Right Kind of Wrong


By Chelsea Fine

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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 of Rule

“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

Sometimes wrong can feel oh so right . . .

Jenna Lacombe needs complete control, whether it’s in the streets . . . or between the sheets. So when she sets out on a solo road trip to visit her family in New Orleans, she’s beyond annoyed that the infuriatingly sexy Jack Oliver wants to hitch a ride with her. Ever since they shared a wild night together last year, he’s been trying to strip away her defenses one by one. He claims he’s just coming along to keep her safe-but what’s not safe for her is prolonged exposure to the tattooed hottie.

Jack can’t get Jenna out from under his skin. She makes him feel alive again after his old life nearly destroyed him-and losing her is not an option. Now Jack’s troubles are catching up to him, and he’s forced to return to his hometown in Louisiana. But when his secrets put them both in harm’s way, Jenna will have to figure out how far she’s willing to let love in . . . and how much she already has.


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Table of Contents

An Excerpt from Best Kind of Broken

An Excerpt from Perfect Kind of Trouble


Copyright Page

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Look at you. Being all in love like a grown-up. I'm so proud," I say, smiling at my best friend, Pixie, as we carry boxes into our joint dorm room. "And Levi," I add, turning to address Pixie's hot new piece of arm candy, "you're welcome."

He sets a box down. "Am I now?"

I nod. "If it weren't for me telling Pixie to suck up her fears and just let herself love you, you'd still be a miserable handyman."

"I am still a handyman."

"Ah, but you're no longer a miserable one." I grin. "Thanks to me."

He pulls Pixie into his arms and kisses her temple. "Then I guess I should thank you."

As they start kissing, my phone rings and I'm relieved for an excuse to leave them to all their lovebirding.

I slip out into the hall and close the door before answering my cell.


"Hi, Jenna." The sound of my mom's voice makes me smile. "How's my baby?"

"I'm good," I say. "Pixie and I are almost all moved in. She came down here with her boyfriend tonight so we were able to get mostly unpacked. I just have a few more boxes left at the apartment, but I'm going to pick those up later. How are you?"

She pauses. "Well I'm okay."

It's the way she emphasizes the "I'm" that tells me exactly what this phone call is about.

"Grandma?" I sigh in exasperation. "Again?"

"I'm afraid so. She says she can feel the end coming close."

I sigh. "Mom. She's been saying she's dying for ten years and she's never even had a cough."

"I know, but she seems serious this time," Mom says.

Every few years or so, my grandmother announces to the family that she's going to kick the bucket at any given moment. The first two times it happened, I immediately flew back to New Orleans—where she lives with my mother and younger sisters in the house I grew up in—to be by her side, only to find Granny alive and well without so much as a sniffle. The last time it happened, I took a few days to get organized before flying back to New Orleans, where I found my "dying" grandmother singing karaoke at a local bar.

So as you can imagine, I'm not falling for her silly shenanigans this time.

"No way," I say. "I'm not spending my hard-earned money to fly out there again just so Grandma can get on my case about love and fate while belting out a verse of 'Black Velvet.' Tell her that I'll come visit when she has a doctor's note stating that she's at death's door."

"Oh, Jenna. Don't be so dramatic. I swear you're just as bad as your grandmother."

"I know," I say, in mock frustration. "And it's getting hard to compete for the title of Family Drama Queen with Granny declaring her impending death every two years. Could you tell her to just give it up already and let me be the shining star?"

I can hear the disapproval in my mother's voice. "That's not funny, Jenna."

"Sure it is." I smile. "And Grandma would agree."

"Please be serious about this," she says.

"I'll be serious about Grandma's death when she gets serious about dying," I quip.

A weary sigh feathers through the line. "Jenna, please."

"Why do we keep pandering to her, anyway? The only reason she keeps crying death is because she knows we'll all come running to her karaoke-singing side to hold her hand as she passes—which she never does. Why do we keep playing her game?"

"Because she's very superstitious and believes dying without the blessing of her family members is bad luck for the afterlife. You know that."

Now it's my turn to sigh.

I do know that. All too well. Since I was a child, the deep roots of Grandma's superstitions have wrapped their gnarled fingers around my family's every move. If her voodoo notions weren't so eerily accurate and, well, creepy, maybe we'd be able to ignore the old woman's ways.

But unfortunately, Grams has a tendency to correctly predict future events and know exactly what someone's intentions or motivations are just by shaking their hand. It's downright spooky. And I swear the old woman uses our fear of her psychic powers as a tool of manipulation.

Case in point? Her recurring death threats.

"Yeah, yeah," I murmur. "She deserves a pleasant send-off. I know."

I hear my mother inhale through her nose. "She does. But even if that weren't the case, your grandmother isn't feeling well and she'd like to see you. Again." When I don't say anything she adds, "And wouldn't you feel horrible if she was right this time and you missed your chance to say good-bye?"

The guilt card. A nasty tool all mothers use on their children.

"Fine," I say. "But I'm not shelling out the cash to fly there. I'll drive this time."

"All the way from Tempe to New Orleans?"

"Yes. And I will save big money doing it," I say. "I'll get my shifts covered at work and leave in the morning."

"Excellent. Your grandmother will be so happy."

I scoff. "Happy enough for karaoke, no doubt."

She clears her throat. "I'll see you here in a few days then. Love you."

"Love you too." I hang up the phone and head back into the dorm room to find Levi and Pixie making out against the wall.

"God. Seriously, you two?" I make a face. "I know you just got together in the middle of the road a few hours ago, but come on! There are other people here."

Levi doesn't seem to notice me as he continues kissing Pixie's face off, and Pixie takes her sweet time pulling back from her loverboy before acknowledging my presence.

She shoots me a hazy smile and nods at my phone. "Who was that?"

"My mom." I exhale. "Grandma claims she's dying."

"Again?" She bites her lip.

I nod. "So I'm going to drive out there this week and try to be home before school starts."

She pulls away from Levi, just slightly, but it's enough for him to stop smelling her hair—which I swear he was just doing. They're so in love it's almost gross.

"By yourself?" Pixie's green eyes widen.

Pixie and I met last year, at the start of our freshman year at Arizona State University when we were assigned the same dorm and became roommates. When school let out for the summer and Pixie and I could no longer live in the dorms, we split up. She moved to her aunt's inn up north—where she fell in love with Levi—while I moved into a local apartment with three of my cousins. It was a good setup, for the summer, but I'm happy to be moving back in with my bestie.

She and I are both art students—she's a painter and I'm a sculptor—so we have a ton in common and get along perfectly. She's the closest friend I've ever had, so I try my hardest to take the concern on her face seriously.

"Yep." I put my phone away. "By myself."

Levi reluctantly steps away from his girlfriend and busies himself by unpacking some of Pixie's things.

She frowns. "That doesn't sound like fun. Or very safe."

Levi glances at me. It's one of those big-brother protective glances and I have to bite back a smile. Aw… look at this guy. He barely knows me, but he's still worried about my safety. For the hundredth time, I silently rejoice that he and Pixie got together. She deserves a good guy who looks out for both her and her friends. A guy like that would drive me crazy. But he's perfect for Pixie.

"I'll be fine," I say to both Pixie's big eyes and Levi's concerned glance as I wave them off and grab my purse. "After I stop by work, I'm heading back to my cousins' apartment for the last of my boxes. I'll probably crash there for the night, so you two can get back to smooching against the wall or whatever." I wink at Pixie. "See ya."

"See ya," she says with a concerned smile as I exit the room.

Jumping in my car, I quickly head to the Thirsty Coyote, where I work as a bartender. It's a decent job for a college student. Good hours. Good money. And it suits me. Pouring drinks isn't my dream job or anything, but it gets me one step closer to finishing school and opening my own art gallery—which is my dream job.

I let myself inside and head to the back. It's just past dinnertime so the place is packed and I have to squeeze through the crowd just to reach the bar. When I get there, I lean in and call out to my coworker.


He turns around and smiles at me. "What's happening, Jenna? Thought you had the night off."

"I do. But I need to get some shifts covered this week so I thought I'd come in and sweet-talk my favorite bartender…" I bat my lashes, knowing full well Cody isn't attracted to me at all. But he's still a sucker for making money, and more bar shifts means more money.

He grins. "I'm listening…"

I whip out my schedule and show him all the days I'd need him to cover. He agrees like the superhero that he is and heads to the back to make it official in the schedule log.

I wait at the counter, thinking about how long my drive to New Orleans will take if I leave tomorrow. Probably at least twenty hours. Ugh. Pixie was right. It really isn't going to be any fun.

My eyes drift over the crowd and fall on a tall figure in the corner. Gunmetal-gray eyes. Tousled black hair. Tattooed arms and broad shoulders. My body immediately goes on alert.

Jack Oliver.

It's not surprising he's here. He comes to the bar all the time, but usually he's with his friends and in a good mood. Right now, though, he's talking on the phone and seems very upset. His gray eyes are narrow slits and his jaw is clenched. But I'm not going to lie. Angry looks good on him.

At over six feet tall, with his broad shoulders and endless tattoos, Jack looks intimidating. But really he's a big softie. I hardly ever see him in a mood other than happy. So this angry version of Jack is a new experience for me. A very hot experience.

He catches me looking at him and tips his chin. His anger dissipates for a brief second as a lopsided smile hitches up the corner of his mouth, but then he turns his attention back to his phone and clenches his fist before ending the call.


He shoves his phone into his back pocket and heads my way.

"What's up?" I say. "You seem upset."

He shrugs. "Nothing. Just family shit."

I snort. "God. Yes. I have plenty of that."

He nods and our eyes lock and hold.

One beat.


I hate this part of our friendship; the part that reminds me of what happened between us last year when we got drunk and carried away one very steamy night. The memory shouldn't still turn me on like it does. But Jack and those gray eyes of his—eyes rimmed with pale green and flecked with dark flints, looking almost silver at times—are hard not to respond to.

We never talk about it, which is better, but in moments like this, when his eyes are on mine with such command, I can almost feel his hands back on my body. Fingertips running the length of my skin. Palms brushing my curves—

"Here you go." Cody returns with the schedule book for me to sign and I silently bless the interruption.

No good comes from me reminiscing about Jack's hands. Or any of his other body parts.

"I switched our shifts and marked you down as on vacation," Cody says.

"Thanks," I say, taking the book and initialing by my traded shifts.

"Hey, Jack." Cody nods at him. "What can I get you to drink?"

"Just a beer," Jack says, sitting on the barstool next to me. He's so close I can smell his shampoo. It's a wooded scent, like sawdust and pine, and it plays at my memories in a way that makes my heart pound.

He looks at me. "So where are you going on vacation?" His warm breath skitters over my shoulder and sends a jolt of hot want through my veins.

Damn him.

On second thought, damn me for being such a swooner.

I'm not usually like this. I swear it. Guys are the last thing I give priority to in my life. It goes: chocolate, tattoos, a hundred other things… and then men. Because a woman doesn't need a man to have a full life. And I'm living proof of that.

I keep my eyes on the book. "New Orleans to visit my grandma."

He nods. "Is she dying again?"

Even my friends know how ridiculous my grandmother's yearly death threats are.

"Yep." I pop the p. "The drama queen just won't hand the spotlight over gracefully."

He smirks. "Like you'd wait to be handed anything."

Jack and I met two years ago, when I first started working at the Thirsty Coyote and Jack was my trainer, but we became friends almost immediately and now he knows me well enough to know that I'm not very patient, and if I want something I usually just take it.

Cody sets Jack's beer down and asks me, "Are you flying out tonight?"

"Nah." I finish signing the book and hand it back to him. "I'm driving there so I'll leave in the morning."

Jack swings his head to me and a slight wrinkle forms between his eyes. "You're driving all the way to Louisiana?"

Jack and I are both from Louisiana. I'm from New Orleans and he's from a small town just north of there, called Little Vail. The fact that we grew up so close to one another, yet met on the other side of the country at this bar in Arizona, was one of the first things we bonded over. That, and tequila.

"Yeah. Pfft. I'm not spending hundreds of dollars on a last-minute plane ticket. Grandma needs to give me at least a month's warning next time she decides to keel over."

Jack takes a swig of his beer, but continues looking straight at me, displeased.

"What?" I snap.

He shrugs. "That's just a long trip to make on your own."

"Yeah, well. Good thing I don't mind driving." I look at Cody. "Thanks for covering for me. I owe you. Later, Jack." I turn to leave just as a drunk guy stumbles into me, knocking me back into Jack's chest.

Jack's hands instantly go to my hips, and my hips instantly want to yank his hands down my pants. My hips can't be trusted.

"Watch it," I say to the drunk guy, giving him a little shove forward so I have room to pull away from Jack.

Jack's fingers slowly slide off my hips, trailing down just before ending contact with my body, and my eyelids lower in want.

Clearly, I need to have sex. Not with Jack—that would be a disaster. But with someone. Soon. So I can sex Jack out of my system. Again.

I've been trying to sex away Jack a lot lately.

I blink up and find Jack's eyes watching mine. He saw my moment of weakness; that split second of desire. Dammit.

"Be careful, Jenn," he says in a low voice, and his words trickle down my skin.

Jack's the only person I've ever let call me "Jenn." Why? I have no idea. I blame his voice, all sexy and deep and brushing along the sensitive places of my ears.

Damn him, damn him, damn him.

"Right." I step back and act casual. "So I'm going to go. I'll see you when I get back. Later."

I spin around and weave through the crowd with a huff, feeling Jack's eyes on me the whole time.



There are only two things I don't ever speak of. My crazy family and my history with Jenna. And both just fell in my lap.

I watch Jenna work her way to the front door and can't help the unease slipping through my veins. I don't like the idea of her going on such a long road trip by herself. She's independent and smart and I know she can take care of herself, but that doesn't lessen my concern any.

Her long dark hair is pulled back into a high ponytail revealing her golden eyes and high cheekbones. Her half-Creole heritage has kissed her skin with a permanent bronze, which only adds to her unique beauty as her shoulders, bare in the strapless shirt she's wearing, show off the numerous tattoos running the length of her arms. The intricate designs disappear beneath her clothes, where I know they continue to travel across other parts of her curvy body. She's beautiful and wild, and drives me absolutely crazy.

Her hips swing as she moves out the door and my gut tightens. If anything were to ever happen to her, if someone ever tried to hurt her, I… well I can't even think about it. Which is why I can't think about Jenna all alone in a car on a series of desolate freeways for three days.

I don't like it. I don't like it at all.

My friend Ethan plops down on the barstool next to me, reeking of cologne. "Hey, man."

"Hey," I say.

I've gone through a series of roommates this past year, but Ethan has been my favorite, so far, or at least the easiest to tolerate. He and I have been friends since I first moved to Arizona and, as very opposite as the two of us are, we get along pretty well.

"Was that Jenna I just saw leaving?" He nods at the door.


Ethan smirks. "What did you do to piss her off this time?"

I grin. I do have a way of getting under Jenna's skin. I can't help it. If she would just be a grown-up and address what happened between us last year then maybe I'd back down. But instead she acts like nothing ever went down and dammit, that's just insulting. Because she's not just some girl I hooked up with a while back. She's Jenna, for God's sake.

But she wants to pretend like we're nothing more than friends, so I go along with it. And occasionally I piss her off—because it's something. It's some sign that I matter more than she lets on.

"Surprisingly enough," I say, "I didn't do anything. This time."

Ethan shakes his head. "I don't know why you poke at her the way you do."

"Because it's funny." I shrug. "And it's not like she doesn't piss me off just as much, like when she goes off and sleeps with dickhead guys." I shift my beer mug around in a slow circle, one inch at a time. "When she knows she can do better."

"Yeeeah." Ethan purses his lips. "You care way too much about who Jenna sleeps with. That's not healthy, man."

I stifle a groan. "I know."

Ethan orders a drink from Cody while I stare into my beer. I really shouldn't care who Jenna sleeps with, especially since I'm no angel myself. But damn. I can't help it. I don't like her sharing her body with anyone else.

My phone rings again. I look at the caller ID and groan.

I've been fielding phone calls from my family members for a week now and it's grating on my nerves. Earlier, I was on the phone with my frantic mother, who was babbling about how concerned she is for my youngest brother, Drew. He's twenty and should be able to take care of himself by now, but apparently he's been acting shady lately and his behavior has my family on edge. Now Mom's flipping out and I'm running out of reassuring words.

I thought our last phone call would tide her over for a while, but now my other brother, Samson, is calling. Again.

Not a good sign.

I grudgingly take the call and snap, "What?"

"Easy, bro," says Samson. "I'm just the messenger."

"Yeah, well I'm getting sick of all your messages."

"What would you rather I do? Not call you? Let Drew go down on his own?"

I let out a frustrated sigh. "No."

"That's what I thought. Drew's in deep trouble this time, I can feel it. And Mom's losing her shit. I need you out here."

A year older than Drew and a year younger than me, Samson is the middle child, and the most laid-back. It takes a lot to stress him out, so the fact that he's been at my ear these past few days is a red flag in and of itself.

But as the oldest brother—and the only real male authority in my family—it's my job to keep everyone calm, cool, and collected. A task that's growing more difficult by the phone call.

"Not happening." I shake my head even though he can't see me. "I left for a reason, Samson. I'm not coming back."

His voice is strained like he's gritting his teeth. "And just what the hell am I supposed to do without you? You know I don't have the pull or the power that you do."

I run a hand through my hair. "Have Drew give me a call. I'll straighten him out."

"That's just the thing, man. Drew's missing."

My heart stops for a moment. "Mom didn't mention that."

"That's because she's in denial and refuses to accept that her baby boy is caught up in a mess. She thinks he's out roaming, but you and I know better."


I rub a hand over my mouth, trying not to panic. Or growl. This is exactly the shit I was trying to stay away from when I moved away from Little Vail, Louisiana, and toward Tempe, Arizona. And now here I am, getting dragged right back into it.

"Fine," I say, my decision made. "I'll come out there this week. Tell Mom to calm down, would you? Her freaking out will only make things worse."

"Got it. I'll see you later then."

"Yeah." I hang up and run a finger over my cold mug.

Drew is missing.

I knew something like this would happen, eventually. You can't play around with drug dealers and not get jacked down the road.

"You all right, dude?" Ethan asks as Cody sets his drink down.

"What? Yeah." I rub my mouth again. "I'm fine. Just family shit."

He takes a drink. "How come you never talk about your family?"

I stretch my neck. "Because there's nothing to say."

Actually there's a ton to say, but no one would want to hear it. And frankly, I like the life I've made for myself out here in Arizona. No baggage to weigh me down. No expectations lingering around me.

I pull up airfares on my phone and scroll through the prices with a grimace. Damn, it's expensive to fly. My eyes snap up as a thought hits me. Jenna's heading to New Orleans and I need to go to Little Vail, which is only two hours north and right on her way.

A slow smile spreads across my face.

I might just have to tag along on Jenna's road trip.



A gaggle of girls meets me the moment I step foot inside my small apartment.

"Your mom called," Alyssa says, talking a mile a minute. "She said you're driving out to see Grams all by yourself because you think flying is too expensive but you really aren't, are you? Please tell me Aunt Sherry was just joking because you driving all alone across the states would be crazy."

"Crazy," Becca repeats, bobbing her head as they block me from walking any farther into the room. "There are like killers out there disguised as truckers and they will hunt you down on the road and like kidnap you and use your skin for like lampshades and stuff."

I crinkle up my face. "What—"

"It's true," Callie adds with a curt nod. "I always see these specials on TV about young girls who go on road trips by themselves and never make it back alive because some psycho roasted them like a turkey."

My cousins stare at me with their oversized eyes, waiting for me to ease their irrational fears and tell them that of course I'm not going to drive by myself across the country. Not without a suitor and a chaperone, and maybe a hoopskirt to match my corset. Because oh, the horror!

I roll my eyes and squeeze past them into the small living room. "You guys need to relax. No one is going to kill me. Or eat me."

"How can you be so sure?" Alyssa's eyes manage to grow even wider.

"Because unlike the three of you," I say, dropping my purse down on the coffee table and flicking a hand in their direction, "I wasn't raised by an overprotective daddy who put the fear of God in me about stepping foot outside without a man to protect me. I was raised by Sherry Lacombe and I can take care of myself."

I love my uncle Noah, but holy hell, he sure raised a skittish pack of scaredy-cats. I used to be jealous of my cousins, having a daddy around their whole lives who looked out for them and endlessly doted on them, but looking at their dreadfully concerned faces now I'm grateful I dodged that bullet.

There's nothing more dangerous than being afraid of everything.

"You should just fly, Jenna," Callie says. "With us. Then we'll get to Grams faster and at the same time."

Becca nods. "Yeah."

"Yeah," Alyssa echoes as the three of them close in on me again with their pouty lips and pleading eyes.

"And waste all my hard-earned money?" I snort. "Uh-uh. I'm driving—by myself—and that's final. So chill, all of you. And step back too." I push through them, again, and head for the kitchen. "God, you're like a bunch of needy hens. Peck, peck, peck. I pity the men you three end up with."

They follow me into the kitchen. Shocking.

It's times like these I wish ASU would let students live on campus over the summer. But noooo. I had to move my ass out of the cozy dorm I shared with Pixie and shack up with my three cousins, all of whom are in silent competition for the world's most girly girl ever.

Alyssa's dressed to the nines, as per usual, even though I'm almost certain she didn't leave the apartment today. Her hair is all done up, her makeup is far too dark and drastic for anything less than a Vegas outing, and her sparkly five-inch heels match the chandelier earrings flanking her high cheekbones. A typical Tuesday getup for my cuz.

Becca's no better, with her sleeked-back hair beneath a pink headband, and her button nose between her pink cheeks, and her very pink toenails. She's adorable in that sexy kind of way, which both perplexes and impresses me.

And Callie… well, Callie is hell on heels with boobs that would make a swimsuit model jealous and clothes so tight I'm surprised she doesn't need a scuba tank to breathe.

They're ridiculous, all of them, and it's hard to believe we're related. With my endless tattoos and piercings, and my tendency to dress like a punk rocker, I look like Amy Lee and Lara Croft had a half-Creole baby and gave her too much eyeliner for her birthday.

Needless to say, I look out of place among my cousins. But despite my best efforts, I inherited the Lacombe genes with our high cheekbones and small frames, and I have a tendency to wear a lot of jewelry—earrings dot my ears and I have at least one ring on each of my fingers—so I can't help but look somewhat girly.

"So what are you going to do, then?" Becca asks, hand on hip, jutted chin. "Just, like, pack a bag and drive, with just the GPS on your phone to guide you and your Charger through three states?"


  • "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 (writing as J. Lynn), #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
Mar 3, 2015
Page Count
320 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