Hopeless Romantic

Book 2: When in Rome

by Marina Adair

Genres: Women's Fiction; Siblings

Synopsis

Set against the breezy backdrop of coastal Rhode Island, the latest novel from bestselling author Marina Adair asks whether two of a small town's biggest hearts can learn to put themselves first—in the name of love …
As caregiver for her autistic brother, Beckett Hayes knows how meaningful a little extra help can be when life happens. Which is why she runs Consider It Done,
a personal concierge service in her small town. Her job also gives her the flexibility to follow her passion, being Rome, Rhode Island's unofficial special needs
advocate, training emotional support companions in her spare time. There's not much of that, though, and certainly not enough for serious dating. It's always
been family first for Beck. But one unquestionably gorgeous, good-natured man is suddenly a temptation that's getting tougher to resist …
Sixteen years ago, Levi Rhodes was ready to sail off into the sunset—literally. But then his father's death and his sister's unexpected pregnancy postponed his
sailing scholarship and the adventures he had planned. Running the family marina and bar was the least he could do for his grieving mother. Plus, his niece needed a
father-figure. But now that she's in high school and has her bio-dad in her life, Levi's wondering if it's time to get his sea legs under him again … until curvy,
caring Beck showed up in his bar, and then in his dreams …

Release date: January 26, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Reader says this book is...: entertaining story (1) heartwarming (1) realistic characters (1) satisfying ending (1)

Sample

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.”

A tiny grin played at the side of his mouth.

“Oh, and Mrs. Harper says to go heavy on the fries. I guess last time the portions were a little stingy.”

“Gus shouldn’t be taking to-go orders,” Levi said, referring to his chef. “We are an in-dining establishment only.”

“Gus and I have an arrangement.” She winked.

“How did you manage that?”

“A month or so back, Annie was working a double at the hospital. Emmitt was in New York and wanted to make sure she had a hot meal, so he called me.” Annie was not only Emmitt’s new fiancée; she was also Beckett’s best friend. “It became a thing. Whenever he was out of town, he’d place an order; I’d deliver it to the hospital. What can I say—love makes people do crazy things.”

“Yeah, like completely ignore bro code,” he mumbled. “And Gus went along with this?”

“Gus is an excellent head chef. Accommodating and pleasant, which is why I decided to offer the service to all my clients. Gus thought it was a great idea and we formed a system. Customer calls me, I call Gus, Dean meets me at the back door.”

He ran a hand down his face. “You have my waitstaff in on this?”

“Just Dean.”

“Why am I not surprised?” He groaned.

“He thinks I should make an app. You know, really streamline the process. I’m considering it.”

“An app,” he repeated, but he didn’t sound angry. Oh no, the laid-back bartender grinned as if he found this entire thing amusing. “What am I going to do with you?”

Beckett could think of one million and one delicious things he could do to her. Since all but one landed in the “inside thoughts only” category, she said, “How about some crab cakes, two bowls of chowder, and a salmon burger to go? Pretty please.”

“Not even with sugar on top. No matter how appealing that might sound coming out of your mouth,” he said, and Beckett froze. When it came to Levi’s opinion of her mouth, appealing was never a word he’d used. Smart, loud, dirty at times, but never appealing. “Last time you had an arrangement with my restaurant, I spent my first night off in months serving two hundred mini crab cakes and six seafood platters at the fire chief’s retirement party. Not to mention the identical order we had to trash because it went bad waiting for pickup.”

“That was an unfortunate situation.” Which only managed to reconfirm Levi’s—totally bogus—opinion that Beckett was a flake.

Oh, she’d provided him with a dozen reasons to fuel that belief—and that was just in the past few months. But the old saying about withholding judgment until walking a mile in someone’s shoes? People would rather dance barefoot over glass shards and rusty fishhooks than even put on one of Beckett’s shoes. But she’d learned long ago that she didn’t have to justify her reality to anyone—no matter how sexy he might be.

“And it won’t ever happen again. I promise.” She almost cringed, because she’d also learned long ago never to make promises she couldn’t keep—even if she meant them in the moment.

“Can’t happen again, since we no longer do to-go orders,” he repeated. “And before you remind me how ludicrous, futile, and shortsighted my rules are, know that I’m not in the mood.”

She leaned on the bar, which brought her way past up close and personal. “You forgot moronic, asinine, and a bad business decision.”

He smiled. “My decision to make. In fact, if I wasn’t already overbooked and short-staffed, Gus would be looking for a new job. He’s struggling to keep up with the volume of orders from the bar and dining area. He doesn’t have time to be running orders for takeout. And don’t even get me started on Dean.”

“No running involved, because lucky for you, I was a state champion sprinter.” Which would come in handy, since she’d given herself four months to transform her little errand-running business into a lucrative company with a steady income.

That was two months ago, and there was no backup plan.

Beckett was too old to babysit or deliver papers, too controversial for office politics, and way too smart to participate in another clinical trial. Giving a temp agency a percentage of her hard-earned cash was also out. So eighteen months ago, she’d done what any self-respecting, mature woman with only a high school diploma and strong work ethic did when faced with acute, recurring unemployment syndrome.

She’d become her own boss.

According to the writers at Us Weekly and the mastermind team who wrote the “Your Next Career; You’re Welcome!” quiz, Beckett had four perfect matches for future employment: portable-toilet cleaner, landfill operator, adult entertainer, and becoming her own boss.

With the support of her friend Heineken, she quickly ruled out the first and second options—confined spaces gave her the willies, and vehicles with four wheels were a waste of resources. Option three had merit, but when it came to mastering tassels, she learned that she didn’t have the right skill set. Which left her with six empty bottles and a single option.

She’d filed the necessary paperwork for Consider It Done, Rome’s top personal concierge service, the next day and never looked back.

With years of odd jobs under her belt, establishing a steady base of regular customers hadn’t been hard. But convincing the town that hiring a personal concierge wasn’t the same as hiring a teenaged neighbor to mow the lawn? She was still working on that.

“I’m expanding my services to include select local businesses that could benefit from my expertise and experience. I can help with staffing, overseeing small projects, and bulk food delivery. I’m working with a law firm in town, handling all their employee relocations for intra-office transfers, and they’re willing to put me on retainer to be their lunch delivery service. We’re discussing which restaurants will be included on their list.”

She unzipped her favorite kick-ass leather jacket, which made her feel like a tough girl, and flashed Levi the new, personalized NO MATTER HOW BIG OR SMALL THE TASK, ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS ASK, THEN CONSIDER IT DONE tee she’d had printed up.

“Catchy.” He straightened. “Now I know how you got Dean to go along with you,” he said—to her chest.

“You’re such a guy.” But his suspicions had merit.

Dean was a twenty-year-old marine science major, on the six-year track at the local junior college, who embraced Van Life in his upcycled mustard colored, ’67 Volkswagen Deluxe Microbus. Catching waves and women were his way of life.

“How’d you get Gus to agree? The guy’s as rigid as his starched apron.”

“Dean went along for the tips.” She looked at the crowded waiting room, studying the new arrangement of the tables, which made room for three more tabletops but placed the hostess stand too far from the bar, making it impossible for people waiting there to hear their names being called. “Gus went along because he values my insight. Look around—you have more interest than seats available. And no matter how many different ways you try rearranging this place, there are always going to be more hungry customers than seats.”

“Not such a bad problem to have,” Levi said, but he didn’t sound as confident as he had a moment ago.

“Maybe. But kind of dumb to have a problem at all when the solution is sitting in front of you.”

Levi looked at her shirt again, then to the chicken who’d hopped into her lap.

“You’re right. I’d like to hire you to solve a pressing problem.” He took a folded bill from the tip jar, straightened it, then slapped it on the counter. “Here’s twenty bucks for you and your chicken to go anywhere but here.”

And to think at one time, she’d considered him sweet.

“No can do. I’m already on a job. Plus, you wouldn’t deny Gregory a celebratory drink for passing his empathy test, would you?”

“I’ll give you a paper cup and you can make him a trough. Outside.”

“Sorry. I’m meeting someone for a drink. Inside.” She took off her coat and leaned back, making herself comfortable.

“I hope this someone is human.”

Gregory took the moment to flap his little misbehaving butt onto the bar top again. Levi leveled a glare at him and then pointed a threatening finger.

“Oh, be careful, sometimes he . . . bites,” she trailed off, completely in awe when, instead of pecking at Levi, Gregory hopped back down into his chair, his clucking quickly morphing into a soft cooing.

“Wow, how did you do that?”

He leveled her with the same glare and, oh boy, those intense blue pools had her body cooing in no time. That’s when she noticed that his eyes looked almost turquoise in the light, with a sky-blue ring around the pupil.

As if he could sense exactly how her body reacted to that look, his lips curved. “Now, do me a favor and either take him home or leave him in the car. At least during prime serving hours.”

“What kind of person leaves a living being in their car?” she asked, horrified.

A familiar sadness welled in her gut. She knew firsthand the exact kind of person who would do something so selfish and inhumane. Which was why, over the years, Beckett volunteered her time connecting animals with human companions, because no one should have to face their fears alone.

“Plus, I drove my scooter tonight.” And every night, since she didn’t own any other vehicle. When absolutely necessary, she’d borrow her dad’s truck. But to her, a car was nothing more than a giant steel cage on wheels.

“I’ll give you a pass tonight, but starting tomorrow, this is a fowl-free zone.”

“That I can agree to.”

“Are you meeting Software Engineer Steve? Isn’t like him to be late. He usually shows up a half hour early for your dates. Sits in the corner booth right over there.” He pointed. “Then you show up, and he stands so he can pretend you both arrived at the same time. It’s kind of cute, in a lapdog sort of way.”

She was a little speechless that he’d paid enough attention to know not only that she was dating, but also who she was dating. Her dad, family, and friends called her dates The Boy to simplify matters. And yet, Levi remembered.

Which was as startling as it was sweet—for a jerk.

Even though Beckett had lived in Rome for almost a decade, and Levi was of the born-and-raised variety, they didn’t really know each other all that well. It was only recently, after his best friend began dating her best friend, that they’d shared words beyond, “Your largest margarita, please” or “A pint of whatever IPA you have on tap.” Beside a few run-ins at Annie’s house, they’d never spent any time outside of the bar together. Their time in the bar had led to some fun banter and arguments about animal rights, but they’d never talked about anything personal.

Then again, he was Mr. Personal—with every person who sat at his bar. His interest in her was nothing more than a necessary skill of the trade.

“No, Steve is now engaged to the love of his life,” she said, smiling at how happy Steve had been when she’d last spoken to him. He’d wanted the whole white-picket-fence fantasy, and he’d found it. “They’re getting married . . .