Wild In Love (Field Guides For Love #2)

Chapter 1

sofía

The barista is fucking up my iced matcha latte.

I should have changed my order after the young kid—still in high school, based on his shaggy haircut—gave me a bewildered look when I asked for the Japanese green tea.

We’re in Los Angeles; this is not the craziest order he’s going to receive this morning, but it might be his most difficult as he raises the wooden whisk in front of him, twirling it around to examine it like an unidentified specimen.

Let me behind the counter, I scream in my mind. I can make it in two minutes flat and save us all a headache.

The mosaic tile counter is all that prevents me from leaping into action, and my fingernails dig into the canvas strap of my bag as I restrain the urge to walk him through the process step-by-step.

It’s not my job to make drinks; it’s his.

The coffee shop hired him for a reason, right?

I need to trust he knows how to do his job.

He scoops a heaping pile of powder directly into the cup.

Oh, god.

Not the proper step in the matcha-making process. My trust is misplaced. Water steams as he pours it in, the concoction changing into a brown-green color with chunks floating around. A few ice cubes, a glug of milk, and he slaps a lid on the plastic cup.

This is why I make my drinks at home—it’s never quite right when someone else does it.

Whistling steam from the espresso machine drowns out the alt-rock music, and plants decorate the small space, vines trailing and hanging from every surface. I snag a booth in the back corner, covered in old postcards and stamps hodgepodged to the wobbly table.

In another world—one where the barista executed my drink to perfection—I could imagine this coffee shop as an ideal place to work. Quiet, inviting, void of all the businessmen and tech bros who always seem to ruin my life.

“Iced matcha latte for…Sophie?”

Ugh.

He didn’t even get my name right.

The high schooler scratches at the back of his neck, eyeing my drink, and I give it one sip—in case I’m wrong and it’s a masterpiece—but it draws up the straw like sludge and hits my tongue like bitter medicine.

Nope. I’ll make one at home after this meeting.

As horrible as the drink is, I don’t have the courage to tell him and ask for a remake. I don’t want to be difficult or high maintenance, so I offer him the most genuine smile I can muster as the goop rolls down my throat, then spin on my heel to escape his uncertain stare.

The smile may not have been as convincing as I’d hoped.

With my disgraceful drink set to the side, I pull out my laptop, notebook, and pens to prepare for the vague, anxiety-inducing meeting my new boss called after a week of silence.

It’s been four weeks since Jett Parks convinced me to work for him, one since my official start date, and this is our first meeting.

When I emailed him about my duties on my first day—since I would be working remotely while he was visiting his family in Indiana—he responded with “do your thing” and “Sent from my iPhone.”

The lack of direction sent me into a tizzy, considering my new role’s official title is “CLB”—or, as Jett would say, Chief Lady Badass.

Do I know the requirements and responsibilities of the role?

No. Was I convinced to accept the job by an astronomical pay increase from my last position at RogueWave Productions and the opportunity to build my own schedule? Absolutely.

No lady badass would turn down the yearly salary Jett offered (triple what RogueWave paid me). Not when said badass has student loans to pay, two younger sisters nearly ready to head to college—at the same time—and a hefty senior-living bill she helps pay every month.

The badass needed a raise, and Jett’s excessive persistence that I am “the missing piece he’s been searching for” and open policy for remote work wore me down.

When I met him eight months ago, there wasn’t a chance in hell I would accept a position with the chaotic, outgoing YouTuber.

Three weeks of working with him on a deep-sea documentary was sufficient time to know we are polar opposites, and any long-term working relationship could end in a fiery blaze with our friend group burned to ashes.

As a person, Jett is great. As a boss? I’m unsure.

But here I am, his new production coordinator and team manager, eating my words and trying to ignore the anxious churning in my stomach as I wait for him to arrive.

The list of tasks I’ve completed since my start date sits beside me, and the vision board on my computer background peeks out from behind the organization and planning software I use religiously.

According to my calendar, Jett is six minutes late.

Messages pop up on my screen, one after another in quick succession, but none of the names belong to my boss with an explanation for his tardiness. Instead, it’s Luisa and Maria blowing up our sisters’ group chat with text after text about their college admissions essays and all the help they need.

Help they want from me.

This is not a conversation I have time for, and as much as I love them, nerves chew apart my patience. They can wait until after the meeting.

It’s not like I asked for the rough drafts two months ago and they waited until the last minute to write the two-thousand-word essay. That would be crazy.

The brass bell above the café door dings, and my head jerks up to identify the patron, but I dismiss them after scanning over the collared shirt. Jett is not a collared-shirt man. He’s more of a “worn-out band t-shirt, cargo shorts, and scuffed-up Vans” type of guy.

Wait a minute.

I slide my gaze over the loose strands of brown hair, half pulled back into a bun.

Along the line of his jaw and the well-groomed beard.

I’m greeted with a goofy grin, warm hazel eyes flecked with green and gold, and a version of Jett I hardly recognize.

His energy is the same, chaotic but somehow welcoming, but his appearance has morphed.

Gone is the unruly hair, replaced by a tidy, well-maintained chop at the collarbone.

Where I expected his beat-up wardrobe from the research trip, I’m greeted with a clean, casual style.

The clothes themselves aren’t flashy. Khakis and a simple button-down shirt with tiny blue and green flowers, but the quality of the material is evident.

All that remains is the pair of lace-up Vans, but the shoes are new, lacking the tiny hole in the toe.

While he orders, my heartbeat kicks up as potential topics of conversation fly through my mind. He reaches the booth, but instead of sitting across from me as social norms would dictate, he rounds the table, swings his arm over my shoulder, and rips me into a tight hug.

The muscles in my body seize, then loosen as the scent of fresh, earthy tea wafts through the air. “I’ve missed you,” he mutters. “How’s my favorite employee?”

“I figured Doug was your favorite employee” are the first words out of my mouth after the change in style and unexpected hug.

One thing has remained since we disembarked—he still flusters me. It wasn’t a three-week fluke. His candid, upbeat, curious nature surprised me at every turn on the research vessel.

I’d bet money this job will be no different.

“He’s been replaced by my newest hire.” His smile grows, and he nudges my shoulder. “How’s the first week been?”

“I, uh, I was hoping we would talk about that,” I stammer, unsure how to navigate this. The dynamics of our relationship are murky to begin with, and Jett is the most hands-off boss I’ve ever encountered. “I need more structure.”

His brows pinch. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No. No.” I wave a hand in the air. “I need more guidance about what you expect me to accomplish in my role. I can tell you what I’ve done so far, and then we can talk about goals and deliverables?”

Nerves flutter in my stomach as I slide the briefing I prepared for him out of the folder.

It outlines the tasks I’ve accomplished, where I think I could be of help, and areas where I’m inexperienced but willing to learn.

Jett chews on his lower lip while he reads, pausing on words and dragging his finger beneath the lines.

He makes it through a third of the list before his ears grow pink. Understanding tickles the back of my mind, so I take a different approach.

“Why don’t we go over each one?”

He scratches at the back of his neck, his lips ticking up in a timid smile. “I’d like that.”

I pick up the paper with flair and list out my bullet points:

· Organized his email, categorized invoices, and flagged important replies

· Updated his branding and website to include material from the “Aliens of the Deep” documentary he helped produce, and reconnected broken links

· Reviewed and updated contracts, health insurance forms, and employee benefits

His mouth falls open. “You did all this in a week?”

“Yes, but I was hoping to complete less…menial tasks.” I pause when the barista delivers a massive sugar-packed concoction topped with whipped cream and chocolate flakes.

Jett lifts it into the air, and my teeth ache from looking at it. It’s zero percent coffee, one hundred percent added sugar.

“Cheers,” he says, tapping his drink against mine before taking a gulp. When I don’t take a sip, he frowns. “You’re not drinking your green thing.”

“It’s not right.” I push the offending sludge farther away from me. “It’s fine. I’ll make one when I get home.”

I attempt to redirect the conversation back to my responsibilities, but he’s not having it.

“Nonsense.” Jett snatches my latte and rises before I can blink. “You deserve the most perfect drink for your hard work.”

He speaks with a different barista, his arms flailing through the air, and three minutes later, he’s back at the table with a perfect iced matcha latte.

“The barista who made your drink was new. Try this one.”

Jett tracks my movements as I lift the straw to my lips and sip.

Fuck, this is perfect.

A tiny moan escapes, and I slap a hand over my mouth.

“Right on,” he says before scooping up whipped cream with his tongue. “This is wicked good.”

The stress coiled in my muscles melts away as I savor the earthy, smooth taste of the tea. Silence descends while we each revel in our beverages, and once he’s reached the bottom of the cup—a loud slurping sound filling the air—he sets it aside and drops his elbows on the table.

A loose strand of hair falls in front of my face, and I tuck it behind my ear. Jett’s focus flickers to follow the movement, and I squash the urge to squirm under the intensity of his gaze, like I’m a bug beneath a magnifying glass and he’s looking on in wonder.

“I think it would be good to go over professional expectations and boundaries,” I say, shaking away the thought, “since this is a unique relationship and we’re also…friends—”

“We’re friends,” he confirms.

Warmth creeps down my neck.

“I want to make sure we’re aligned on what’s appropriate for our dynamic.”

“Uh, all right? Well, Molly and Doug—my accountant and videographer—are married. They do what they want, and as long as they get their jobs done, I’m happy. It’s a low-stress job. The same goes for you.”

“And how do you navigate when work crosses over into personal matters?”

Jett blinks. “What?”

“I don’t want anything to become weird because we have the same friends. Would you prefer we not speak about work in group settings? How do you handle conflict and reviews? Yearly? Biannually?”

These are questions I posed in an email before my start date, though they went unanswered. Understanding boundaries and professional expectations ensures I don’t fuck anything up.

He snatches the pen and paper from me, doodling an image of a dog.

“You’re overthinking this. No reviews. If you have a problem, tell me.

It’s not a big deal. No one’s life is at stake.

I once had to moderate a heated debate about bagels between Molly and Doug.

Nothing you ever bring up will be worse than that experience. ”

A shudder racks through him, and I have to suppress a laugh. “Bagels?”

“Doug said Molly’s order was disgusting. She took offense, and they spent an hour arguing about schmears and sandwiches. Her order was a toasted cinnamon raisin topped with American cheese. He was right.”

My stomach convulses, and I resist the urge to dry heave, wishing I could erase the image from my mind.

“What about our friends?”

Forming deep friendships in your late twenties is rare, and I don’t want to lose the ones I’ve made if this job doesn’t work out. They’re our friends—connections built at the same time.

“If we get work divorced, you can have Blondie and Ames. I’ll take Mateo and Oliver. We can switch on holidays.”

“You’re teasing me.”

He gasps, clutching his chest. “I would never,” he declares. The smile plastered on his face tells another story. “I don’t know why you want more work since you’ve already done more than I expected to happen in a year, but…”

“But?” I lean forward in my seat. “Do you have a task for me? I can do it.”

It’s difficult to tamp down the eagerness lacing my question, though I try. His brow quirks, an amused smile tilting his lips. Excitement pours off him in waves as he throws his arms up and wiggles his fingers.

“I’ve come up with a spectacular idea for our next project.” He taps on the table in quick succession like he’s playing the drums, then cheers, “We’re going to Australia!”