Perfect Kind of Trouble


By Chelsea Fine

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Sometimes when perfect falls apart, a little trouble fixes everything . . .

Twenty-one-year-old Kayla Turner has lost everything. After spending most of her life taking care of her ailing mother, she just wants to spot a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. So when her late father-a man she barely knew-leaves her an inheritance, she finally breathes a sigh of relief . . . until she learns the inheritance comes with strings. Strings in the form of handsome playboy Daren Ackwood, her father’s protage. To see any of her inheritance, she’s forced to team up with him. From his expensive car to those sexy dimples, Kayla’s seen his type before. But Daren isn’t who he seems to be . . .

Struggling to make amends for his family’s mistakes, Daren has a life more Oliver Twist than Richie Rich these days. He’s beyond grateful that James Turner included him in his will, but working with Turner’s princess of a daughter to fulfill his cryptic last wish is making Daren wonder if being broke is really so bad. Still, she’s just as beautiful as she is stubborn, and the more time he spends with Kayla, the less it feels right being without her. Soon Daren and Kayla begin to wonder if maybe the best gift Kayla’s dad could have left them . . . was each other.

Praise for Best Kind of Broken:

“By turns humorous and heartbreaking, Best Kind Of Broken has become one of my favorites!” — Cora Carmack, New York Times bestselling author

“You’ll fall for Pixie and Levi, just like I did!” — Jennifer L. Armentrout (J. Lynn), #1 New York Times bestselling author

“Tangled with friendship, history and heartbreak – not to mention a huge dose of humor – Chelsea Fine’s New Adult novel is not to be missed! Beyond an incredibly HOT read, Pixie and Levi’s longing for each other will have you rooting for them till the very end.” — Jay Crownover, New York Times bestselling author

“Chelsea Fine’s style is witty, visceral and fresh. All I wanted to do was crawl inside this book and live with the characters. ” — Chelsea M. Cameron, New York Times bestselling author


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On the other side of the casket, a middle-aged woman wearing a navy blue dress glares at me.

The man in the wooden box has only been dead for three days and this woman already has me pegged as the slutty mistress he kept on the side. I'm probably an ex-stripper with a coke problem as well, based on the way she's sizing me up. But this isn't my first rodeo—or my first funeral—and deadly looks like the one Navy Nancy is angling at me are nothing new, unfortunately.

Now feeling a little self-conscious, I slowly slide my black sunglasses on and tip my head down, concentrating on the casket in front of me as the preacher/priest/certified-online minister drones on about peace and eternity.

It's a nice casket, made of polished cherrywood with decorative iron handles and rounded edges. I should care more than I do about the deceased man within, but all I can think about is how that casket probably cost more than any car I've ever been in, and how the man inside is probably tucked against velvet walls lined with Egyptian cotton.

And now I'm angry. Great.

I promised myself I wouldn't be angry today. Bitter? Sure. That was a given. But not angry.

Taking a deep breath, I raise my head and try to avert my attention. Behind my dark shades, I glance around the cemetery. More people showed up than I had expected, most of them looking like they're sweet and respectable. I wonder how well they knew James Turner. Were they friends of his? Coworkers? Lovers? Folks around here probably show up at funerals regardless of their relationship with the deceased. That's the thing about small towns; everyone cares about everyone else—or at least acts like they do.

"James was a good man," the minister says, "who lived a solid life and has now gone on to a better place…"

A roll of thunder sounds in the distance and I turn my eyes to the heavy gray clouds above. The weatherman said it's supposed to rain tonight. They'll bury James, cover his casket with dirt, and rain will fall and seal him into the earth. What an ideal passing.

Screw him.

A woman beside the minister begins to sing "Amazing Grace" as the pallbearers lower him into the grave. Across the way, a teenage boy openly gawks at me, his eyes gliding up and down my body like I'm standing here naked instead of fully clothed. I'm wearing a knee-length, long-sleeved, turtlenecked gray dress, in July no less. I'm ridiculously covered, not that Navy Nancy and Gawking Gary care.

When the boy catches me watching him, he quickly looks away and his face burns bright red. I turn away as well and play with the bracelet on my wrist as I focus my attention on the back of the crowd.

A huddle of women dab at their eyes with handkerchiefs. Beside them, a young family stands quietly with their hands clasped together. Nearby, an older couple mouths the words to "Amazing Grace" as the singer starts on the third verse. Looking around, I realize everyone else is singing along as well. Of course the people of Copper Springs would know the third verse of "Amazing Grace."

I really need to get out of here. I don't belong in this tiny town. I never have. One last obligation tomorrow then I'm gone.

In the far back of the congregation, a guy moves out from under a large oak tree and I tilt my head. He looks vaguely familiar but I can't quite place him.

He's average height, with dark brown hair, and a dark purple button-down shirt covers his broad shoulders. The long sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows and he's got on a pair of dark jeans to match the dark sunglasses that cover his eyes. Dark, dark, dark.

He's attractive. Dangerously attractive. The kind of attractive that can suck you into a sweet haze and undo you completely before you even know you've surrendered. I know I've seen him before but for the life of me I can't remember where, which is probably a good thing.

The singer wraps up the fourth verse of "Amazingly Depressing Grace," and a long silence follows before the minister clears his throat. He glances at me and I subtly nod. With a few last words about what a wonderful man James Turner was, he concludes the funeral and I let out a quiet breath of relief.

The end.

People disperse, most of them heading to their cars while the rest pass by the lowered casket and throw a handful of dirt or a flower onto the shiny cherrywood top. I step to the side, sunglasses strictly in place, and watch the mourners. Navy Nancy glares at me again and I look away. Wow. She really must think I'm some sort of James Turner hussy.

As offended as I am, I know she's probably just hurting. She was the first person to arrive at the funeral today and she teared up several times during the ceremony so I'm assuming she and James were pretty close. And if judging me makes her feel better on this sad day, then I'll let her hate me all she wants. I watch her leave the cemetery with a small group of other mourners. It's not like I'll ever see her again, anyway.

The guy in the purple shirt steps up to the grave and drops a handful of red dirt on the casket. The red stands out against the brown dirt beneath it and I wonder what its significance is. Then I wonder about the guy in purple. He doesn't seem to be here with anyone else, which is only strange because of how good-looking he is. Hot guys don't usually travel places without an equally hot girl on their arm. But this guy is definitely alone.

He strides to the parking lot and climbs into a black sports car, and all my wondering comes to an abrupt halt. I no longer care about who he is, or how he knew James, or why he looks familiar. Spoiled rich boys are the last thing I care about.

When everyone has left the area except the funeral home people, I carefully walk up to the casket. The heels of my black pumps slowly sink into the soft grass as I stare down at the last I'll ever see of James Turner. I try to muster up some sort of sadness, but all I come up with is more anger.

With a long inhale, I toss a soft white rose petal onto the brown and red dirt, and quietly say, "Rest in peace, Daddy."



Some people don't name their vehicles. Most people, probably. But there's something about a black Porsche that just makes you want to call it… Monique.

I climb inside my sports car, close the door, and look through the windshield at the dark clouds. Looks like Monique might need a bath tomorrow. My eyes fall back to the cemetery and my chest tightens. I still can't believe Old Man Turner is gone.

When I was thirteen, my life took a sharp turn to the shitty side of the street and Turner offered me a job mowing his lawn for fifteen dollars a week. A year went by before he asked me to start taking care of his garden as well, then gave me a raise. Shortly after, I was taking care of his entire yard and did so until last year when he requested that I focus my energy on my "real" jobs.

I didn't know he had cancer at the time. Hell, I didn't even know he was sick until he passed away. We lost touch for only a few months, but apparently, during that time Turner fought a short and intense battle with cancer and lost.

And I didn't even have a clue until last week.

My gut coils as I think about the day I found out—and all the days after—and I let out a heavy exhale. This past week has not been my finest. And now I'm at the funeral of the only man I ever really considered a father. I didn't even get a chance to tell him good-bye.

I inhale, slow and steady, and I crack my knuckles. It's just been a shitty few years, all around.

Through the windshield, my eyes catch on a gray dress walking away from the casket with hips swinging and blonde hair swishing. I almost didn't recognize Kayla Turner behind those black sunglasses and that cold look she had on. But looking at her now, there's no mistaking.

She used to visit her dad in the summer, so every once in a while I'd catch glimpses of her inside the house while I was out mowing the lawn. And there are some faces you just don't forget.

Back then, she was all elbows and knees and freckles. But damn if Kayla Turner didn't grow up to be a total knockout. There wasn't a breathing soul in the cemetery today that didn't openly gape at her. I thought the kid in the front row was going to choke on his own drool, the way he was drinking her in.

I'm surprised she bothered to show up. She stopped coming around a few years ago and I saw how it tore Old Man Turner up. He missed her fiercely, but that didn't bring her back.

It's nice of her to finally visit again. Too bad she waited until her father's funeral to grace him with her presence.

With a clenched jaw, I start the engine, back out of my spot, and pull out of the parking lot. Monique purrs as I drive away from the cemetery and I want to purr right along with her. Cruising down the road eases the pressure in my chest and I feel like I can breathe again. I put the convertible top down and suck in a lungful of fresh air. Much better.

A distant roll of thunder echoes around. I pass a large gated community and a sour taste slips down my throat. Westlake Estates. The place I lived when life was good.

Well, not good exactly. But easier.

Turning onto the road that leads out of town, I head for work. I have two part-time jobs: one at the cell phone store in Copper Springs and one as a stock boy at the Willow Inn Bed & Breakfast outside of town. My job at Willow Inn is the only one I actually like, though.

Willow Inn is fifty miles south of town, in the middle of nowhere off the freeway, but I make the drive every week because of my awesome boss. Ellen owns and operates the quaint little inn and, in her spare time, she's a guardian angel.

Glancing at the time, I realize I have to be at Willow Inn in an hour and it takes at least that long to get there. Shit. And Monique is low on gas. Double shit.

With a muttered curse, I pull into the nearest gas station—a run-down fill-up place that looks closed except for the blinking neon sign that reads O_EN—and pull up next to a grime-coated gas pump before turning off the engine.

Getting out, I count the money in my pocket with a groan before shoving it back inside. As I start to fill Monique up, my phone beeps and I glance down to see another missed call from Eddie.

Eddie Perkins is the closest thing Copper Springs has to a professional lawyer, and lately he's been the bane of my existence. He's left me eight voice mails in the past week, none of which I've bothered listening to because I'm sure they're all about my dad. But ignoring him doesn't seem to be working.

Stepping away from the car, I listen to the most recent voice mail.

"Hello, Daren. It's Eddie again. I'm not sure if you've received my previous messages but I've been trying to reach you regarding James Turner. As I'm sure you know, he's passed away. A reading of his will is scheduled for tomorrow at 11:00 a.m. at my office, and Mr. Turner's last wishes specifically request that you be present. Hopefully, I'll see you there. If not, still give me a call so we can discuss… the other thing."

The message ends and I stare at my phone. Why in the world would Turner want me at the reading of his will?


A thought hits me and it's almost too ridiculous to grasp.

Could this be about the baseball cards? Would Turner have remembered something from so long ago?

A small smile tugs at my lips.

Yes. He absolutely would have. That's just the kind of guy he was.

When I was thirteen, my dad gave me a set of collectable baseball cards for Christmas. I remember that Christmas clearly. It was the same Christmas that our housekeeper, Marcella, gave me a copy of the book Holes. It's about a boy who digs seemingly pointless holes as a punishment for something he didn't even do wrong. I was obsessed with the book; I must have read it ten times, and talked about it every day.

My mother and father barely paid attention to my interests. I doubt they ever even knew I'd read a single book, let alone one in particular over and over. But Marcella knew. She always made a point to care about the things I cared about. "You are my favorite boy, mijo," she would say.

She always called me mijo.


That Christmas, she'd wrapped the book in a green box with a red ribbon. I remember because that was the same box I decided to keep my collectable baseball cards in.

I brought the box to Turner's house one day to show off my new cards and proudly informed him that I had looked up the value of each one and knew I could sell the lot for at least a hundred dollars. Money was important to me back then. Money was all that mattered. My dad taught me that.

But later that day while I was mowing his lawn, Turner took my box of cards because, according to him, I was "too spoiled to appreciate them."

He was right, of course, but at the time I didn't care. I was furious, convinced he was going to sell the cards himself so he could have the money. But because I was just as spoiled as he'd claimed, I only stayed mad until my father bought me more baseball cards a few days later.

That's how things worked in my family: My parents bought me whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, as long as I stayed out of their hair. I was an only child and I'm pretty sure I was a mistake. If my parents had planned to have me I'm sure they would have put a little more effort into… well, me. But I was an accident and, therefore, an inconvenience. An inconvenience easily soothed with a few new toys.

When I announced to Turner that I no longer cared about my stolen box of baseball cards, he laughed and said, "Someday you might." Then he promised that, someday, he'd return them to me.

I stare at my cell phone where the voice mail screen blinks back at me. Maybe this is Turner's way of coming through on that promise, after death.

The pressure starts to wind its way around my chest again, thick and tight, and I feel the air seep from my lungs. I can't believe he's gone. Really gone.

A clanging noise startles my thoughts and I whip around to see a tow truck backed up to Monique and hauling her onto its bed. My eyes widen in horror.

"Hey!" I shout at the overweight truck driver, who's got a toothpick in his mouth and a handlebar mustache. "What are you doing?"

He barely glances at me. "Taking her in. Repo."

"Repo?" I start to panic. "No, no. There must be some mistake. A year's worth of payments were made on that car. I still have until next month."

He hands me a crumpled statement stained with greasy fingerprints and an unidentifiable smudge of brown. "Not according to the bank."

I quickly scan the paper. "Shit." I was sure those payments were good through August. I rub a hand over my mouth and try to clear my head. "Listen," I say, trying to stay calm as I appeal to the driver. "We can work this out. What do I need to do to get you to unhook my innocent car?"

He looks bored. "You got four months of payments on you?"

"Uh, no. But I have…" I pull out the contents of my pocket. "Forty-two dollars, a broken watch, and some red dirt."

A few grains of the dirt slip through my fingers and I think about all the weekends I spent taking care of Turner's yard. The lawn was healthy and the garden was abundant, but Turner's favorite part of the yard was the rose garden. I could tell that he was especially fond of his white roses, so I cared for those thorny flowers like they were helpless babies, and Turner wasn't shy about praising me for it. Every Saturday, I'd rake through the rare red topsoil Turner planted around his precious roses, making sure the bushes could breathe and grow. I pricked my fingers more times than I can count, but those roses never withered, and for that I was always proud. I think Old Man Turner was proud of my work too.

The tow truck guy shrugs. "No cash, no car. Sorry." He starts to lift Monique off the ground and I swear it's like watching someone kidnap a loved one.

"Wait—wait!" I hold up a hand. "I can get it. I can get you the money. I just—I just need a little time."

"Talk to the bank."

I quickly shake my head. "No, you see. I can't talk to the bank because the bank hates me—"

"Gee, I wonder why." He doesn't look at me.

"But I can get the money!" I gesture to Monique. "Just put my baby back down and you and I can go get a beer and talk this whole thing out." I flash a smile. "What do you say?"

He scoffs. "You pretty boys are all the same. Used to getting whatever you want with Daddy's money and pitching fits when someone takes your toys away." He shakes his head and climbs back into the tow truck. "See ya."

"But that's my ride!" I yell, throwing my arms up. "How am I supposed to get home?"

He starts the engine and flicks the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. "You should've thought of all that before you stopped making payments." Then he pulls out of the gas station with sweet Monique as his captive and I watch the last piece of my other life slowly disappear.



I spin around to see a scrawny gas attendant wiping his hands on a rag.

"What," I snap, frustrated at everything that's gone wrong in my existence.

"You gotta pay for that," he says.

I make a face. "For what?"

He nods at the pump. "For the gas."

"The ga—" I see the gas nozzle dangling from where poor Monique was ripped away and I want to scream. "Oh, come on, man! My car was basically just hijacked! I wasn't paying attention to how much gas I was using."

He shrugs. "Don't matter. Gas is gas. That'll be eighty-seven dollars."

"Eighty-se—" I clench my jaw. "I don't have eighty-seven dollars."

He scratches the back of his head. "Well I can't let you leave until you pay."

I scrub a hand down my face, trying to contain the many curse words that want to vault from my mouth. With a very calm and controlled voice I say, "Then do you have a manager I can speak to about settling this issue?"

He tips his head toward the small gas station store. "My sister."

Through the store's front window, I see a young woman with curly red hair at the register and a smile stretches across my face.

"Perfect," I say.

As I head for the entrance, a few drops of rain fall to the ground, plopping on the dirty concrete by my shoes. I look up at the dark clouds, fat with the oncoming storm and frown. I really don't want to walk home in the rain.

A string of gaudy bells slaps against the station door and chimes as I enter the store, and the sister looks up from a crossword puzzle. Her name tag reads WENDY. I file that information away.

Roving her eyes over me, her face immediately softens. "Why, hello there," she says in a voice I know is lower than her natural one. "Can I help you?"

I give her my very best helpless-boy grin and sigh dramatically. "I certainly hope so, Wendy."

Her eyes brighten at the sound of her name on my lips. Girls love it when you say their name. They melt over it. It's like a secret password that instantly grants you their trust.

She leans forward with a smitten grin and I know I've already charmed my way out of an eighty-seven-dollar gas bill. And maybe even found a ride home.

"Me too," she says eagerly.

I smile.

Sometimes it pays to be me.



I knew today was going to suck the moment I woke up with a spider on my face.

A spider.


This is what happens when the only motel you can afford is a lopsided building called the Quickie Stop.

But the spider wasn't the only thing that kicked this day off to a stellar start.

First there were the mysterious body hairs on the nightstand that I accidentally touched when I tripped over the 1970s porn rug that coats the floor. A shaggy porn rug—because a flat porn rug just wouldn't have been gross enough. Followed by the trickle of ice-cold water from the mold-caked shower, which turned out to be the home of my friendly face spider from earlier. And lastly, there was the lovely smell of cat urine that wafted in through the rusted ceiling vent all morning.

So I'm not exactly in a good mood by the time I'm dressed and ready to leave. But I've handled worse. Much worse. This might be a crappy motel room, but it's a luxury establishment compared to the roach-infested place I left back in Chicago.

I catch sight of my reflection in the bathroom mirror and scowl. I suppose I'm dressed the way one is supposed to be for the reading of a will. A royal blue blouse with a black pencil skirt and black heels. The top is too fitted for my comfort, molding around my breasts and making me feel like I'm on display. And the neckline is relatively respectable but if I were to lean over my cleavage would hang out. Note to self: No leaning. The skirt is worn and a little too short to be considered professional, but it's the only one I have so it will have to do. And the shoes are scuffed up and old, but from far away they look decent enough. Overall, it's not my favorite outfit. I don't like tight clothes that emphasize my hourglass figure. But since my only other options are jeans, pajamas, or the thick gray dress I sweat through in the summer sun yesterday, this is what I'm wearing.

I throw my purse over my shoulder and grab my car keys. All I have to do is get through one stupid meeting with Dad's lawyer—the same lawyer who called last week to shockingly inform me that my father had passed away—then I can pack my things and head home. Although "home" doesn't really mean much when everything you own fits in one small brown bag.

My eyes drop to the suitcase on the bed and a ball of stress forms in the pit of my stomach. I have no idea what my next move is. Not just in Copper Springs, but in life. Riffling through my purse, I find my wallet and count the bills within.

Thirty-six dollars. Crap.

I shove a hand into my bra, where I always keep emergency money.

Twenty-one dollars.

I pull off my right high heel, carefully pull up the black leather sole, and lift a precious few bills from the hiding place below—where I keep my emergency emergency money.

Eighteen dollars.

So altogether I have… seventy-five dollars. To my name.

Every other penny I had was spent on my trip out here and I couldn't qualify for a credit card if my life depended on it—which it might, if things keep going the way they have—so I'm officially broke. And unemployed. And homeless.

The ball of stress tightens.

I had a job at a diner back in Chicago, but when I asked my boss, Big Joe, for time off for my father's funeral, he refused. So I quit—which didn't go over well.

Unbeknownst to me, my mother, Gia, had borrowed $20,000 from Big Joe to pay off some old debts. I knew nothing about this until I tried to leave and Big Joe started demanding his money. Since my mom was no longer able to pay him back, he insisted that I work for free in order to pay off her debt. It was a threat, not a negotiation, and I was scared out of my mind.

My lease was up at the roachy apartment so I packed up my stuff, cashed my last paycheck, and drove out to Arizona. And now, even if I had the gas money to drive back to Chicago, there's no way I'd be able to afford a place to live and I'd be forced to work for Big Joe until my mom's debt was settled. And knowing Big Joe, he'd probably demand reimbursement in other ways too, like by smacking my ass or squeezing my boob. Or worse.

I shudder.

I'm broke, but I'm not a prostitute. I'd rather sleep on a park bench than let myself be groped for favors.

Ugh. I might actually have to sleep on a park bench.

I shake myself from the thought. One day at a time, Kayla. Just get through one day at a time. God. Life isn't going the way I'd hoped at all.

I'm supposed to be in nursing school right now with a bright future ahead of me. Instead, I'm on the run from a debt collector, attending unforeseen funerals, and waking up with arachnids on my face.

Stuffing all my emergency dollars back into their designated hiding places, I exit the motel room. It rained all night but the storm passed quickly, leaving the air clean and crisp, and a lungful of fresh air lightens my mood a bit as I head through the parking lot and climb inside my mom's car. Although, I guess it's mine now.

It's the color of dying grass, a few decades past its prime, and beat-up at every corner, but I'm not complaining. It has four wheels and doesn't smell like pee. In my book, it may as well be a limousine.

I drive through the small-town streets of Copper Springs and a hint of nostalgia wafts over me. The best years of my life were spent here; first living as a family when my parents were still married, and then visiting my dad every summer after they divorced and my mom and I moved away.

The cute storefronts and well-manicured streets look every bit as pleasant as they actually are—or were. I haven't been back here in over five years. My plan was to never return at all, but it just seemed wrong not to come to my father's funeral. And if I'm being honest with myself, I needed the closure. Especially after the way my mom passed away…

Don't think about it. Don't think about it.

I swallow and concentrate on the road, forcing my mind to stray somewhere else—anywhere else. I easily find the lawyer's office and park. Then silently give myself a little pep talk.

I know my dad didn't leave me anything in his will, which is no shock. He didn't share his money with me when he was alive so why would I expect his death to change anything? But I can't help but feel a little disappointed.

Being a descendant of the original town founders, Dad owned quite a bit of land in Copper Springs—including most of the town square, which made him relatively wealthy. The most valuable thing he owned was Milly Manor, his stately home on the outskirts of town. Since it was a historic building, my father always let people take tours and pictures of the place. He was always more than happy to share his home with the people of Copper Springs.

So when the lawyer called me last week and explained that my father had donated his estate and all of his belongings to the town, I wasn't that surprised. But when he said he needed my signature to finalize some of Dad's will papers, then I was surprised—and not in a good way.


  • "By turns humorous and heartbreaking, Best Kind Of Broken has become one of my favorites!"—Cora Carmack, New York Times bestselling author on Best Kind of Broken
  • "You'll fall for Pixie and Levi, just like I did!"—Jennifer L. Armentrout, #1 New York Times bestselling author on Best Kind of Broken
  • "Tangled with friendship, history and heartbreak - not to mention a huge dose of humor - Chelsea Fine's New Adult novel is not to be missed! Beyond an incredibly HOT read, Pixie and Levi's longing for each other will have you rooting for them till the very end."—JAY CROWNOVER, New York Times bestselling author of Rule on Best Kind of Broken
  • "This book destroyed me. Tore me into little tiny pieces. But somehow with lots of laughs and some very steamy times, Chelsea put me back together again! Chelsea Fine's style is witty, visceral and fresh. All I wanted to do was crawl inside this book and live with the characters. And now all I want is MORE. "—Chelsea M. Cameron, New York Times bestselling author on Best Kind of Broken
  • "Sandwiched between laugh out loud moments and some serious heat, Best Kind of Broken is an unforgettable story of loss and forgiveness that will leave your heart aching."
    --- Lisa Desrochers, USA Today Bestselling author of A Little Too Far on Best Kind of Broken
  • "Fine will win over fans of Abbi Glines and Katie McGarry with this. Eloquently written, Fine's story has a way of making even the most minor characters leap off the page."—RT Book Reviews on Best Kind of Broken

On Sale
Jun 17, 2014
Page Count
336 pages

Chelsea Fine

About the Author

Chelsea Fine lives in Phoenix, Arizona, where she spends most of her time writing stories, painting murals, and avoiding housework at all costs. She’s ridiculously bad at doing dishes and claims to be allergic to laundry. Her obsessions include: superheroes, coffee, sleeping-in, and crazy socks. She lives with her husband and two children, who graciously tolerate her inability to resist teenage drama on TV and her complete lack of skill in the kitchen.

Learn more at:
Twitter, @ChelseaFine

Learn more about this author