What The Heart Learns Read online

  Contents

  TITLE

  DEDICATION

  - ONE

  - TWO

  - THREE

  - FOUR

  - FIVE

  - SIX

  - SEVEN

  - EIGHT

  - NINE

  - TEN

  - ELEVEN

  - TWELVE

  - THIRTEEN

  - FOURTEEN

  - EPILOGUE

  - DON'T FORGET

  - ALSO BY JESSICA GADZIALA

  - ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  - STALK HER

  What the Heart

  Learns

  --

  Jessica Gadziala

  Copyright © 2018 Jessica Gadziala

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for brief quotations used in a book review.

  "This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental."

  Cover image credit: Shutterstock .com/ portumen

  DEDICATION

  To Teresa Travnichek.

  The first ever fan of this series.

  With my eternal gratitude.

  ONE

  Riley

  She wasn't a stalker.

  Or, at least, that was what she was trying to convince herself as she crossed over the border into Pennsylvania.

  Even if, maybe, this seemed, well, stalkerish.

  That she had gone out of her way to ask to borrow her parents' spare car - since living in the city didn't really require you to have your own, in fact, it was really just a nuisance to own one - and packed it with all her things, plugging the address into her GPS, then heading to some little nowhere town called Stars Landing.

  It was kinda stalkery.

  Because, see, she wasn't going there for the small town ambiance, the way everyone would smile and wave and welcome her there like an old friend. She was a city person. Not born, but made. She was maybe into the fact that her next-door neighbor ducked his head and shuffled forward when they walked out their doors at the same time just to avoid something as useless as pleasantries.

  She wasn't going, either, for the decently-rated inn that she would be staying at. She'd gotten her room on a song because it was, apparently, going to be going through renovations during her stay.

  She had learned to sleep through the bed-breaking nightly rendezvous of her upstairs neighbor who either was simply insatiable sexually, or was an entrepreneur in the oldest profession in the world.

  Hell, once, her neighbors across the hall - two guys freshly dropped out of college who moved to the city to have the time of their lives which mostly consisted of drinking to violent vomiting out front and impressive hangovers that had them creeping out at noon stooped over like men three times their age - had gotten into a fight badly enough to break into the wall of the neighbors to their left which brought in not only the cops but the super and construction workers to assess the damage and put up a temporary wall. It hadn't even affected her REM cycle.

  She could sleep through a bit of hammering at the inn.

  And, sure, peach festivals and Spring Into Summer dances and bachelor auctions were all well and good.

  But she wasn't going for any of those either.

  No.

  She was going to visit some little rinky-dink indie bookstore called Stars Books. A place so indie that it didn't even have a Facebook page.

  Who didn't have a Facebook page in this day and age?

  How were people supposed to stalk aggressively research you and your business if you didn't have a proper social media presence?

  It would have saved her the trip.

  Maybe.

  Well, probably not.

  She was an experience person. After a couple rounds of social media research, she always had to check a place out for herself. This was a woman who had once been so curious about a pizza place that had so many one-star reviews - how can you screw up pizza?- that she had to go and see for herself.

  And got an impressive bout of food poisoning, leaving her in the hospital hooked up to tubes, being fed an endless amount of anti-nausea medicine while they rehydrated her body.

  So she would have checked out Stars Books on all platforms, sure, but even if they were rife with information, she likely would have still been in a borrowed car loaded down with empty paper cups of coffee on her way to check things out for herself.

  That didn't make her crazy.

  It made her curious.

  There was a definite distinction.

  Or, at least, that was what she was trying to convince herself.

  The fact that her curiosity was based in a marrow-rooted, soul-deep burning rage, well, yeah, she was just trying to pretend that didn't exist.

  The fact that she had needed to halt her mail, ask her sister to visit her apartment to water her plants and flick some lights on and off every few days, had to spend days packing, texting everyone that she would be out of town, and borrow a car all the while lying about to where and why she was going, yeah, that was another thing she needed not to think about.

  They likely wouldn't think anything of it.

  She'd always been impulsive.

  She'd been her parents' headache middle child, her teachers' annoyingly know-it-all, can't-sit-still, full-of-questions worst nightmare, her ex-boyfriends' constant state of frustration.

  If there was one thing you could never accuse Riley Harvey of, it was being predictable.

  When she'd turned eighteen, two weeks after high school graduation, she had stuffed everything she could fit into an old twice-handed-down hatchback in a bright lime green color, said goodbye to her loved ones, and drove clear across the country to Seattle.

  Why, you might be wondering?

  Because she'd seen too many reruns of Fraiser and thought it would be more to her speed, full of intellectuals and artists who would sit around drinking over-priced, high-brow coffee while discussing Proust and the meaning of life.

  Two years later, a bit sick of the seemingly endless rain, and finding no readers but those who read Dan Brown and James Patterson, the last time they'd picked up a classic being in school - and even then, only to skim the words enough to BS their way through an essay about it - she had packed her things back into her car, climbed in with her last cup of decent coffee that aggravated the stress-ulcer she had given herself, and just as suddenly left the city as she had adopted it, heading back to the East coast.

  When she'd found out one of her boyfriends had been cheating on her in her very own bed, she had calmly sat down and told him it was over. Meanwhile, when a different boyfriend said that the Harry Potter books were overhyped pieces of trash with plot holes big enough to steer a herd of Hagrids through, she had smashed his sixty-inch television by throwing a Slytherin mug of hot coffee through it.

  You never knew what kind of reaction you were going to get out of her.

  Half the time, she wasn't even sure what she was going to do or say until she found herself doing or saying something.

  Maybe that was not a trait she should have been proud of, but she consoled herself that at least it was honest. You always knew where you stood with her. She didn't tiptoe around the hard stuff. She didn't bite her tongue to save her face. She was we
ll known for her inability to press her lips closed, to keep her opinions to herself. So if you didn't want the laser-sharp truth, you knew not to ask her for her opinion.

  She didn't just wear her heart on her sleeve. Her sleeve was covered in her hopes, fears, dreams, expectations, anger, annoyance, joy, humor, sarcasm, book snobbishness, and insatiable appetite too.

  Everything all out there for everyone to see.

  Openly, she was convinced, was the only way to live your life.

  Which was why her little covert mission was so uncharacteristic of her.

  She couldn't claim to be proud of her plan, but she wasn't exactly surprised by the compulsion behind it either. She'd learned a long time ago to simply be washed along the tides of her impulses, knowing she wasn't a strong enough swimmer to fight the currents, and that no one usually got hurt. Save for maybe herself at times.

  There was no danger here anyway.

  Except if you counted her pride ending in tatters.

  But it was already pretty badly busted at this point.

  Besides, it was too late to turn around.

  Along with being a go-with-the-flow kind of woman, she was also a follow-through kind of woman. She'd once finished a six-week intensive hot yoga course out of sheer stubbornness even though she got sick at every class and felt shaky and weak for the three days following each session.

  A while later, after having exhausted every song on her I Am Not Joe from YOU playlist on her iPod five times over, figuring it was a fitting title given the stalker aspect of the Kepnes book that she had read just a few weeks before, she finally pulled past a giant wooden sign with intricate script welcoming her to Stars Landing.

  Blinking the road-weariness out of her eyes, rolling a constant crick out of her neck that only seemed to go away after a good chiro visit, and reemerged just days later, she turned her car down Main Street.

  She wasn't sure what she was expecting per se, but something straight out of 1950's small-town-America was not it. She hadn't realized that somewhere as close to her beloved dirty city could be so, well, clean. And quaint. And untouched by big developers deciding all the openness around it would be prime real estate for endless hideously similar townhouses, choking up the small two-lane road with an undue amount of traffic.

  And how all the mom-and-pop stores that flanked either side of the street managed to stay in business in the days of big box store discounts and Prime delivery, she had no idea. But they clearly did.

  It was late, most places shuttered for the evening - another oddity for her, so used to a city that never slept, never shut its doors.

  But there was a healthy selection of the stores too, from a small market which had hand-painted murals of fruits and veggies on the windows, a bar that still had the lights on because, well, no self-respecting bar closed its doors before midnight even in a sleepy little town. Where were the drunks supposed to go? She eyed a second-hand store with a sign still situated out front boasting a two-for-one deal on shoes. There was also a diner which, well, a diner was a diner, wasn't it? Big glass windows, booths, tables, a dessert case.

  Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that dinner had been a bag of Fritos, a bag of Dove chocolates, and a soda. And that had been hours before.

  She had food stashed in one of her bags in the trunk, though, knowing she was a snacker and that the inn - while boasting a fully-functioning restaurant - didn't likely have room service.

  She was almost there.

  It could wait.

  A sign to her side caught her eye, making her slam on the brakes before she remembered she wasn't supposed to be, well, a creep who pulled to a stop and peeped in windows.

  Stars Books.

  The whole reason she was in this sleepy town when she should have been four slices in on a pizza in her apartment, checking out Goodreads on her laptop.

  It wasn't huge, as most indie bookstores really weren't. Strand aside. But strand wasn't really a bookstore at all. It was the bibliophile's Mecca. It was holy ground. It was a slice of heaven on the mortal realm.

  It didn't count.

  It was like trying to compare Leonard Cohen and Katy Perry.

  The huge picture windows gave her a darkened view of rows and tables of books. And that was about all she could make out while she was rolling past.

  She'd been hoping to catch sight of the proprietor who she expected to be a crotchety old woman with oversized glasses that made her milky eyes appear bulging like a fish's, connected to one of those chains you wore around your neck to take them on and off with ease, a perpetual disapproving grimace on her face.

  Cruel, maybe. But she felt justified.

  There was no one though.

  It could wait, she assured herself as she kept moving down Main Street toward her destination for the night.

  The Stars Landing Inn.

  It was a large white Victorian with two levels of wraparound porches, white chipping paint, overflowing window boxes, and a cracked front path.

  It was an interesting combination of lovingly kept up, and falling apart that Riley found oddly charming.

  Sure, she was a city-dweller through and through - mostly due to her need of good coffee, well-stocked bookstores, and all-night takeout when she was working late, but as she parked her borrowed car out front of the inn, she could maybe see the charm of the small town as well.

  "Nope. No. Turn around, and go right back out that door," a male voice greeted her as soon as she pulled the front door open - bells chiming - and stepped inside.

  She looked to her side to see a man somewhere in his mid-twenties sitting atop the reception desk in checkered oxfords, black skinny jeans, a vintage gray band tee under an open white vest, horn-rimmed glasses settled on the nose of a face that could be described as classically handsome - everything in proportion, and with the right bone structure to take it from an average face to a good-looking one.

  "I'm sorry?" Riley asked, head cocking to the side a bit.

  "Listen, this is a small town," he started, shaking his head. "They tolerate me. But if another one of us pops up, they might think it's an invasion. Or drugs. Or an onslaught of sexual perversion."

  "What the hell are you talking about?" she asked, lips tipped up, too used to crazy people to be put off by his odd ramblings.

  "They'd call you a hipster," he told her, hopping off the desk. "Like they call me," he added, moving toward her in two strides, pushing her cat-eye glasses up her nose with the tip of his forefinger.

  "I'm not a hipster; I'm near-sighted," she explained, shrugging.

  "Cat-eye?" he asked, brow quirking up as his lips twitched in what could only be considered a charming way.

  "They suit my face shape," she defended. "Heart shapes are hard."

  "Uh huh," he hummed, not sounding convinced as he spun around, going back toward the reception desk. "Riley, right?" he asked, sliding behind the desk to type on the ancient computer. "You don't look like a Cordelia Cameron to me."

  "Definitely not Cordelia Cameron," she agreed, moving to the other side of the desk, gaze sliding to his phone as it continually bleeped from where it was situated on top of a notebook.

  "She's the new designer that is coming in to fix up the place," he explained, playing it fast and loose with privacy laws.

  "It could use some... sprucing," she said carefully, trying to be, well, delicate. But being born a bull in a China cabinet, delicate was not something she could do well.

  "You can say it," he encouraged. "It's almost bad enough to make you want to gouge your eyes out," he finished with a smile before he turned away from her to face a wall where keys were hung with wooden tags attached, the room numbers carved into them.

  His back turned, her gaze slid around, finding the outdated wallpaper, the hideous Victorian scene artwork, the mismatched, threadbare furniture in need of reupholstering. Or a trip to the dump.

  It was pretty bad.

  She was sure if her eyes moved around too quickly, she would get motio
n sickness from the busyness of everything around her.

  "Would it be completely rude to walk around with sunglasses on indoors until this Cordelia woman shows up and strips this wallpaper at least?" she asked as he turned back to place a key on the desk, handing her a pen to sign the paperwork as she slid him her credit card and license.

  "It might grow on you," he suggested. "Well, that's a lie. But you might get used to it. Now, room three faces the stables and grounds. We could give you one facing the street if you would prefer."

  A street view meant a view of the bookstore. Which she might not be able to hold herself back from watching until the owner showed up.

  "Stables and grounds is fine," she decided.

  "And your stay is open-ended?" he clarified.

  "Yeah. I might be out of here tomorrow afternoon. Or a week from now." Or six months to a year from now if I get locked up for stalking, her mind added silently.

  "Did you throw a dart at a map or something?" he asked, brows drawn together. "People don't just happen to visit Stars Landing," he clarified.

  "No, I'm a w... really big fan of indie bookstores," she rushed to cover, inwardly rolling her eyes at her near-slip. "I heard really good things about Stars Books." That was an outright lie, but the guy just nodded.

  "Interesting. Yeah, they stock the shelves in the seating room," he added, waving toward the room behind her. "Anyway, I'm Devon. Welcome to the Stars Landing Inn. If anyone asks, I introduced myself before I told you to leave or insulted the decor. Especially if who is asking is a red-headed bombshell with too much nervous energy."

  "Your boss," Riley guessed as Devon moved out from behind the desk to lead her toward the stairs.

  "In the way that she constantly insults my work ethic, but never does anything about it, yes. Alright," he said, stopping outside a door on the second floor. "Here we are," he told her, slipping the key into a lock on the door with a carved number and peephole. His hand moved inside once the door was opened, flicking on the light. "I know," he agreed when Riley stepped in, shaking her head. "It's ugly. But believe it or not, it is better than a lot of the rooms."