Finding Opa!

Finding Opa!

The Lonely Heart Series

Latrivia S. Nelson

This book is dedicated to every woman who has guarded her heart because of tragedy. May you one day find your Opa.

What does the Greek word “Opa” mean?
According to some it is a word or pronouncement of celebration; the celebration of life itself. It is another way of expressing joy and gratitude to God, life, and others, for bringing one into the state of ultimate wisdom.

Acknowledgments

I’d like to thank my wonderful team at RiverHouse Publishing for your dedication and support, for your countless hours of work and your shared vision of where this company can go in the future.

To my wonderful husband and family, thanks for continuing to be patient, loving and kind.

To Karen Moss, who has been a wonderful God-send by helping me clean up my manuscripts, thank you for seeing something special in me.

Chapter One

Seattle, Washington

Sitting in the back of T.W. Milligan’s pub near ten o’clock on a dreary Wednesday night, Stacey worked alone in her booth on her netbook. She had been there for hours in the smoke-filled bar pouring her thoughts into her computer and trying to develop the perfect story. But so far nothing meaningful had hit her because of a dreadful writer’s block. As she ordered another beer, she finally took her fingers off the black keys and yawned.

Manclasting Publishing wanted a
romance novel
that would knock readers’ socks off, and all she could come up with were pages of scenery and boring soliloquy. It was dramatically pathetic and a far cry from her first novel.

When she released her debut novel,
Love Knocks
, she hadn’t expected such a warm welcome into the industry, but within two months of her drop date, she had soared onto the
Essence
Book Club
top ten books as well as the
USA Today
best-sellers list.

Since then, she had not released a single book, had not written a single word. Sure, she had tried, but the keyboard was like a foreign object to her. Her thoughts were not her own anymore.

However, Stacey was under contract with Manclasting and two months from her most important deadline yet. Whatever writing block was standing in her way now, she had to get past it. More than money was on the line, her entire reputation hung in the balance.

Interrupting Stacey’s thoughts on her current dilemma, a young, familiar brunette waitress brought over Stacey’s cheese dip, placed it on the wooden table in front of her and picked up her empty bottles.

“Got anything, yet?” the waitress asked with a smile.

“Nothing,” Stacey replied, picking up her fresh bottle of Red Stripe. The perspiration on the bottle wet her fingers as she stroked the neck. “I normally write a good story when I’m half-cocked,” she joked. “But I just don’t have the passion, you know.” She shrugged, hating the idea of becoming a one-hit wonder.

“I’m sure something will come to ya,” the waitress said as she nodded and walked away.

Stacey knew that she could hope, but the truth of the matter was that it was nearly impossible for her to write about world-wind romances when she was as lonely as a woman could be.

The only thing that could be remotely considered a
companion
in her life was her Abyssinian cat, Rapture. And the only thing that could be considered remotely exciting in her life was her weekly Zumba class, which had recently ended. Outside of that, Stacey Lane Bryant was ridiculously boring.

“Let’s get back to it,” she ordered herself aloud as she placed her bottle beside her and cracked her knuckles.

She touched the laptop again, savoring the way the keys felt under her fingers.
Love is a covetous word
, she wrote,
a word that encompasses man’s reason for living, for dying and for all the hopes in his life
.” Even as she wrote the words, she felt the hole inside of her swelling. How was she to write about this when love was the one thing that she was missing?

Frustrated, she stopped again. “This is going nowhere,” she growled. It wasn’t the words that she didn’t believe; it was the words that hurt her to her core. It had been two years since
the car crash
, and yet she still could only think of Drew.

He was ever-present on her mind, still alive in her thoughts and in everything that she did. Every joy and every pain that she had experienced since him was always coupled with the thought of how different it would be if he was still alive.

Drew Hampton had been Stacey’s everything. They were married, in love and inseparable – so inseparable in fact that he had insisted on going with her to a book signing across town because of the pouring rain. She remembered that night like it was yesterday.

When the truck that hit them collided with their car, it mangled the passenger side. And while she was knocked unconscious, she only sustained minor injuries. Drew, however, died instantly.

If he had not ridden with her, he would still be alive. That was a fact that she grappled with daily. They would still be married, probably have kids, and definitely be happy. Now, she was alone at 32 years old without a husband, without a family and definitely without happiness. It just did not seem fair.

Tears started to form, burning as it mingled with her mascara. Batting profusely, she grabbed a napkin and dapped her lower lids.
Not the crying again,
she quietly admonished. People would think that she was drunk. She would make a spectacle of herself.

“Can I buy you a drink?” a deep baritone voice asked. “Something to cheer you up?”

“No, I think I’m drunk enough,” Stacey answered sarcastically as she looked up. Butterflies erupted immediately in the pit of her stomach. The man was an Adonis, which was rare for this pub.

Staring back down at her while leaning on the booth’s wooden side, a man in a gray cotton t-shirt smiled at Stacey, revealing perfect white teeth under full lips made for kissing. “You sure?” he asked, sitting down across from her without permission. “You look like you could use a drink or someone to talk to.”

Stacey watched him carefully. He reeked of confidence and expensive cologne. “I’m sure,” she said shortly. “But I’ll buy you a drink to get up from my table.” She didn’t know why she had just said that. She didn’t mean it. In fact, it was probably
just
what she needed.

The man sat quietly for a moment with a cunning grin on his face, reading through her false wall. His unnaturally green eyes had a devilish sparkle in them, as if he knew something that she didn’t. “Okay, I’d like a seven and seven
to go
,” he said, resting his large muscular arm back on the edge of the seat. Veins shot through his sinewy, tanned form from the joints of his arms to his wrists.

Work out much
? Stacey thought to herself as she sat quietly.

The waitress walked back up with a grin on her face, and suddenly Stacey knew that she was being set up.

Everyone at T.W. Milligans knew Stacey and her macabre story. They all knew that she didn’t accept drinks or buy drinks for anyone. She didn’t pick up men or give out her phone number. The pub was her place of relaxation. She could catch the game, be around people, and have a few drinks then walk or ride home – alone.

“You want a drink, darling?” the waitress asked the stranger.

It was obvious to Stacey that she wasn’t the only one attracted to the guy. Heads around the pub had turned toward them like he was releasing a primal pheromone. He had his own personal scent of sexy.

Okay
, Stacey thought to herself,
he’s attracting way too much attention
.

His deep baritone tickled at Stacey’s senses. “The lady has decided to buy me a seven and seven to get me out of her presence,” the stranger said, revealing deep dimples as he smiled.

“Seven and seven coming up,” the waitress said, turning to Stacey. “What about you?” Her pen hit the pad in the palm of her hand as she waited.

“I’ll have the same,” Stacey answered, rolling her eyes. This guy thought that he was clever.

As the waitress walked away, Stacey turned back to the mysterious man. “When your drink arrives, pick it up and leave, please.”

“Okay,” he said, extending his hand across the table. “In the meantime, I’m Hunter, and you are?” His eyebrow rose like he was
James Bond
, a sign of definite machismo.

Stacey hesitated before she took his hand. “Stacey,” she answered, feeling his large, warm hand swallow hers. She pulled away and put her laptop in her backpack, and completely gave up on any hopes of writing. “The way you collect free drinks is very smooth,” she said on an exhalation as though she had him all figured out.

“Thank you,” he said, watching her as she fidgeted with her things. “I picked the skill up in college.”

“Ahh. The way that you let people know that you have some education is clever also,” she said, wiping her eyes again with the napkin. More black mascara rubbed off on the paper.

“Women these days don’t like their men stupid,” he answered, noting her solemn state. “So, what are you writing on your little computer?”

“A love story,” she answered, waiting on him to ask a million questions as many men did when they tried to pick her up in the same fashion.

“A love story? That’s cool.” Hunter looked around the bar and sat back in the booth, getting more comfortable. “Are you an author or something?”

“Yep,” Stacey answered coolly. “Look, I’m really not in the mood to be…
picked up
. I bought your drink. Okay. Now, you can leave me alone.”

Why was she pushing him away? He was gorgeous. She always did this - always went for the jugular before giving a man a chance. And this one in particular was strangely more attractive than any before him. Shaking her head at her thoughts, she sighed and resisted the natural urge to flare up.

“I’m sorry. You don’t deserve that. It’s just that I’m so
frustrated. I’m on a deadline, and I’m behind schedule. So, I would really appreciate the privacy,” she explained exasperated. Her eyes pleaded with him as she frowned, hoping he would just take the hint and leave.

The waitress put down their drinks, giving him his cue to depart, but Hunter didn’t budge. Something in the form of admiration flickered in his eyes. “Maybe I can help you in some way. What’s your problem?” he asked.

His tone was sincere, which calmed the beast in Stacey for a minute. Letting down her guard, she decided to just tell the guy. What did she have to lose?

“Okay,” she said, sitting back in her seat and putting her hands in her lap. “I have writer’s block. You see, I need to write a passionate love story, but I can’t. And I think it’s because I don’t have any passion anymore,
at least not for love
. So, I’m stuck, and I only have two months to write this epic manuscript that would rival the Greek love stories spawn by Aphrodite herself, only I have no muse and absolutely no motivation.” She blinked hard. Hearing herself finally vocalize her problems only made the invisible weight heavier on her shoulders.