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Maybe Someone Like You
Maybe Someone Like You
Maybe Someone Like You
Ebook352 pages5 hours

Maybe Someone Like You

Rating: 4 out of 5 stars

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About this ebook

"This sweet New Adult book is sure to leave you with a smile on your face.” USA Today bestselling author Cindi Madsen

Katie Capwell is a bright and accomplished recent law school graduate, and she has her shiny future all mapped out. It’s brimming with courtroom victories and creating change. Ryan Brincatt is a tattooed and impossibly cool martial artist, and he’s mastered a fierce roundhouse kick.

Their paths never should have crossed.

But when Katie lurks outside the kickboxing gym where Ryan works as a trainer, she’s immediately drawn to his casual confidence and playful green eyes. Without making her usual list of pros and cons, she impulsively signs up to train with him.

She never imagined that one decision would change. Absolutely. Everything.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateApr 16, 2018
ISBN9781640634855
Author

Stacy Wise

Stacy Wise is the author of Beyond the Stars, Maybe Someone Like You, and Lie, Lie Again. She holds a BA from UCLA. California is where she makes her home with her family and three fluffy dogs. For more information, visit www.stacywise.com.

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  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    This book is adorable and funny. I loved all of the different characters!
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    This book was so cute. It made me laugh, I loved her humor. Can't wait to read some of her other books!
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    In Maybe Someone Like You, the focus is on the heroine and the romance, though sweet and ultimately satisfying, takes a back seat to her figuring out what she wants and where she's going with her life. There are dozens of Ryan-and-Katie moments sprinkled throughout, but since we only see Katie's POV, we aren't ever sure where Ryan stands on the whole K+R question. There's several false starts, many did he mean....? moments, a handful of dates with other guys (gasp!), and a whole lot of Katie figuring out how she really wants to use her law degree.Plus some truly epic examples of an OMG bad boss. (shudder)For all of the times the reader thinks no, no, no, Katie, don't be like that, it can't be true--Ryan does like you, I'm sure of it! and wants to either shake or hug her (or both) the ending is a gloriously satisfying thing that will leave you with a happy glow. I'll definitely be keeping my eye out for more from this author!Rating: 4 stars / B+I voluntarily reviewed an Advance Reader Copy of this book.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Law school grad, Katie Capwell stumbles out of a bad relationship and into a crush on Ryan Brincatt. Ryan is nothing like her usual type of guy...he dons multiple tattoos and has an unconventional job as a personal trainer. None of that stops her growing attraction. Katie struggles with insecurities with work and relationships but ultimately finds sure footing in both areas. I found Katie to be a bit too passive agressive and Ryan too nonchalant about their relationship at times.This is a sweet, innocent romance that’s built on friendship. Perfect for those who prefer quiet gestures versus erotic acrobatics. Makes a good summer/beach read.Advanced Readers Copy from NetGalley.

Book preview

Maybe Someone Like You - Stacy Wise

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 stare. 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.

The lobby area of the yoga studio is packed with spandex-clad women. After a cursory glance, I find Lauren, who’s seated front and center. She motions to me from her mat, and I sink next to her. How was the boxing gym?

Honestly? It was amazing. I’m doing a trial next Friday.

She reaches forward, stretching her hands to her toes. Cool. And don’t forget we have Tracey’s birthday celebration that night.

Right.

Is your trial with that big guy who was teaching the class?

No. It’s with someone named Ryan. Even I can hear the excitement in my voice.

She twists to face me. Why is your face getting red?

It’s not. I touch a hand to it, feeling the heat.

It is! Before she can say more, students flood in, followed by the instructor. A hush falls over the room as he stands facing us, hands clasped in front of his slim chest, wearing a sage-like smile. I stifle a nervous giggle. His pants reveal everything. Like the entire package. I laugh out loud at my choice of words and cover it with a cough. Really mature, Katie. I straighten the end of my mat as he welcomes us.

"Establish your breath. Take long, slow, powerful breaths, he croons. Step to the top of the mat and root down through your feet. Instructions continue to flow from his lips, but I’m stuck trying to get my feet to root. I sneak a look at Lauren and copy her as he implores us to extend our arms up to the sky. Inhale up. Exhale down."

Did he say inhale first, or exhale? Everyone around me moves in sync, as though they’re part of a sacred dance, and I’m like the Hollywood movie version of a woman going into labor. Lauren mouths, You okay?

I wave a hand, telling her I’m fine, and decide to skip the fancy breathing business. Breathing normally will have to do.

The instructor shifts from Chaturanga to Upward Facing Dog with snakelike grace while speaking lovingly about releasing energy and reconnecting with our souls. Unite your mind and body. Facilitate the space to transform. How am I supposed to unite my mind and body when I can’t get my brain to tell my body what to do? I’m one step above a toddler in ballet class. At least they’re cute, but I’m like a bobbing, bug-eyed iguana. The need to run taunts me as I struggle to remain in some semblance of the triangle blah, blah, blah pose. The quiet in the studio should allow me to radiate positivity or some such, but negative thoughts march in like ants at a picnic, stealing bits of my soul, reminding me I’m not as good as everyone else here. Failure bites at me, and I feel the sting of Brad’s words, "You? You? You!"

An image of Ryan drifts into my head, saying, Hell yeah. I like your attitude. I fantasize slamming the ropes like I own them, while a stunned Brad watches. He’s uptight and miserable while I’m positive and happy. The class eases into the Tree pose. Everyone seems devoted to the moves, to their peace of mind. Next to me, Lauren looks supple, like she could bend and flow in the breeze, while I’m like a stiff branch about to snap.

I relax my arms and try again. I’ve got this.

Hell yeah, I do.

The sun dips lower in the sky, its light casting brilliant gold strokes in our front window. I wish we could’ve walked down to the beach to enjoy the sunset, Lauren says as she unlocks our front door. It’s going to be a good one. I have to shower before meeting up with Paul, though.

And I should dive back into researching law firms. I’m feeling newly invigorated. The yoga was fun.

I was hoping you’d enjoy it. She sets her water bottle on the kitchen counter. And just so you know, I’m not worried about you.

Huh?

Let me restate that. I’m not worried about you finding a job. I have a feeling everything happened for a reason. Something even better than Bradshaw, Burke and Doyle is on the horizon.

God, I hope so.

A firm will snatch you up. You just have to find the right one. And you should start that gratitude list now, while you’re feeling centered.

Maybe she’s right. For the first time, it doesn’t sound like a chore. Good idea.

It’s astounding how things literally start flowing into your life once you start practicing gratitude.

I’m on it, I say, heading to my room.

Paper doll Brad greets me with all the appeal of a rat carcass. To think I’d forgotten about destroying him while I was away bending and breathing.

I lug the shredder from the hall closet to my bedroom and plug it in. Here goes. Holding his feet above the blades, I slowly lower the picture. The blades grab it and begin slicing him to fine strips. If he could see me now, taking charge and destroying the last slivers of our shared memories, would he beg me to come back? He was always so competitive. He wouldn’t like that I’m doing this. It shouldn’t make me feel victorious, but it does.

His words left wounds that wouldn’t heal. It’s like he took a stick and poked at my confidence until my skin was covered in tiny scratches. No one could see them, but I could feel them—the burning itch that wouldn’t go away. Until now.

Snapping off the shredder, I lug it back to the closet. No more time wasted on Brad. I resume my spot at my desk in front of my laptop and open a shiny new Excel spreadsheet. At the top, I type "Gratitude List." The cursor ticks like a second hand, taunting me, testing me, waiting for my response, but I won’t let it intimidate me. I can pass any test. That’s what I do.

Starting simple is the key. In the first box I type, I am thankful for my paper shredder. Nope. Too trite. I highlight the sentence and hit the delete button.

With hands poised over the keyboard, I start again. I am grateful for my health. Better. And I truly am thankful I didn’t fall ill after my post-breakup diet of frozen yogurt and jelly beans. Because why not poison myself with sugar when I’m down? Thank God I’ve moved past that. It was really only a few days. Three max. Even I couldn’t stand myself then. Now that I think about it, I’ve made tremendous progress being that Brad dumped me two days after the firm pulled my offer. Bam, bam. Hit twice, and I went down. The girl in the pink gloves wouldn’t have fallen. She would’ve hit back. I might’ve been struck hard, but I’m coming back swinging. It’s who I am. I just forgot for a while there. I click to the next space, my heart surging. I’m thankful I rediscovered

Before I can finish, my phone blares with the ring signaling my mother. It makes me sit up straighter, and I reduce the page on my laptop, even though I know she can’t see it. Old habits die hard. I clear my throat before answering. Hi, Mom.

Hi, Katie. I have only a second—we just finished a lengthy settlement conference—but I wanted to touch base. The familiar efficiency resides in her tone. It’s comforting, but it also has the power to topple me back to childhood, making me feel like my seven-year-old self being forced to wear the scratchy tights under my dress because they looked nice. I start to ask if they reached a settlement, but she talks over me.

Steven Janks called yesterday. He’s looking for a clerk to begin working at his firm. Naturally, I thought of you.

Looking for a clerk? I mentally start packing my briefcase with résumés, but my brain pushes the pause button. Did she say Steven Janks? Why is she chatting with him? Imagining the two of them talking is like trying to envision the queen of England hanging out with variety show players in Vegas.

She ignores my silence and continues. You have an interview with Steven and his partner, Thomas Lowe, tomorrow at four thirty.

What? I wait for her to tell me she’s joking, but she isn’t one to joke. It didn’t occur to me that she might be equally desperate for me to get a job.

I presume you can make it?

Yeah, yes. The correction is automatic. I mean, it’s a smart move, right? At this point I can’t be picky…

She waits for me to finish, but I can’t. Silence hangs heavy in the air. I picture her looking at her slim Cartier Baignoire, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face. When she finally speaks, her voice is crisp. "They take difficult cases and have won multimillions of dollars in verdicts. They can afford to hire whomever they choose, but if you’d rather not take the interview, don’t. Perhaps I was hasty in presuming you need my help. Have you received an offer that I’m not aware

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