CHAPTER 3
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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 at his offer again. “Ten minutes on Bumble and the right man appears in my palm?” Shaking her head at the unlikely string of events, she tapped in a reply. I’d like that. What did you have in mind?
Rachel dashed through the ranch and flipped off the remaining lights—double-checking the lock on the back door. By the time she sank into her Corolla in the driveway, Tripp’s invitation appeared in her hand.
“Eight o’clock. Pier Ninety-Two in downtown L.A. sound okay?”
It’s a date.
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At 8:23 PM, Rachel frowned at her watch and slumped in her seat. As she sipped from a glass of white wine, she studied the room. Most tables had filled—couples out on romantic dates, groups of young adults sharing a drink before an evening out, and even a few families with kids huddled around the larger round tables in the corners.
Her attention drifted to the back wall and the patio beyond the window. The soft music of the restaurant touched her ears and the memory of Rose and Cole’s engagement party returned to her mind—hosted just over a month ago in the same spot with her full family—and Ian.
Rachel rolled her eyes as his parting words came back to haunt her. “You’re a social butterfly who can’t get enough human interaction. And let’s face it. I’m a techy, introverted loser, who would sooner spend twenty-four hours stargazing than hosting an engagement party. We have absolutely nothing in common.”
“Leave it to me to find someone I do have something in common with and then he stands me up,” she whispered and drained her wine.
“Care for another glass, miss?” A bright-eyed waiter appeared to her right with a basket of fresh bread.
“Sure,” she muttered and pushed the empty glass in his direction.
Why the hell not?
“Are we still waiting for the rest of your party?”
Rachel tapped her watch and 8:33 PM glowed on her wrist. “Jury is still out.”
He shrugged. “I’ll get you that refill while you wait.” Scooping up her empty glass, he winked before walking away.
Rachel gripped her phone and opened the dating app. She scrolled to the very last line to re-confirm the details of their date. “Eight o’clock. Pier Ninety-Two,” she whispered. “What gives, Tripp?”
She searched the room once more, willing him to appear at another table—mistakenly waiting for her. But every table her eyes glossed over held no singularly, perfect, outdoorsy man, with a Bumble profile.
Groaning in her seat, her chest tightened. Embarrassment and shame competed for the top emotion in her heart.
“Another glass of the house sauvignon blanc.” The waiter set the new glass on the table and his eyes quickly flickered to the empty seat. “Should I put in an appetizer?”
Rachel snorted and pulled the menu toward her. “Oh, sure. If I’m going to get stood up, I may as well enjoy the calamari.” She pointed to her choice on the thick, fancy paper as her cheeks flushed.
The waiter picked up the menu. Leaning toward her, he offered a small smile. “Happens to the best of us. I’ll put your order in, miss.” He tapped the little black device in his hands and stepped away.
The cold, crisp wine settled in her mouth—the second drink slowly fogging her brain and relaxing her body. Rachel tapped the Bumble icon on her phone and typed in a quick note, talking as she tapped. “I have a sneaky suspicion I’m being stood up, Tripp Erikson. At least tell me now before I drop one hundred bucks on drinks, appetizers, and dinner on my party for one.”
“Party for one, huh?”
His deep voice jarred her, pulling her mind from the snarky comments she typed. Rachel swallowed the embarrassment heating her body. “Er—umm.” She shook her head and pressed her eyes closed. “Sorry, I must look like a total idiot,” she muttered.
“And why’s that?”
Opening her eyes, she let his dark brown gaze bore into her.
A grin twisted his lips as his tanned skin flushed beneath the soft, romantic lighting of the dining room. Raising a hand, he rubbed the back of his neck.
Butterflies tickled her belly, awaking at the sweet smile directed at her. “Oh! Umm, just ignore me.” She pressed her palms to her slowly reddening face and giggled. “I’m kind of a mess right now.”
“Nonsense. You’re the prettiest woman in the room I have the pleasure of disappointing this evening.”
She laughed. “More disappointment, huh?” Pointing at the empty chair across the table, she released a slow breath. “Are you here to stand me up too, Mr....” Rachel leaned closer and read his name badge word-for-word. “... Miguel Rodriguez. Owner of Pier Ninety-Two?”
Oh!
He shook his head and grinned. “No, only a complete fool would stand you up. I’m just here to tell you we’re out of calamari.”
Rachel brought the wine to her lips and gulped. “Figures.” With a wink, she snickered.
“Will you let me try and make it up to you, Ms. Prescott?”
Choking on the liquid sliding down her throat, Rachel coughed. “How do you know my name?”
He gestured to the patio. “We’ve met. I think you were a little busy that night to remember me though.”
Rachel wrinkled her nose and stared at the patio. Her mind flitted through every detail of the evening she could recall. A moment passed before the ghost of his deep voice echoed.
“I’m honored you chose to celebrate with us.” Miguel returned his gaze to Rachel and his grin widened. “Is there anything else we can do for you?”
Rachel shook her head—her cheeks flushing beneath the twinkle lights.
“No, er, thank you, Mr. Rodriguez. Everything was perfect and exactly as I imagined it.”
He leaned forward and tapped the new bottle of wine in the center of the table. “Glad to hear it, Ms. Prescott.” He winked. “On the house,” he murmured in her ear before stepping away.
“Oh! Of course! Mr. Rodriguez.” Shaking her head, she returned his smile.
“Miguel, please.” He reached his hand out to hers and Rachel gripped it, relishing the warmth radiating from his palm.
“Rachel,” she murmured as a dizzy spell gripped her brain.
Miguel tugged her hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss on her knuckles.
Her heart stalled, skipping a beat entirely.
Whoa.
“Humor me, Rachel. Can I offer you my favorite dish to make up for the calamari?”
The second glass of wine pummeled through her blood stream, relaxing her body, calming her nerves, and settling the anger that moments ago consumed her system. As the heat flushed her skin, her stomach dipped and softened the spell of disappointment Tripp cast on her heart.
“Only if you join me.”
Oh, my God. Rachel, he owns this restaurant and you’re inviting him to sit down and eat with you! He’s working, you idiot!
But Miguel grinned wider than Ian did when peering into his Celestron. “I’ll make it for two.” With a wink, he took a step back. “Give me twenty minutes, Rachel.”
Her name on his lips tickled her soul, sending a barrage of goosebumps to attack her forearms. She nodded, then sipped her wine as he disappeared into the kitchen.
Maybe this night won’t be a total loss.
Smiling ear-to-ear into her half-empty glass, Rachel giggled and gripped her phone. She re-opened Bumble and navigated to the conversation thread with Tripp—still no response.
“Jokes on you, sir,” she typed and whispered. “Looks like I have a date this evening after all.” Tapping send, she blocked his profile. Rachel closed out of the app and dropped her phone in her purse, ready to put Tripp out of her mind for good.
“For you, miss.” The waiter returned with a full bottle of sauvignon blanc wrapped in a satin napkin and resting in an ice bucket. “Mr. Rodriguez says he’ll be out to join you shortly.” He set down another glass at the empty place setting.
“Thank you,” Rachel murmured as he walked away.
Yeah, I’m going to need to call an Uber.
Gripping the bottle, she filled both glasses as a bundle of nerves settled in her belly. Rachel closed her eyes and pleaded with her mind to relax. Several deep breaths later, Tripp dissolved. The Davis family and their house-hunting woes melted away. And the ever-present accusation that she lived her life for everyone but herself disintegrated as the gentle music filled her ears. Rachel smiled and indulged in the glass of wine, patiently waiting for the intriguing new company to join her.
“Way better than the calamari, I promise.” His voice broke through the moment of contentment. Calling her back to the present, Miguel sank into the empty seat at the table.
The familiar scent of mushrooms met her nose and Rachel smiled at the dish.
Mushroom ravioli.
“I hope you like mushrooms.” Miguel scooted in his chair. “It’s our Thursday evening special. And my personal favorite.”
Rachel unrolled her silverware from the napkin. “But it’s Friday.”
He winked. “That’s why I needed twenty minutes.”
“Are you saying you personally put this together just for me?”
Miguel chuckled and stuffed the first bite in his mouth. “Well, if I’m being honest, I was hungry, too.”
She stabbed the biggest bite and brought the pasta to her mouth. The taste of garlic and shallots melted against her pallet, infused with the creaminess of the ricotta and parmesan cheese. Rachel sighed as Heaven touched her tongue. “Oh, this is so good! And so kind of you to treat me to the Thursday special on a Friday.”
He snickered. “I told you. I needed to make up for the calamari.”
With a giggle, she lifted her wine to his and clinked glasses. “Lack of calamari,” she corrected. “But cheers, Miguel. This is the best mushroom ravioli I’ve ever had.”
His cheeks flushed. “I think that’s the nicest compliment I’ve received all day.”
“You must get many.” Rachel stuffed another bite in her mouth and chewed.
“Many?” He wrinkled his nose as he brought the wine to his lips.
“Compliments!” She waved her arm around and gestured to the full dining room. “Pier Ninety-Two is wonderful.”
A grin consumed his sexy mouth as his gaze dropped to his lap. “I’m glad you think so.”
“How long have you owned it?”
Miguel wiped his lips with a napkin before answering. “Technically, a little over a year, but we’ve only been open again for the last six months.”
Rachel nodded. “Oh, that’s right. So, were you around when the fire happened?”
He twisted his arm and exposed the burn. “Not my favorite day.”
Widening her eyes, Rachel sputtered as the wine caught in her throat. “Oh, my God!” She leaned forward and examined the scar. Its full length disappeared beneath the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. How far does it go? “You were here when it happened?”
“Mmm-hmm.” He blew out a breath and widened his eyes. “Scariest day of my life.”
“I can’t even imagine.”
“Yeah. It was, umm...” Miguel shivered as he scooped up his glass again. “Just a really bad accident.”
The lights dimmed and set the dining room aglow as the tables slowly emptied.
“I think the worst part about it though,” he continued, “was having to call my boss and tell her what happened. She was out of town when—”
The pieces connected in her mind, snapping together like a jigsaw puzzle. “Oh! That’s right! So, you would have worked with Lauren, right?”
Miguel tilted his head. “How’d you—”
“I work with her husband, Mitch.”
He pressed his lips together. “Mitch,” he muttered. “He’s, ah...”
“The best,” Rachel blurted and gripped her wine again. “I owe my career to him.”
Miguel raised his brow and leaned forward. “Why? I thought he was a contractor.”
She nodded as a surge of warmth blossomed in her belly at his sudden closeness. Oh. “Umm, yeah. He is. Up until a few months ago, he worked with my brother. They flipped homes and then I sold them.”
He stabbed another bite. “So, you’re a real estate agent.”
“Yep. With Compass California.”
Miguel nodded but furrowed his brow. “I ah, don’t follow. Why would you owe your career to him then?” He reached across the table and gripped her empty glass before refilling it with more wine.
She giggled. “An Uber it is then.”
He snorted and refilled his own glass. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you get home safely.” Miguel winked and stuffed the last of his mushroom ravioli in his mouth. “But go on, tell me about Mitch Benson—”
“I get the sense you don’t like him.” As she batted her eyes, a surge of alcohol-induced confidence pushed the words from her lips.
His cheeks flushed again. “I didn’t say that.” Rolling his eyes, he shrugged. “He umm, he just had something I wanted. That’s all.”
What could that be?
“But that’s a story for another day,” he added with a smile. “Go on though. Tell me about your career.”
Rachel swallowed and recrossed her legs beneath the table. What’s all that about? “Well, to make a boring story short—”
He laughed.
“I worked in corporate marketing for years and hated it. I tried getting into real estate, but the market here is absolutely saturated with realtors. I was like this tiny little minnow trying to swim in a sea of seasoned sharks. Because he’s friends with my brother, Mitch took pity on me and gave me his flipped properties to sell.”
“Oh.” Miguel nodded and leaned forward again, resting his upper body weight against his elbows on the table.
“Mmm-hmm. And his work is so good, everything he handed me turned into easy sales. It built my reputation. Fast.”
“So, what you’re saying is that you and I share something in common.”
Rachel giggled and leaned forward, too. Her hand dropped to his and she dragged a single finger over the red scar. “Now it’s my turn to not follow,” she whispered.
He cleared his throat and smiled at her roaming finger. “It sounds to me, Ms. Rachel Prescott, that we both are indebted to the Bensons.”
“Huh?” Her gaze lifted. Peering into his dark pools of brown, the butterflies in her stomach danced to the slowly quieting music from the speakers.
His hand covered hers with a gentle squeeze. “All I did was wait tables here before the fire. I was a bartender and washed dishes when we were short staffed on the weekends. Lauren handed me Pier Ninety-Two after the fire. I owe my career to her.”
The air caught in her lungs, stalling all breath on the tip of her tongue. “Well, Mr. Rodriguez, what an odd connection we share.”
“Er—boss.”
Miguel’s dark gaze pulled from hers. “Hmm?”
“Umm, we need you in the kitchen for a second.” The waiter cringed. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”
With a sigh, Miguel released her fingers, and disappointment flooded her heart. The loss of heat from his palm caused an unexpected dip in her belly.
“Please excuse me,” he whispered and followed the waiter back to the kitchen.
Rachel pressed her hands to her cheeks. Her hazy, drunken mind set the room standing on end. With a laugh at the twist of the evening’s events, she peeked at her watch and blanched.
10:13 PM! Have we really been talking that long?
She snickered and stuffed the last ravioli in her mouth. The now-cold pasta stuck to her tongue as she chewed, the mushroom juices still salty and enjoyable.
Pushing the bowl away, she muttered, “Way better than calamari,” as Miguel returned to his seat.
He smiled at her empty dish. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“I did. But is everything okay? Am I keeping you from something?”
Miguel frowned and sank back in his seat. “We’re short staffed in the kitchen right now. I can’t hire a head chef to save my life.” Groaning, he dragged a hand across his forehead. “Growing pains, I guess,” he mumbled.
“My sister is a chef.”
His brow raised. “Is she by chance looking for a job?”
“No.” Rachel giggled as his face fell. “But I can ask her if she knows of anyone looking.”
“I’ll take all the help I can get.” His eyes widened as a sigh left his lips. A loud clank from the kitchen echoed throughout the dining room and Miguel rolled his eyes. “And on that note...”
Rachel laughed and tugged her phone from her bag. “I think that’s my cue to call an Uber.”
His hand gripped hers atop the phone and he shook his head. “No, please, let me take you home. I can wrap up in ten minutes.” He winked and stood before guiding her along with him. “I had a nice time getting to know you tonight, Rachel.”
Her heart beat wildly beneath her chest, banging against her ribcage. Sweeping her tongue along her bottom lip, she swallowed as his gaze followed along.
“Can we do this again?”
Rachel winked. “Just don’t restock the calamari.”
His sweet grin squeezed her heart as he tugged her behind him toward the kitchen.
Well, Tripp Erikson, my hat’s off to you. I’ve never had a better night getting stood up.