Finding Love: Clumsy Little Hearts Trilogy, #2

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, or events is coincidental and not intended by the author.

––––––––

If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as unsold and destroyed to the publisher. In such case the author has not received any payment for this stripped book.

––––––––

Finding Love

Copyright © 2024 Julie Navickas

All rights reserved.

––––––––

ISBN: (ebook) 978-1-958136-96-6

(print) 978-1-958136-97-3

––––––––

Inkspell Publishing

207 Moonglow Circle #101

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

––––––––

Edited By Audrey Bobek

Cover Art By Fantasia Frog Designs

––––––––

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used, including but not limited to, the training of or use by artificial intelligence, or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. The copying, scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions, and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

DEDICATION

Here I go. Scream my lungs out and try to get to you. You are my only one. I let go, but there’s just no one that gets me like you do. You are my only, my only one.

~Yellowcard

––––––––

This book is dedicated to my husband, Tommy. Thank you for introducing me to Yellowcard’s music when we were just teens. Like William Ryan Key sings, you are indeed, my only one.

CHAPTER 1

––––––––

Rachel

Rachel sank in her seat as she glided her hands over the rip in the faux leather cushion. She frowned and lifted her gaze to her twin brother, Ryan, catching the tail end of his eye roll from across the sticky table.

"Rach, I’m sorry that you’re hurting. But we both know Ian was not the one. He wrapped his arm around Tess’s shoulder. Pressing a kiss to the top of his girlfriend’s blonde head, he sighed. I mean, you said so yourself."

I did.

But her chest ached with the unexpected loss. She cleared her throat and nodded. I might have said that, she mumbled and sipped her strawberry margarita.

Then why are you taking this breakup with Ian so hard? Ryan asked.

Rachel shrugged and gripped her glass, twirling the straw in a lazy circle as the roar of bar patrons at Highside filled her ears. She took another gulp and relished the cold liquid as it slid down her throat. The truth nagged at the back of her brain, pawing and pinching at her mind.

Admit it. You know why it hurts so much.

Rachel shook her head. I guess, she muttered and lifted her gaze to the TV screen, rolling a highlight reel of the Los Angeles Rams’ most recent victory. "I just assumed that when our relationship was over, it would have been me who ended it."

And how terrible does that make me?

Tess picked at her fingernails and peeled the pink paint away from the nailbed. I kinda thought so, too. I liked Ian, but...

Right? Rachel groaned. And I know how bad that makes me sound. Raising her shoulders, she frowned. I just thought we’d have a little more fun together and then we’d move on. He grew on me though. More than I expected him to.

Ian’s hand clasped hers in a memory, squeezing her palm as a silly fun fact dripped from his endearing lips—until Ryan’s snort shattered the recollection.

You cannot tell me you miss all the fun science facts. Or the Celestron. He cringed. Literally, that’s all the guy talked about... stars... and planets...

That’s not true.

Rachel rolled her eyes. I know he was a little nerdy. She shrugged. But there was a lot more to him that you didn’t get to see.

We spent a full weekend with the guy. Shared a tent, even! Ryan’s eyes widened as he leaned forward. Trust me. We saw—and heard—plenty.

No. You saw the introverted Ian forced to be in a crowd. You didn’t get to know him one-on-one snuggled beneath the blankets on a Sunday morning.

Rachel sighed. You don’t get it. I don’t expect you to.

Reaching across the table, Ryan gripped her hand. Here’s what I do get. I get that he made you happy. I get that he was meant for fun. And I get that it’s hard to be dumped. As he shook his head, pity poured from his dark brown eyes, complementing the sad smile on his lips. "Ian wasn’t my favorite guy, but I’ll admit that if it were not for him and his fun facts, I may not have found my way back to Tess."

Tess sucked in a breath as she turned, her wide-eyed gaze zeroing in on him. Wait, what?

Ryan’s cheeks flushed. He just, ah, helped me see things from a new perspective.

He was good at that, added Rachel.

He was good at a lot of things.

Rach? Tess hesitated. Can I ask? What was his reason? Why’d he end it?

Rachel pressed her lips together as the now-familiar squeeze in her heart throbbed deep within her chest. Oh. She swallowed the margarita returning from her stomach. He said we were too different.

That’s it? Tess frowned and popped a fried pickle in her mouth.

Er, mostly.

With a grin, Ryan tipped his beer glass to his lips and drained the last bit of liquid. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. What’s that supposed to mean? Mostly?

Rachel folded her arms across her chest as the truth tickled her tongue. She sighed and lowered her gaze to her lap.

It’s kind of embarrassing.

Rach? Her brother’s foot bumped into hers beneath the table.

He, she started before sinking further into the booth. "He called me out. Apparently, I live my life for everyone else but myself."

Ugh. Gosh, is he really right?

Tess’s eyes widened as she slurped the last bit of her white Russian. She cleared her throat before leaning into Ryan.

He’s right.

No way. Rolling her eyes again, Rachel propped her elbows on the table and stared at the tiny bit of squashed strawberry left at the bottom of her glass. I just love my family, and I like seeing everyone happy! What’s so wrong with that? Her palms smacked the surface of the table. "I mean, I might poke my nose in a bit—"

"Poke your nose in a bit? Ryan barked out a laugh and nodded at the waitress as she cleared their empty drinks from the table. Rach, your nose is so far into everyone’s business that it’s hard to breathe."

She scowled. That’s so unfair! And untrue!

Is it?

Come on, guys, Tess murmured as the waitress returned in record speed with another round of drinks.

Cheers, y’all, she muttered and shuffled away, leaving behind the growing tension at the table.

Rach. Ryan sighed and tilted his head. Ian has a point. I’m not saying that I’m not thankful for the support and encouragement you’ve shown us over the last few months. He swung his arm over Tess’s shoulder again. But to be fair, at times it felt like—

I was overstepping, she added. Her stomach sank, nauseated by the recipe of truth and tequila beneath her nose. I get it.

Tess leaned forward and gripped her hand. "Please don’t be so hard on yourself. Maybe this is a sign. A good sign."

My boyfriend just dumped me, and you guys are telling me I’m too overbearing. How can this be a good sign?

How?

Tess is right. Ryan readjusted the ball cap on his head, flipping the brim around to the back. Maybe this is the universe’s way of telling you to prioritize yourself for once. He nudged her beneath the table with his foot again. "Do what’s best for you. Not me and Tess. Not Rose and Cole. Do you, Rach. Think about what you want."

"Me, huh? Rachel brought the glass to her lips and sipped until the fresh strawberry liquor numbed her tongue. What I want, she repeated as the advice sank in. Sure."

But what do I want?

––––––––

Two hours later, Rachel stared at her laptop and scrolled through the most recent properties listed out of habit. With a sigh, she snuggled deeper under the covers and stretched her legs out sideways across the queen-sized bed.

Her gaze drifted to the empty space beside her—a stark reminder of Ian’s absence. I miss you, she whispered to the pillow. Disappointment settled in her gut, the reality of being single again souring her stomach.

Ryan has Tess. Rose has Cole. And I’m just the sad, pathetic Prescott sibling who can’t find love.

A breath left her lips as she closed the laptop and grabbed her phone. I can’t believe I’m about to do this again. With a scoff, Rachel logged in and refreshed her Bumble dating profile. Ian’s face appeared as her last match, and she quickly tapped the X in the corner.

She re-read her bio and cringed as both self-loathing and embarrassment tingled along her spine, the simple paragraph inducing a thin layer of sweat to appear on her forehead. Her eyes glossed over her previous words. An adventurous, free-spirited woman living life authentically. I value connection and thrive on deep conversations. Looking for an accountable man who is ambitious, generous, dependable, and values family.

Rachel scrunched her nose at the generic string of words. This is stupid, she whispered, but clicked save anyway.

Sadness crept into her soul, ready to jump start her heart with another pity party. I don’t know what else to do though, she whispered with a shrug.

How the fuck else am I supposed to prioritize myself?

Swallowing the sorrow building in her chest, she re-activated her profile and groaned as the first suggestion appeared on her screen. Bobby, she muttered. Into L.A.R.P. and composting. Rachel cringed. Looking for a woman ready to role play— With a snicker, she swiped left.

Sorry, Bobby. Not my cup of tea.

Andrew appeared on her screen next, his frosted tips a dead ringer for a winner at a 2001 Justin Timberlake lookalike contest. "Okay, Andrew, looking for a man or woman ready to mosh at the next rave—"

And nope.

Swiping left again, Rachel snorted and moved her laptop to the nightstand. She turned off the bedside lamp and tugged at the covers. Squinting at the bright glare on her phone screen, Keith’s face looked back as she pressed her cheek to the pillow. And Keith, with a passion for breeding snakes, spiders, and rodents. Her eyes widened as a smile tickled her lips.

Hard pass, Keith.

The next face appeared. Tripp’s sexy grin sent an immediate tingle racing along her skin, his bright blue eyes lifting her spirit as she read his profile. An adrenaline junkie living life in the moment. I thrive on adventure and spontaneity. Looking for a woman ready to sleep beneath the stars and climb the tallest mountain.

"Okay, Tripp. I probably won’t jump out of an airplane with you tomorrow, but I won’t turn down a rock-climbing adventure." Rachel snickered and swiped right.

Can’t hurt to try.

Stephen’s face appeared next; his thick plastic-framed glasses resembled a large bug. Stephen. She grinned. Computers, coding, and a CPA. Swiping left, Rachel pressed her lips together.

No more accountants, please.

Ready to continue the split-second dating decisions with another flick of her finger, Rachel paused as a message appeared in her inbox—a note from Tripp. She clicked accept and a smile blossomed on her lips as she read the words addressed to her.

Hi Rachel. It’s nice to connect with you.

Gigging into the sheets, she eyed his sexy grin once more and tapped reply.

CHAPTER 2

––––––––

Miguel

Smoke invaded his nose. The nauseating smell sparked instant panic in his gut. What’s burning? Miguel whipped his head around and squinted at each stovetop in the kitchen. His gaze zeroed in on the boiling pan of cooking oil, smoking unattended on the furthest burner.

No! Not again!

Dropping the clipboard in his grasp, Miguel lunged for the ticking time bomb and gripped the handle before gently shifting it aside and away from the open flame. Who’s cooking with this? he roared with sweat dripping from his brow. He turned off the burner and stared daggers at the smattering of prep cooks and kitchen assistants. Fury built in his chest with each passing, silent second. "I asked, who is cooking with this?"

What’s wrong, boss? Michelle’s weak voice echoed in the still kitchen.

What’s wrong? Miguel hung his head. What’s wrong? he repeated and pointed at the slowly cooling cooking oil. Who here knows the exact temperature at which smoking vegetable oil turns into a pan of wildfire?

The eerie silence rang in the kitchen, all eyes focused on the smoldering oil.

Anger bubbled in his belly as their blank stares returned his simple question. Four fifty, he muttered and pointed at the smoking pan again. At four hundred- and fifty-degrees Fahrenheit, cooking oil becomes an uncontrollable flame. I’ll give you three guesses what temp this pan—

The memory impaled him, the chaos of the freak accident hammering into his mind as flames licked his brain with recall. Releasing a breath, Miguel shook his head and closed his eyes as the screams faded. Pier Ninety-Two burned to the ground in a grease fire once. On my watch. And so help me, God, it will not happen again. We have to be more careful, you guys, he added.

We’re sorry, boss, Michelle whispered.

Lifting his hand to his forehead, Miguel kneaded the brewing headache. He sighed and returned his gaze to the kitchen staff. His heart sank at their stunned, motionless expressions. Shit, you guys, I just...

The door to his right burst open and Kate and Callie walked in, both balancing a stack of empty bread baskets. They froze in unison to stare at the still kitchen. What? Kate frowned.

I look crazy, don’t I?

Miguel backed away from the hot oil and retreated to the dropped clipboard on the floor. He picked it up with a still sinking heart, witnessing the slow movements of the staff as they returned to their jobs.

I overreacted, he mumbled and locked eyes with Michelle as she dunked a utensil in a pot and stirred.

A shy grin lifted her lips. Must have been one hell of a fire. She ladled soup into a bowl and stepped away.

The flames reappeared in his mind, the heat returning to sear his skin. Eyeing the pink scars spanning the length of his right forearm, he sighed.

I can’t let it happen again.

I won’t let it happen again, he whispered and lifted his line of sight to the orders piling up on the digital screen.

Oy! Dennis, where are we at with that salmon? Callie called as she refilled the baskets with fresh bread. Table ten is complaining about the wait.

Her voice faded away as Miguel slipped out the side door and into the hallway. Groaning with each step forward, he trudged to his office and shut the door.

The quiet space penetrated his ears; the calls and clanks echoed from the kitchen in the distance. With a heavy sigh, he sank into his seat and rolled toward the desk. Drawn like a magnet, his gaze latched onto the photograph in front of him. The memories of the original Pier Ninety-Two returned to his mind’s eye—Lauren’s beaming smile squeezing his heart with the ghosts of the past.

I miss you, boss, he whispered. Resting a finger on her face beneath the glass, Miguel closed his eyes and dropped his head to the surface of the desk. You ran this place so much better than me. His body relaxed against the wood. And who am I kidding? I miss having you by my side.

But I see why you gave this place up.

The memory of Lauren Templeton-Benson’s laughter sang in his ear, the years spent together, working side-by-side running the restaurant consuming his heart. Miguel opened his eyes and the solitary office looked back—a stark comparison to the lingering loneliness in his soul.

The phone rang and Miguel scooped it up. Yeah?

Boss, it’s Michelle. There’s a lady on line two for you. She says she’s the new head chef you hired?

Oh! Okay, yeah, put Melissa through. He straightened and rolled his neck around his shoulders as the line clicked over.

Mr. Rodriguez?

Yep, hi, Melissa. How are you?

Calling with some bad news, I’m afraid.

His stomach clenched, taking with it the last remaining ounce of patience for the day. Sighing into the phone, he cringed.

Er, well, I’m not really sure how to say this, so I’m just going to say it. I’m sorry to tell you I can no longer accept the job you offered me. My husband is being relocated to the East coast and...

Her voice drifted away in a meaningless wave of noise. Dropping his forehead into his palms, Miguel wrinkled his nose.

It took me three months to find and hire you! You were supposed to start next week!

A clank from the kitchen echoed down the hall, rattling his brain even through his closed office door.

Damn it. Now what am I supposed to do? The kitchen is falling apart!

Mr. Rodriguez? Can you hear me?

Miguel swallowed. Umm, yes, I can. Sorry—

Well, like I said. I do apologize for the trouble, she added.

It’s okay. It’s so not okay. My best wishes to you in the future.

The line disconnected.

––––––––

Miguel closed the front door and flipped the lock. Rubbing his eyes at the late hour, he waved at Michelle.

She tugged on a sweater and stepped out from behind the bar. You heading out, too? she asked.

Miguel shook his head. Not yet. I need to post a new ad before calling it a night.

For what?

He sighed. A head chef.

Wait, I thought you just hired one?

I did. He rolled his eyes. But she can’t take the job anymore. Miguel leaned forward on the bar and picked at a sticky crumb. Back to square one, he murmured.

Well shit, that sucks! We really need an extra hand back there. And some leadership. She flung her arms in the air and huffed out a breath. I mean, you saw the mishap this afternoon.

Miguel blew out a heavy breath. Sure did.

With a frown, Michelle adjusted the purse strap on her shoulder. Anything I can do?

He shook his head. No, it’s okay. You go home. It’s been a long day.

You sure? Because I can totally stay and—

Go home. He smiled and sank onto a barstool. But I appreciate your offer.

G’night then, boss.

Night, Michelle. Thanks for your work today.

She nodded and her footsteps echoed down the hall—the tiny tinkle of a bell sounding in the distance as she exited the building.

Groaning, Miguel stood and pushed the barstool back in place. He eyed the swanky new space, recalling the former walls, decorations, and Lauren’s signature style when she owned Pier Ninety-Two no more than a year ago.

Lauren, he whispered and tugged a beer from the mini-fridge behind the bar. Miguel brought the bottle to his lips and gulped the cold liquid. It slid down his throat and quelled the scratchy burn from a day spent managing the restaurant. Job ads and inventory, health inspections and party planning, he mumbled before wiping his lips with the back of his hand. I see why you handed it over and left.

Not to mention you were married. And I was hopelessly in love with you.

CHAPTER 3

––––––––

Rachel

Rachel waved goodbye to her clients as they paraded out the front door of a simple cookie-cutter three-bedroom ranch-style home on the outskirts of Torrance, California.

Have a nice afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Davis! she called and closed the front door. Stepping back inside, she reached for the kitchen light and flipped the switch with a sigh. They’re definitely not interested in this one. Rachel swallowed the growing swell of defeat in her gut. It never takes me this long to find the right property, she whispered to the empty room with a groan.

Toughest clients yet.

The air conditioning unit kicked on and the small space hummed to life. She lifted her bag and rummaged for her phone. Two voicemails from unknown numbers looked back. Likely new clients. That’s good. With a grin, she eyed her text log and tapped in a quick reply to Tess’s latest question about property taxes as she and Ryan worked to purchase their first house flip project.

Her finger hovered over the Bumble app and her stomach dipped, the thought of her ongoing conversation with Tripp speeding her pulse. She tapped the icon and giggled as an unread message in her inbox appeared.

And just what does your ideal date look like, Tripp Erickson? With a snicker, Rachel tapped his reply and skimmed over the growing message thread. She eyed her own answer first. I love camping and being outdoors, so I think my ideal date is a starlit evening—and a roaring fire. Toss in a cold beer and a s’more and I’d say it’s the dream with the right person.

She nodded at her response and scrolled lower, seeking his reply. Your ideal date sounds pretty close to mine. Swap out the s’more for a snuggle beneath a blanket and call it done.

A sharp tingle skirted across her skin leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. Smiling at the sweet response, hope blossomed in her heart over the similarities they seemed to share. Rachel clicked reply and grinned as each letter appeared on the screen. Sounds like we have a lot in common, Tripp, she spoke as she typed.

Her words landed at the bottom of their conversation as adrenaline shot through her body—the three little dots appearing instantly indicating his reply. Rachel pressed a hand to her heart and each beat pounded against her palm.

She swallowed a ball of anxiety as Tripp’s reply appeared. What would you say to dinner and drinks this evening? I’d like to see what else we have in common, Rachel.

A roar sounded in her ears and excitement flooded her system with hurricane-like strength. You’re asking me out on a date? Rachel cackled with elated laughter, filling the tiny kitchen with an outburst of happiness. There is just no way it can be this easy, she murmured and stared