Maybe Someone Like You Read online

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discover more New Adult titles from Entangled Embrace… Cinderella and the Geek

  Lips Close to Mine

  Too Hard to Resist

  Under a Storm-Swept Sky

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

  Copyright © 2018 by Stacy Wise. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 105, PMB 159

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Embrace is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Karen Grove

  Cover design by Bree Archer

  Cover art from Shutterstock

  ISBN 978-1-64063-485-5

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition April 2018

  For all the girls with big dreams and hungry hearts.

  Chapter One

  The blades of my kitchen shears are sharp and shiny, and I give them a trial snip to the air. I suppose I could decapitate him. He stares from the glossy photograph with a smug look in his eyes as if daring me to do it. Tilting the photo to get a good angle, I decide decapitating is probably unnecessarily cruel. My shears slice the picture easily, and I begin to clip Brad out. He looks like a scrawny version of a paper Ken Doll. We were dressed in red, white, and blue, our smiles big (though mine certainly not smug) as we stood on his friend’s deck on the Fourth of July.

  When I’m finished cutting, his shoulder is concave—I didn’t want to chop off my own hand and a good chunk of my long hair. But overall, I feel good about my work. Lighter somehow, now that this colossal ass is no longer weighing me down. I start to toss him into the trash, but at the last second, think better of it.

  Brad saw me lose my job, and he can watch me as I find a new one. Propping him against the pencil holder on my desk, I flip open my laptop. I can almost hear him saying in his ridiculously deep voice, “Technically speaking, Katie, you didn’t lose your job. The offer was retracted because of a merger.”

  “I know that!” I want to shout. God, it was like he was embarrassed that I lost my first job before it even started. Whatever. His smirk remains, and anger slithers into my bones again. “Oh, no you don’t.” I should burn the stupid photo. It could be symbolic, like a phoenix rising from the ashes.

  Tapping my laptop to life, I type “how to start an indoor trash can fire” into the search bar. Results appear—Smoke inhalation! Third-degree burns! House fires!—and I cringe.

  Clearing my search, I stare at the computer screen, my mind whirring with alternate possibilities. I could run him through the paper shredder. Less showy, but it’ll get the job done. And God knows I don’t want my apartment to go up in flames.

  “Hey, Katie!” I jump. My roommate, Lauren, smiles in greeting, her ever-present canvas tote slung over her shoulder, chock-full of leafy greens. It’s Wednesday, so that means her greens are fresh from the farmers market. “Sorry to interrupt, but my yoga studio is having a one-year anniversary celebration tonight. They’re doing a free vinyasa class at five. Want to join me?”

  I take in her shiny blue eyes and rosy complexion. She positively glows, and I’m one step past starting a trash can fire. Yoga might be peaceful. Healing. “Sure. I’ll go.”

  Her face breaks into a smile. “You won’t regret it. I promise. We’ll leave in twenty!”

  Flicking a glare at the photo of Brad, I flip him facedown. He doesn’t get to see me change my clothes. “I’ll deal with you later.”

  Our small downtown area bustles with the sandy foot-traffic that marks the end of a lazy summer day at the beach. Lauren and I stroll past cafés, boutiques, and souvenir shops on our way to the yoga studio. There’s a happy bounce in her step, and her yoga mat bops along behind her in the special pouch she has for it, like a baby in a backpack. Gathering her mass of wavy brown hair into a ponytail—the kind I aspire to have but never will achieve with my stick-straight locks—she gushes about the guest teacher from Seattle who will teach the vinyasa class. I’m not sure what vinyasa is, but I hope it’s not too hippy dippy. Or hot. I’ve heard about the hot yoga studios that smell like sweaty socks. Maybe I should’ve googled it, or at the very least thought to ask, before agreeing to join her.

  “It’ll be so much fun.” Her eyes shine with a vibrancy I wish I felt. “And don’t worry if you can’t do some of the moves. He’ll suggest modifications for the advanced poses.”

  Oh God. This is going to be a disaster. One more thing to make me feel like a failure. Nonetheless, I take a breath and reach for the door.

  “Whoa. Not there,” she says. “That’s a kickboxing gym. The yoga studio is next door.”

  I peer in the window of the gym. Sweat-soaked men and women pummel bags with kicks and punches. A woman wearing pink boxing gloves catches my attention. She’s beating the hell out of a bag.

  Determined.

  Strong.

  Fearless.

  I step closer, fingers to the glass, wishing I could channel a fragment of her power.

  Lauren taps my shoulder. “We should go. They’re expecting a big turnout.”

  Without taking my eyes from the window, I say, “I want to check this place out.”

  “Really? They’re all intense and grunty.”

  Which is why I love it. I turn to face her, my confidence flickering to life for the first time in weeks. “Go on ahead. I’ll be there soon.”

  “Just…don’t get in anyone’s way. They look violent.” She holds out a hand. “Give me your mat. I’ll save you a spot.” Technically, it’s her mat. I’m just borrowing it.

  After passing it to her, I resume my window gazing, imagining how it’d feel to punch like the girl with the pink gloves.

  “Are you going in or just window shopping?” a male voice rasps.

  I whip around, ready to make a snappy comeback, but my voice gets locked somewhere in my throat when my eyes meet his. I’ve seen green eyes before. Obviously. But something about the combination of his soulful gaze and the dark-brown hair that falls to his jawline is mesmerizing. “I, uh…I was on my way to yoga next door, but this looks interesting. All the punching and whatnot seems therapeutic.” I’m not sure how to decipher his piercing st
are. “I’m not a creeper, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  A smile tugs the corner of his mouth, and he leans against the glass door, all casual and cool, his arms crossed in front of him. They’re covered in tattoos. “A creeper? Nah. I wasn’t thinking that. You want to come in and have a look?” A full smile emerges. His incisor tooth overlaps his front tooth just a bit. It makes his smile less than perfect, but in a charming sort of way. I’m sure women would swoon at his allure. But not me. My swooning was a temporary first-glance situation. I’m done with men at the moment. He reaches out a hand in introduction. It doesn’t escape me that his knuckles are tattooed, too. “I’m Ryan Brincatt, one of the trainers.”

  “Katie Capwell.” A tentative smile hovers on my lips when I shake his hand, but I inwardly cringe as I imagine a needle piercing his skin. I still have the occasional nightmare about getting my ears pierced, and that was nearly ten years ago. He moves his hand from mine, and I sneak a look at the words, but he slips his hands into his pockets before I can decipher them. His arms are impossible to miss, though. A row of Chinese symbols lines his inner left forearm, and a thorny vine climbs its way up his outer arm, punctuated with fat, blood-red roses outlined in black. His right arm is covered with an elaborate scene of a winged angel draped in a sweeping gown. Her eyes seem to glisten like they’re holding back tears. The beauty of it makes me forget all about the stabbing pain he must’ve endured. I’ve never considered tattoos as art before, but whoever did his is ridiculously talented. Below the angel, an antique timepiece emerges from a skull with Roman numerals drifting off it, like the florets of a dandelion blowing in the wind.

  He clears his throat, amusement glimmering in his eyes. “So you want me to show you around, or do you need another minute to check out my arms?”

  Oh God. I press a hand to my chest, covering the red spots that are surely appearing on my eternally pale skin. I don’t have to see it to know it’s happening. Every time I was called on in law school, nerves erupted in scarlet across my chest. It didn’t matter if I knew the answer or not, which to be honest, I always did. The simple act of being singled out was enough. “I wasn’t—”

  He cuts me off. “I’m kidding. Come on, I’ll show you how to throw a badass punch.”

  A finger of fear tickles my spine. Can I do this? He waits for my answer, the picture of confidence, like he could teach even the clumsiest of individuals how to throw a badass punch.

  “So, you in?”

  “Sure. It looks hot.” I press a hand to my mouth. “Fun!” I say through my fingers. “As in fun, but that it’d make you hot.” He shifts his feet and scrubs his hand across his mouth, as though trying to wipe off his smile. “Sweaty hot.” I swallow hard. “Like the people in the class.”

  A low chuckle rumbles from him. “It is fun. And hot,” he deadpans.

  I follow him inside, trying to reel in the random flirtatious threads he’s unraveled. I’m certainly not one to fall under the spell of a rebelliously attractive guy. More likely it’s the thrill of trying something new.

  “That’s Javier,” he says, motioning to the guy with tight muscles who’s teaching the class. “He’s legit—a Muay Thai kickboxing world title contender and a world champion in Krav Maga. This is one of our advanced classes, but we offer all levels. You ever done any kickboxing?”

  I wish. “No.”

  “That’s cool. The first class is free, so you can try it out before committing. I’ll grab you a schedule.” He stops at a desk where a girl with cropped platinum hair sits. Tiny studs line both her ears, from the lobe to the tip-top. I shudder at the thought of the piercing gun popping an earring through the upper part.

  She flashes a dimpled smile. “What’s up, Ry?”

  “Hey, Jazzie. I need a schedule.” He reaches for it from a neat stack on her desk, but she swats his hand before he can take one. As he pulls his hand back, I can read the word tattooed across his knuckles: “love.” Shifting my eyes to his left hand, I can make out that it says, “live.” Not exactly what I expected. He feigns a hurt look. “Didn’t your mom teach you to share?”

  “Shut up. Those are the waivers.” She passes him a sheet from a neighboring stack. “This is the schedule.” Her dimples and smiling blue eyes contradict a harshness that hovers around her. She looks like the kind of girl whose favorite word is “bullshit.” I wonder if he taught her how to throw a badass punch. Maybe she already knew.

  “Thanks, Jazz.” He hands me the paper.

  “Can I see one of those waivers?” I ask.

  “Um, sure.” Jazzie exchanges a look with Ryan as she hands me the document.

  “It’s pretty standard stuff,” Ryan assures me.

  “Oh, I know. It’s just…I’m an attorney. I like to read the fine print.” I fold the paper into a tiny square and tuck it into the zippered pocket of my yoga pants along with the schedule, vowing to pore over it line for line when I get home.

  “Fair enough,” he says, leading me to the back of the gym where a boxing ring resides. As we pass it, he tells me it’s top-of-the-line. My mother appreciates top-of-the-line anything, but I’m fairly certain she wouldn’t be impressed with a boxing ring. She’d raise her brows with a sniff and tell me to get out of this barbaric establishment.

  “I’m staying,” I say under my breath.

  “Huh?”

  “It’s cool. The boxing ring.”

  “Yeah. Wait till you see what we have outside. Come on.”

  He holds open the back door, revealing turf set up with fat ropes that look like something Indiana Jones would use to capture bad guys, a monster truck-size tire, and several racks holding exercise balls. I reach for a rope. “These are heavier than they look. Are they hard to use?”

  “You tell me.” He takes it from my hand. “I’ll show you how. Stand back.” He lifts the second rope, tightening the slack in them. “You’ll need to use your legs. Don’t just whip your arms. It won’t work.” He squats, then pops up, raising his arms and slamming the ropes to the ground, forcing them to ripple across the turf before he repeats the action. His biceps and triceps contract with every move. He must be a fantastic trainer to achieve such perfect muscles. Those didn’t happen by accident. And I bet they’d feel nice beneath my fingers. Whoa. Where’d that come from?

  He finishes and passes the ropes to me, our hands touching in the process. He glances at my flip-flops. “Might be tough to get any traction in those.”

  I slip them off, and he nods. “It helps to get a little angry.”

  A little angry? Ha! If he only knew. I adjust the ropes in my hands and step back just like he did.

  “Bend those legs and keep your back straight. Chest up.”

  “Like this?”

  “Yep. But reach your ass back like you’re sitting in a chair.”

  The tension burns in my thighs as I sit back, holding in a grin. I’m pretty certain a yoga instructor would never tell his students to reach their ass anywhere. I lift my arms and whack the ropes to the ground, but where he made giant ripples, I barely cause a stir. Gritting my teeth, I channel all the frustration that’s built inside me since the day Bradshaw, Burke and Doyle retracted their job offer due to a merger. Slam!

  Better. A quiver zips through the ropes, but I want more. I need more. The competitive part of me surges to life. The ropes are heavy in my hands. Rough fibers scratch my palms, but I don’t care. Lifting again, I use all my strength to blast them against the ground. Take that, Brad!

  We were in a bar having drinks with his friends when he grabbed my hand, kissed it, and told me he loves being single in the summer.

  “Wait. What?” I asked, certain I hadn’t heard him correctly over the carefree laughter and clanking bottles.

  A door seemed to slam shut in his eyes, and he shrugged. “It’s the perfect time to meet people.”

  “Meet people? But you’re dating me.”

  “You?” he spat, as if he’d eaten a hot pepper.

  I almost wish he�
��d flicked my hand instead. The sting would’ve lasted seconds. But his voice reverberates in my head. “You? You? You!” Like I was unworthy.

  Readjusting my grip, I muster every ounce of strength to slam the ropes again. Unworthy? One more for you, Brad.

  “Try for five, Katie. Come on. You’ve got this!”

  His words spur me on, and I slam my memories of Brad into the ground. Finally, blissfully, I let the battle ropes fall from my hands. Rubbing my palms against my yoga pants, I walk in a circle and blow out a breath. “That was awesome.”

  Ryan lifts a hand to high-five me. “Hell yeah. I like your attitude. So that’s La Playa Mixed Martial Arts Training Center. What do you think?”

  “I think I got more out of the past five minutes than I’ll get from the vinyasa class I’m going to next.”

  “Yoga’s cool. It’s great for strength and flexibility. But wait till you try kickboxing. It’s a rush.” His smile lights his entire face. It’s the way Lauren looks when she talks about yoga. “Check out the schedule and come try a class when you have time. Or if you want, I can do a trial training session with you.” His eyes are wide, questioning.

  “A trial session with you sounds great.” The words roll out so fast I bite my lip to stop myself from saying anything more. My mind whirs with the need to whip up my usual list of pros and cons, but a quiet voice inside shushes me, telling me it’s not necessary—I’ve already gotten it right.

  He slips his phone from his pocket and opens the calendar. “How’s next Friday at five?”

  Wow. Just like that. “It’s a date—I mean, session,” I stammer. “Next Friday it is. I’ll add it to my calendar.” I toss him a smile that says, Because I have such a busy schedule.

  The girl with the cropped hair appears, a cordless phone in hand. She has the mouthpiece covered, but she whispers harshly as she thrusts the phone toward him. “Dude, have your ladies call your cell. I’m not your social planner.”

  Taking the phone, he smiles. “No prob, Jazz.” He looks my way and winks. “I’ll see you in a week,” he says before taking the call. His raspy voice trails after me as I hurry from the gym. Of course he has “ladies.” He probably has an entire fan club. All the cool guys do. And he’s impossibly cool.