Mocha Sunrise: Chocolate Series, #3

By Julie Carobini

Sometimes a girl has to wait for dawn to break ... to see the light.

Big-hearted Livi Daniels has close pals, a beachside apartment, and a new job in radio. She also has a not-so-secret problem at home: a troubled roommate. When Livi is forced to take shelter in a seedy motel for the night, she's finally had enough. 

Or has she? When attempts to evict her roommate falter, Livi becomes as evasive as ever—especially with her friends, Bri and Gaby. Soon she finds herself in a love triangle when she is pursued by a handsome, mysterious pastor and a former boyfriend with grand plans for her future.

Have Livi's problems only just begun? 

 

Or will Livi finally break free from the drama and find the one who loves sunrises as much as she does?

Read all 3 books in the Chick-lit Chocolate Series!:
Chocolate Beach
Truffles by the Sea
Mocha Sunrise

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julie Carobini
• Release date: Sep 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9780986229220

Book preview

ONE

At least there’s not a dead woman back at my apartment.

I stand here in the night, bracing myself against a breeze that stings my cheeks. Far above me, the letters M-O-E and L cast a burnt orange glow into the sky, and if I squint really hard, I’m pretty sure I can see a T up there somewhere in the middle, hiding in the dark.

After releasing a determined puff of warm air into the atmosphere, I flex my fingers around the handle of my overnight bag, hoist it from the ground, and climb the three steps up to the motel’s registration desk. Scratch that. Make it a window with a hole just big enough to hand enough cash through to pay for a one-night stay. Surely my time in this near-hostel would not have to be for longer than that.

The man behind the plastic wall eyes me, his stringy, brown hair glossy, the rest of him begging for running water and a bar of soap. He hands me a 3x5 card and a pen wrapped in tape an inch thick to keep the ballpoint from collapsing through the hole. Sign at the X. It don’t have to be your real name.

I let out a tiny laugh at this.

The frown on his face remains unmoved.

I swallow my half-smile and begin to sign my name—Livi Carolina Daniels—when self-preservation kicks in and I scribble down Penny Lane instead.

He swaps the makeshift registration card for a metal key. Room’s upstairs. To the right.

I glance up into the darkened stairway, then back at the clerk. Is it safe? Do you maybe have a flashlight? Instead of the questions debating on my tongue, I nod and offer him a quiet thank you before making my way to my room.

Inside, the solitary lamp’s yellow glow isn’t much better, and I try not to think about what may be hiding in the darkened corners of the narrow room. With a slide of the latch, I release the breath I’d been holding and set my suitcase atop a wood-veneer table situated beneath dingy beige curtains. It shudders when I do, as does the phone in my purse.

Gaby is on the line. I can’t tell her where I am—she’d kill me for not calling her or our friend, Bri. But do they need my problems? I could ignore it, of course, but she’d panic. I know her too well. So I muster up my most normal-sounding voice possible. Hello?

Livi? What’s wrong?

There. That’s the voice I was afraid of. My once-gullible friend is less so these days after marrying her big hunk of a chef husband, Jake, and she may have detected something sinister in my greeting. She continues. I didn’t see you at church today.

Oh. I lower myself into a chair, its padding frayed at all edges, realizing with relief that Gaby is oblivious to the events of my day. I hope to keep it that way.

So, she asks, are you sick?

Not at all. I pause, searching for a way to talk about anything other than my current predicament. I’ve got nothin’.

Livi? I don’t know why, but I’ve been so worried about you lately. Did ... did something happen with your roommate ... again? Gaby won’t even utter my roommate’s name.

Jet. The girl I grew up playing Barbies with and careening down a Slip ‘N Slide with each summer until our feet were as wrinkled as old Mrs. McReedy’s cheeks. Jet was the one person I’d exhausted all my Truth or Dare answers on. I give my head a tight shake, my teeth working over my bottom lip. I don’t want to talk about this with Gaby—or anyone, for that matter. So I blurt out, I started a new job.

Oh! You mean with Max? You’re going to work with him after all?

Max. Local grease monkey and real estate investor, our pal Bri’s longtime friend, and, most notably, Gaby’s old boyfriend (though a mismatch, for sure).

When I spoke to Max weeks ago, he’d suggested we could work together someday. Then he had regaled me with stories about deadbeat renters and bedbug infestations, of evictions accompanied by law enforcement and late night phone calls reporting busted light bulbs. Now in this shadowy motel room, Max’s rentals-gone-wrong stories threaten to come alive all around me. I shiver. Not exactly, I say, hyper aware of my surroundings.

What then?

A sigh releases my shoulders. I know she wants to help me—she and Bri are always trying to help me, it seems—mostly with their matchmaking skills and decadent brownies. They’re Bri’s specialty and the only delicacy she can make without burning, scalding, or overcooking in the slightest. Gaby is Bri’s trusty taste-tester.

I decide to keep the topic of conversation on my new job. Nothing else. An acquaintance of mine—you remember Tessa from Bible study a few years ago, right? Anyway, she said the little radio station that she manages in Santa Barbara needed help, so, well, I decided to make a move. I pause to catch my breath. I started last week and had to work this morning, actually. Radio stations are 24/7, you know.

You are working at a fledgling radio station?

It’s a Christian station with mostly pastors on the air. I don’t mention the chiropractic infomercials aired as fill-in.

Santa Barbara? Wow, that’s at least a half hour away. She pauses. It’s just like you to help a friend out like this, but radio, huh? You who are addicted to Zillow and Realtor.com—it’s hard to believe. Why didn’t you tell us?

Good question. One I don’t have an equally good answer to. I guess I just wanted to surprise you with the news once I got myself settled in on the job.

May I ask ... what happened to real estate?

I draw in a breath. I-I just wanted to try something different, that’s all.

Well, then, I would say you accomplished that! She’s quiet for a moment, and in the silence, I notice a low hum in the room. I’m surprised you had to work on a Sunday, though.

It’s unusual, but once a quarter the sales team comes in to observe the weekend operations, and they figured this was a good time to ‘baptize me,’ so to speak.

Hmm. Okay. So, does this mean ...?

I’ll still do your books for you, if that’s what you’re worried about, I cut in. Gaby is all thumbs when it comes to math, and tired or not, I am determined to continue helping her by doing the bookkeeping for her little floral shop on Main Street in Ventura. She pays me in flowers, and I’m just fine with that. It’s all very charming.

No, honey! Not at all. I was just wondering if maybe, um, if maybe this would be a good time to break your lease, and, well—Gaby blows a thick sigh into the phone—get away from that no-good roommate of yours.

There it is. The topic I have been carefully avoiding lands with a thud between us. I should not be surprised, though, that when I attempt to keep Gaby away from learning about the latest drama surrounding my roommate and my home, the very subject comes up.

Livi? Jake and I have been talking, and we want you to know you can stay with us any time you want. Come today!

Tears press against the back of my eyes as does a hard lump in my throat. I glance around at the smoke-smudged walls of this eerie oversized closet.

How is it again that I got here?

Oh, right. I have a drug addict living in my apartment.

Did you hear what I said? Gaby asked. Livi, it’s the least I can do after all you’ve done to help me. Plus, if it weren’t for you, I may never have met my hunk o’ burning love.

Oh, gag.

Gaby laughs. Okay, whatever. You know what I mean. Take us up on our offer. Please?

Slowly, I shake my head. Everything’s going to work out. I know it will. Thank you for the offer, Gabs, but I’m beat. Can we talk about this tomorrow? I have to work in the morning, but I’ll come by around four and record invoices for you at the shop.

Gaby doesn’t answer.

Okay? I ask, peeking around the room while averting anymore conversation about my home life, both past and future.

If you’re sure.

I nod. I am. I’ll see you and your mama at Florally Yours tomorrow.

Okay. ‘Night, sweet girl.

I switch off the ringer on my phone and get up to answer a knock on my door. A shot of adrenaline speeds up my heart and I lean against the warped surface, as if I’ll be able to decipher who is standing on the other side. Of course, no peephole exists.

Yes? I ask, in my most intimidating voice.

A male voice slips in through the cracks, the same one that had greeted me at registration. You forgot your change, he says. His voice slurs on the word change.

No matter how I try to steady it, my heart continues to slam against the wall of my chest.

Well? You gonna answer the door?

I shake my head, tightly. Keep it, I tell him, my lips close enough to feel the cold air pushing through the gaps in the doorway. I wait there, my breathing becoming steadier, until he finally shuffles off into the night.

It is not until I slip fully clothed in between the sheets, leaving on the lone light in the room that I realize: I paid for this room with exact change.

TWO

This view makes up for one of the worst night’s sleep I have ever had. I’m driving up the coast to work, while fighting to keep my eyes off of the gorgeous green-blue sea to my left. Not sure I actually slept at all last night, what with all that noise and pounding above me. Pretty sure the management ought to outlaw dance parties in top floor rooms.

I lower my window, breathing in the crisp air, and for a few seconds almost forget that when I arrived home yesterday after work, Jet had decided to throw a party of her own. The door stood ajar when I arrived. The tension that crawled up my left arm and planted itself atop my shoulder should have been clue number one to brace myself. I gently pushed open the door, figuring I would wander in unnoticed—I’ve done that before—and hole up in my room for an afternoon nap.

What I had not counted on was finding our building manager smoking weed on my living room couch—the leather one I had saved up for and purchased online from Costco. I bought it for its luscious chocolate color, but now it just looked, well, brown.

Jet’s on-again-off-again boyfriend—usually off-again—spotted me from his perch on the end of the couch. Hey, it’s the old lady! Chris’s matted beard stuck to his face unnaturally, like it had been glued on in patches.

Jet snorted and said to no one in particular, What’s she doing here? She gave me a look then, her eyeballs big and round and bloodshot. Church get out early or somethin’?

Maybe I should have stepped out and called 911, but where other people might have seen aggression, I saw pain. I stared back at my old friend, remembering the girl who used to be, and for a moment, even through her drug-induced haze, we connected. I know she felt it too.

Jet and I were close as children. We’re actually half-cousins, nor that I could never save her from her tyrannical father when we were kids. Still, with much prayer, I had come to believe that if only Jet would find a safe haven with me, she could turn her life around.

I still want to believe that for her.

Santa Barbara greets me with a sun-kissed hello, but the light on my dash flashes a warning. For the third time.

Oops.

I flip the switch on my turn signal and exit the freeway, hoping I won’t have to coast to a gas station. Leave it to me to let my hybrid run out of gas while the battery is low. Unfortunately, the place is packed with SUVs and campers hauling bicycles and luggage and, well, fun. Not exactly the going-to-church crowd and certainly not anyone else dressed in office attire.

After the Brady Bunch pulls out, I lurch into a spot and whip out my credit card. Slide this, punch in that, say yes to that. Nozzle in hand, I turn to fill my tank and the hose gets caught on its housing.

Now, see, this is when I should stop, take a deep breath, and carefully unwind that hose. Instead, I yank and my strange morning turns murkier. Fat globs of oily gas pool on my cream-colored pumps. I gasp and reach for a paper towel from the dispenser, the nozzle spiking the air every which way. Probably look like I’m having a fit.

Excuse me? Let me help. He is tall, but not towering, with friendly almond-shaped eyes that crinkle at their edges when he smiles with pity.

I am holding the nozzle above my head—a gutsy move in retrospect—and vigorously wiping gasoline from my shoes with a paper towel made from pulp wood. Kind of like cleaning a petroleum product with a paper bag …

Gently, tall guy takes the nozzle from my right hand, which I’m still waving above my head for some reason, and as I peer up at him, he points to my gas tank. May I?

I hesitate and drop my hand to my side. Then I swallow my pride, nod, and look away. How gauche would it be for me to spit on my shoes and give them one more swipe with this worthless towel?

As he pumps gas, I stand and toss the wad of paper into a bin, then hover awkwardly. For his part, he stands with one hand holding the gas nozzle and the other casually buried in his pants pocket. Like he does this every day.

Thanks for the help, I say after a few seconds go by. Nearly ran out of gas on the freeway ... guess I’m distracted this morning. A heavy pause lands between us. I can take over now.

He smiles. No need. If you’d like to go and wipe down your shoes, I’ll finish up and get your receipt for you.

Everything about him screams safe. Well, everything except for the fitted, collared shirt that hugs his body in just the way that menswear advertisers hoped it would (but rarely does in real life).

He continues to stand next to my car, nonchalantly filling the tank as if we were old friends. I’ll keep an eye on your car for you, but you should lock up too. Just to be safe.

I click the button on my key fob and leave for the restroom. When I return, he’s leaning against the car with his back to me.

I circle around him. Thanks for helping me out this morning.

He looks up. Sure thing. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out my receipt, and for a moment I wonder if he might have jotted his phone number on it.

My face heats up at the absurdity of that thought. My gaze drops to my pointy toed shoes. Honestly, you went beyond the call. Thanks again.

He backs away from me now, still smiling that crinkle-eyed smile of his. It doesn’t look quite so full of pity anymore, but rather, quite genuine. He raises a hand in a wave and slides into his car, awaiting his own turn to pump gas.

I head back up the coast with a dumb smile on my face that falls slightly when I realize that the headache-inducing odor of gasoline has found its way inside my car.

A two-story building with glass-block windows appears on the horizon, its signage advertising a cluster of radio stations serving the area. I hurry in, card-key in hand, hoping my face doesn’t betray my lack of sleep nor the chagrin I feel over having to swap my pretty pumps for a pair of flat black sandals etched from too many visits to the sand.

Upstairs, Sales Manager Mark Middlebrook meets me at the door, and I try not to let my eyes linger too long on the bow tie, sweater vest, and Bluetooth stuck to his head. He wore the same getup yesterday, but in different colors. Except the Bluetooth. Bri would find this hysterical, but I try to think of it as having character.

Great! You’re here, he says. Mark’s smile is big and his eyes small. He hands me an empty cup. We need coffee. Pronto.

I smile at his joke, but he doesn’t smile back. My first week on the job and I still can’t read him. This can’t be good.

He’s still staring at me, but when I don’t move, one of his eyebrows shoots up and he glances down at the empty mug in my hand. I straighten. Oh, right.

He clicks on his earpiece and spins back toward his office. "Mark Middlebrook here. Thanks