shuffle outside, making an effort to appear as not-drunk as possible, a ruse which any sober person can probably see through in an instant. The waitress glances up at me as I push open the front door, her teenage eyes full of judgment.

  Just wait, sweetie. Life seems all perfect now, with your perky boobs and teeth that haven't started to go crooked because of years without your retainer. One day you'll be stumbling out of the Porthole fucking Inn, drunk as shit because the love of your life trampled on your heart, and everyone in this damn town will know all about it. I am your future.

  I trip through the door, over absolutely nothing except my own feet. Melissa is nowhere to be seen. I know she wouldn’t leave me here without a ride. Granted, I can practically walk home; it isn’t like Jetty Beach is very big. You can walk a lot of places, and my parents' house is close to the area affectionately known as downtown. Having spent the last several years living in Seattle, I can’t help but see Jetty Beach as nothing more than a village. Downtown? There isn’t even a stoplight. The only tall buildings are the beachside hotels and a few big timeshares north of town. Downtown is full of little stores selling beachy decor and kites, and a few restaurants. Nothing much. But despite the proximity to my folks, I realize pretty quickly that walking home isn’t an option—even if Melissa has suddenly turned into a different person and left me here. Half the town would see me stumble home, and by morning I’d be the subject of all the gossip.

  Did you see Nicole Prescott last night? She was walking home, but she'd clearly been drinking. Poor girl. You heard what happened with Jason, of course. Yep, it's true. The golden couple no more. Well, they say there was another woman, but Nicole obviously did something to make him stray. Who can blame him, really?

  Motherfucking Jason. Everyone loves him. He was Jetty Beach's golden boy. His father is the only lawyer in a thirty-mile radius, so he might as well be royalty. Jason was the star of the town, the hometown hero. Football player, perfect grades, perfect smile, and that perfect ass.

  He and I made sense, really. I was his counterpart. I wasn’t a star athlete, but I played varsity volleyball. My grades were stellar. I had my shit together. I knew where I was going with my life, I had a plan, and I was going to see it through. People expected me to do well, to do the right thing, to excel.

  And everything was going along perfectly until Jason fucked it all up.

  I realize tears are burning my eyes again. Where the hell is Melissa? Sniffing hard and running my sleeve over my nose, I walk across the parking lot to her car. I just want to get home, bury my drunk head in a pillow, and sleep.

  Of course, Melissa is nowhere in sight. I fumble with my purse to get out my phone, leaning against her car for balance. The zipper sticks and my lack of ability to extricate my phone from my purse sends a whirlwind of anger running through me. It’s Jason's fault. I’m standing alone in the parking lot of the stupid Porthole Inn, in stupid Jetty Beach, my phone held captive by my purse, because Jason was cheating on me.

  Fuck.

  Tears stream down my face—tears of anger this time, rather than pathetic dejection. Gritting my teeth, I kick a rock, only realizing after I smash my toe that I’m wearing open sandals.

  "Oh my fucking ouch!"

  I lift my foot, awkwardly hopping on the other one, and try to grab my throbbing toe. Not a good idea when you've had four mojitos. Or was it five? Six?

&
nbsp; Just as I’m about to tip over and hit the pavement, a strong hand grips my elbow. My purse falls, the zipper magically opening in midair, and spills its contents all over the parking lot.

  It takes me much longer than it should to realize what’s happening. I watch my wallet, lipstick, old receipts, and who knows what else clatter across the ground while someone gently grabs both my arms and keeps me from falling.

  "Oh no." I mumble something and try to straighten. I tip again, staggering a little, but the hands hold me steady.

  “I’ve got you.”

  I don’t recognize the voice, but it’s deep and melodic—just the slightest bit raspy. I look up and blink hard, and the face looking down at me makes me feel like I've swallowed my own tongue.

  Ryan Jacobsen?

  2

  NICOLE

  M y breath catches in my throat and my stomach flutters. I haven’t seen Ryan in years. He stands there, all grown up, looking like a fucking man, and something about that doesn’t make any sense. Light stubble covers his jaw and tousled dark hair falls down over his forehead just a bit. His white t-shirt stretches over a strong chest and broad shoulders. His green eyes squint just a little as he smiles a crooked grin at me. I've known Ryan almost as long as I’ve known Melissa, but in my memory of him, he’s still the kid who didn’t quite go through puberty the way the rest of the boys did. Vaguely, I recall my mom discussing him with someone else’s mother, calling him a late bloomer. Apparently, sometime in the last ten years, he bloomed. Fuck, has he bloomed.

  I realize far too late that I’m staring at him with an open mouth.

  "Hey," he says, and his voice sends a shiver up my back. Come on, Nicole. This is Ryan Jacobsen, not some hot guy you just met.

  But damn, he is hot.

  Or maybe I’m that drunk.

  "Hey," I say back. It occurs to me that I must look a mess. I swipe my fingers under my eyes and tuck my hair behind my ear, as if any of that would help.

  "Are you okay?"

  There’s concern in his voice and it almost undoes me, sends me back to crying. But suddenly I desperately do not want to be a drunk sobbing mess in front of Ryan.