Hopeless Romantic Read online

  Also by Marina Adair

  When in Rome series

  RomeAntically Challenged

  Hopeless Romantic

  Sweet Plains, Texas series

  Tucker’s Crossing

  Blame It on the Mistletoe

  Nashville Heights series

  Promise Me You

  Sequoia Lake series

  It Started with a Kiss

  Every Little Kiss

  The Eastons

  Chasing I Do

  Heroes of St. Helena series

  Need You for Keeps

  Need You for Always

  Need You for Mine

  St. Helena Vineyard series

  Kissing Under the Mistletoe

  Summer in Napa

  Autumn in the Vineyard

  Be Mine Forever

  From the Moment We Met

  Sugar, Georgia series

  Sugar’s Twice as Sweet

  Sugar on Top

  A Taste of Sugar

  Hopeless Romantic

  MARINA ADAIR

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Teaser chapter

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2021 by Marina Chappie

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  The K logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2770-1 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-2770-3 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2767-1

  To the best plotting ninjas a girl could

  ask for. Skye Jordan, Jill Shalvis,

  and RaeAnne Thayne, thank you for your

  friendship and guidance. I’d share peanut brittle

  with you three any day!

  To the Sacramento Autistic Spectrum

  and Special Needs Alliance (SASSNA),

  Autism Speaks, and Autism Society, for

  spreading awareness and enhancing the

  lives of individuals and families living

  with autism spectrum disorder.

  Chapter 1

  According to town legend, Beckett Hayes didn’t believe in romance. It couldn’t possibly be that she was actually a hopeless romantic who’d spent practically a decade living in—and trying unsuccessfully to leave—Rome. Looking for romance in Rome was as cliché as wishing on shooting stars or chasing rainbows, both of which had about as much chance of success as swiping right in the pursuit of everlasting love.

  Nope, Beckett had never put much stock in Cupid. Now, a laundry fairy? That was a mythological creature she could get behind.

  She was never much interested in dreaming about “The One” or “The Dress” worthy of a resounding yes. There were far better ways to spend her sleeping hours—sadly, sleep being at the top of her list. So what if people believed she was too practical for love? That was far less pathetic than the reality.

  Beckett didn’t have time for love. That was the ugly and embarrassing truth. Life seemed to consume her every waking hour. Anything more complicated than no-strings dating and the occasional petite morte provided by someone who didn’t require a battery wasn’t in the cards right now. Which made Bruce the perfect Man of the Moment.

  Like her, Bruce was insanely busy, liked to spend his downtime bicycling up the coast, and, as an added bonus, didn’t disappoint in bed. He wasn’t a big hitter by any means, but he got the job done. Unfortunately, he was also a bit boring.

  And late, she thought, glancing around the bar. Okay, that was a lie. She pretended to search for her date while taking in a long drink of Levi Rhodes and all his testosterone-dripping glory as he carried a keg of beer single-handedly from one end of his bar to the other—earning the attention of every female patron in the joint.

  It was one of the few times Beckett reacted in accord with the ladies’ night crowd. But a glimpse of Levi was worth lowering her standards. Not that she’d let him know that. It would just make his day.

  And if there was one thing Beckett hated more than being cliché, it was making Levi’s day.

  Levi applied the same fierce dedication to running his family’s bar and marina as he did cementing his status as Rome’s Most Unattainable Romeo. Not that there was a large pool of sexy and single men under sixty-five in Rome. Because the Rome in question was not known for its Sistine Chapel or romantic fountains. No, Levi was a born-and-bred Roman from Rome, Rhode Island, a small beach community that was home to the world’s largest clam dig.

  It was hard to get romantic about clams.

  Levi was another story. Which was why Beckett made sure to stay on the hate side of their love/hate relationship. When she walked into the Crow’s Nest, a former fish market that had been expertly repurposed into a sleek, high-energy bar and grill, she was always combat-ready, prepared for what was sure to be the cockfight of the century.

  So it didn’t surprise her when her entrance was met with curious, and a few flabbergasted, looks. Or when Levi took time out of his very busy schedule to lock those stormy blue eyes on hers and mouth, “You’re trouble.”

  It was nearly five, so he was fielding requests from all sides as the after-work crowd rushed to get their happy hour orders in under the wire. But there he stood, casually filling up mugs in a pair of boat shoes, blue cargo pants slung low on his hips, and a white long-sleeve Henley that was stretched to the limit over his broad shoulders and six-pack.

  Guys like Levi didn’t rush—for anyone. They were too busy playing Peter Pan to be bothered with the concept of time. Even the way he took orders, chatting up the patrons while tossing around good-natured laughs and flirty winks as if he were one handshake from announcing his candidacy for Rhode Island’s next governor.

  “Trouble?” Beckett mouthed back, making a big to-do about looking over her shoulder, then clutching a hand to her chest. “Me?”

  He pressed his lips together, looking handsome in a pissed-off way that made her heart feel like breaking out in song.

  Beckett smiled her best smile and walked over to the bar, unsnapping her bike helmet and sitting on a stool.

  “It’s that kind of hospitality that keeps me coming back,” she said to Levi, although his eyes were trained on her co-worker of sorts, Gregory, who took the stool next to hers. She’d met Gregory at Fur-Ever Friends, a nonprofit dedicated to training emotional support companions for people with emotional or neurological disabilities.

  Gregory was fun and guaranteed to keep things entertaining, should Bruce choose to forget his sense of humor at home again. Or Levi choose to be nice to her. The love/hate line always got a bit fuzzy when he was nice.

  There wasn’t much chance of nice happening tonight, though, because while fun, Gregory was also a honey-colored silkie chicken nearing the end of his ESA training.

  Levi pinched the bridge of his nose. “Come on, Beck, we’ve gone through this. No pets allowed in my bar.”

  “He isn’t a pet. He’s an emotional support companion and my latest trainee. He also happens to be from a long line of silkie chickens who have provided support for humans with PTSD, autism, social anxiety, and seizures. Isn’t that right, Gregory?”

  “Cluuuck cluckcluckcluck.” Gregory’s little beak peeked over the lip of the countertop when he squawked a very loud affirmative.

  “Gregory?”

  “Gregory Pecker,” she clarified, and the rooster in question flapped his wings to get on the bar. Beckett caught him in mid-flight and set him back on the stool with a stern wag of her finger.

  His response was to peck Beckett’s nail—hard.

  “Hey, no biting.”

  “Pa-cock,” Gregory sassed.

  “This is why I need to bring him out in public more,” she said to Levi. “He tends to misbehave in front of a crowd. It’s the whole mine-is-bigger-than-yours BS—he needs to show the other guys just how impressive his wingspan is. Hens are so much easier to train.”

  Levi’s lips twitched, but he kept his not-on-my-watch expression firmly in place. “You got papers for Pecker and his wingspan?”

  “He prefers Mr
. Pecker or Gregory, and he has a vest.” Beckett did her best game-show-girl impression to showcase the adorable SERVICE COCK vest that Mable, one of Beckett’s most loyal customers, had knitted as a Christmas gift.

  The vest was red, which matched Gregory’s wattle and really highlighted his beautiful white feathers, and had holes big enough to accommodate his wings.

  “So is that a no on the papers?” Resting his forearms on the bar, Levi leaned in as if stressing the seriousness of Gregory’s working animal status. “Then, I’m sorry, but unless Pecker is a licensed service animal, he’s against health code, so he can shake his tail feathers in some other guy’s establishment.”

  “While I understand your rules, surely you can make an exception?”

  “Nope.”

  “But we’re celebrating. Tonight we completed hug training. He even got a little diploma, which means next week he gets to spend bonding time with his fur-ever companion.”

  “Hug training?” he challenged. “That’s as bad as the dog-ate-my-homework excuse.”

  “Watch.” Beckett patted her chest, and Gregory moved into action. He hopped on the bar and waddled to Beckett, his head rising like a periscope. She sent a whoopsie grimace Levi’s way, then leaned forward and patted her chest twice. Gregory walked to the end of the countertop as Beckett moved in close for a hug. The moment their chests touched, Gregory tilted his head and, resting it on her shoulder, delivered one of the sweetest hugs yet.

  “See how he’s pressing against my chest? The gentle pressure and soft cooing is proven to lower anxiety.”

  “Impressive. But he still has to go.”

  “There’s something else.” She looked around as if about to impart her deepest, darkest secret. “He’s training to be a companion for a vet with PTSD.” Which was pure fabrication. “It’s quite a sad but heroic story.”

  “Not my problem.” He pointed to the sign: NO SHOES, NO SHIRT, NO SERVICE, with a hand-scrawled AND NO PETS in Sharpie at the bottom that had been added when Beckett brought in her client’s llama, Larry, for lunch.

  In addition to training emotional support animals, a hobby that had begun when her younger brother was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder and they couldn’t afford a companion, Beckett was also a professional odd jobber.

  Pet sitting and picking up people’s dry cleaning wasn’t exactly living the dream, but when her family moved to Rome nine years ago, there weren’t a lot of career opportunities where specializing in “getting shit done” was the only qualification necessary. Beckett worked hard to find jobs flexible enough to accommodate her unique family situation, but over time her unpredictable schedule tried the patience of even the most understanding bosses. Which was how she found herself the favorite former-employee of nearly every mom-and-pop business in town.

  So odd jobs became her livelihood. She could set her own hours, choose her tasks and, most importantly, choose compatible clients. Being a glorified errand girl wasn’t glamorous but what she did was meaningful. Making people’s crazy lives a bit more manageable mattered. But there were days she felt like nothing more than a pizza delivery driver.

  Today happened to be one of those days. So she’d braved the end-of-winter temperatures to come to the Crow’s Nest, looking for a cold beer and a fun night out, and she wasn’t about to be cock-blocked by a bartender with rooster envy.

  “To be clear,” Beckett said, loud enough for the bar to hear, “are you anti–people with special needs, or anti–war heroes? I just need to clarify your stance, so I know whether or not to support your establishment.”

  Levi hitched a brow. “My dad was a vet, my grandfather was a vet, and you know damn well the only thing I object to is your menagerie of bizarre pets shitting in my bar.”

  “So, Gregory is being persecuted because he wasn’t born with four legs and a tail, or what society deems as more service-companion-like traits?”

  “Your service dogs have never shit in my bar,” he said coolly. “Your other animals don’t have the best track record.”

  “That only happened once, and it was because one of your customers fed Larry buffalo wings. Everyone knows llamas are vegans.”

  “Once was enough.” He extended a hand, palm up. A big, masculine hand that looked strong and capable. “Show me papers or find another place to haunt.”

  “You’re a species elitist.” She snapped her fingers, having an aha moment. “Unless. . . . Are you one of those guys who’s intimidated by a prettier cock?”

  “No.”

  “You sure? Because Gregory isn’t your everyday, ordinary cock. He’s got more up here”—she tapped a finger to her temple—“than most males. In fact, he’s living proof that a cock can be house-trained. I know, shocking.”

  His lips curved into a reluctant grin. And, man, when he grinned, that love/hate line went from fuzzy to forgotten. “Beck, everyone knows a pecker can be trained. Now, a cock on the other hand?” He shrugged. “If you were hoping to see one of those in action, you could have just asked for my number.”

  Beckett squirmed, a little flustered by the sexual banter. Because while he was giving her one of his double-dimpled smiles, something in his eyes hinted that he wasn’t joking.

  “Noted for next time,” she said, wishing she were wearing anything other than two-day-old jeans and helmet-hair from zipping back and forth across town on her Vespa.

  Levi didn’t move an inch as his eyes tracked down to her mouth and lower, taking in everything he could before making the slow trip back up. And if her nipples hadn’t given him a high-five on the descent, then they sure as heck did on his second pass.

  “Are you intimidated by a pretty cock?” was all he asked, but his voice was pitched low and sexy, making Beckett’s heart race frantically.

  “Not much intimidates me,” she said as casual as can be.

  Looking unconvinced, he rested his elbows on the bar, his biceps flexing under the weight as he moved in until their cheeks were nearly touching and his breath teased her earlobe. It teased a whole lot of other places, too. Places that the Bruces of the world could only locate with the help of a hand-drawn map and satellite-powered GPS tracking. Levi did it with a single look. “Noted for next time.”

  She laughed. “You’re awful cocky.”

  “It’s called confidence, Beck,” he said, and she ignored how much she liked it when he called her that. “Something you wear well.”

  A little thrown by his compliment, she let her gaze drift down to study the bar top. Levi flirted with everyone, but he never flirted with her. “Last time, you said I was stubborn.”

  “Did I mention I happen to like stubborn?”

  No, but her heart was never going to forget it. Neither was her head, because stubborn was one of those qualities, like smart, that men always found sexy until it was focused on someone other than them.

  Levi was a born charmer, with a laid-back and easygoing way about him, not to mention he was pretty easy on the eyes. But while he was busy getting to know everyone, she noticed he never gave away anything of himself.

  Beckett recognized his particular form of evasiveness. She saw it in the mirror every day when she brushed her teeth.

  “No. You also didn’t mention the drink specials,” she said.

  “I don’t serve anything in a trough or sipper bottle. But if you want to take your friend home and come back alone, I’ll serve you anything your little heart desires.”

  Too bad her little heart always desired things that were not good for her. Like flirting with Levi.

  “Sorry, no can do. I’m picking up a to-go order for the Harpers.” Which she would deliver on her way to the movies with Bruce. He was easy that way.

  “The Crow’s Nest doesn’t do to-go orders anymore.”

  “Sure you do.” She stretched her arm across the bar, hand inches from his face, and pointed to the ink scribbles on her palm. “Crab cakes. Two bowls of chowder. Salmon burger.” She mimicked the bouncing ball over the words as she read. “To go. It’s all right there.”