The kid nodded and his hair flopped into his eyes. “Yes. The Clash. It sounds better.” Bentley took note: it sounds better = kids think it’s cooler. Worthwhile product testing.
Ivy nodded like the kid had made a very important choice. “Good call. I’ll get that made for you right away. Staying here or do you want to take it with you?”
The kid checked his phone. “I think I have time to stay.”
Ivy smiled like nothing would make her happier than having him in the shop for the few minutes it would take him to finish his drink.
Bentley knew that would lead to a pastry sale. Maybe a T-shirt.
Ivy was very good at this job. He tried to send her a smile, but she seemed to be avoiding his eye.
Bentley took the order for the couple next in line. They were straight-up orderers: two Black Flags to go. They hovered at the counter, pointing out merchandise they liked, while he brewed and poured their drinks. As he pressed the lids on the cups and lifted them, he walked directly into Ivy. The cups met her on either side of her chin, and the lids only just kept the hot drinks contained.
Ivy gasped and said a word that Bentley was positive was in the prohibited list in her contract. Bentley gasped and said a different word that was also definitely on the list.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, trying to check if she was hurt. He reached out with hands full of cups. Then with his elbow, reaching for her arm. He thought he was being helpful, but it was clear that he was wrong.
“Get out of my way,” she said, trying to go around him. He went the same direction and they jigged inside the small space behind the counter.
She backed away from him, hands up in front of her face. “Stop it. Go that way.” She pointed with her head, directing him to his customers.
“Are you all right?” he asked, still holding the two cups in his hands. He couldn’t turn from her until he was sure he hadn’t hurt her, even though he was making a fantastic disaster of this.
“I will be if you leave me alone.” There was no room for misinterpretation. She was not laughing.
He nodded to her, went around to his customers, and handed them their drinks. They looked at the cups like they’d hoped for something better—maybe something not used as a weapon—but took the drinks and walked out.
“They didn’t leave you a tip,” she said, rubbing her sleeve along her jawline.
Was she teasing him? He watched her face for the hint of a smile. Couldn’t find one.
“Hope that doesn’t make it hard to pay the rent this month,” she said. Then she turned away and scooped beans into the grinder.
She kept bringing up the money. He didn’t know it was so obvious that he had money until she mentioned it. The day he’d started, and now again today. As if he’d forget, or she would. He knew that people expected life to be simple for him. And of course, many things had been. He was good at school, at least the academic parts. His family’s money had made many things come easily for him: experiences, travel, daily comforts. But he’d always wished he could be more relaxed around women. In high school and college, his family money had put him in the path of other moneyed families, but their daughters were like Lex and Mercedes: elegant. Effortless. Classy. And he was always too buttoned-up to be either urbane or relaxed. Now was his chance—the newly minted Bentley Hollis, untucked and tousled and cool.
That wasn’t too much to ask.
Bentley glanced at Ivy again, who was spending the break between customers picking at the polish on her nails. Looked like an opening to him. He would make spontaneous small-talk and she would be convinced that he was interesting and casually cool.
“What are you doing after work?”
She looked up from her hands with a horror-filled face. “Are you asking me out?”
“No. No. Of course not.”
Relief washed over her features. “Good.” Now she bent over to retie her Doc Marten combat boots.
“I just wondered what kinds of things you do when you’re not here.”
Oh, no. Stalker. He sounded exactly like he was planning to follow behind her car and watch her through windows.
“I mean,” he stammered, “what do you like? What are you interested in?”
She made a sound that could optimistically be called a laugh. “You’re not much good at chit-chat, are you?”
His face flushed and the combination of embarrassment and desperation made his heart hammer. One more try.
Maybe she’d accept an offering of vulnerability. “I just want to talk to you like normal people talk.”
She shook her head. “No good. I don’t do your kind of normal,” she said. The door chime rang and she turned toward the approaching customer. “Hey, there. Know what you want?” she said, all traces of disdain gone from her voice.
She sounded cheerful. Pleasant. Charming. But not when she was aiming her attention at Bentley this afternoon. She couldn’t hide her annoyance when she spoke or listened to him. But she didn’t seem to feel that way with her customers. Logic said it must be him.
Well, him and Titus Cameron. She was an equal-opportunity hater of his personas.
Should that be comforting? Because it wasn’t.
CHAPTER FIVE
She kept watching Bentley out of the side of her eyes. What was he trying to do, anyway?
Well, aside from the obvious—a truly embarrassing attempt to make a Violent Femmes. It wasn’t that hard—a quad shot caramel mocha. All the caffeine. All the sugar. But he was struggling with the recipe on the screen, and she felt sorry for him in the way that people feel sorry for small animals that can’t quite manage to do the animal jobs they’re supposed to do. Like those YouTube videos of puppies that try to climb stairs. She caught herself smiling at the image, and she made sure he couldn’t see her face. She certainly didn’t need him to misinterpret that smile as anything for him.
Not after she’d Googled him.
This afternoon. While he was clearing tables. She googled Bentley + Phoenix + hotels. And she’d found out that she was right—Bentley came from money. Loads of it. His dad owned Hollis Holdings, the huge resort hotel chain dotting beaches in Mexico and southern California. He was Bentley Hollis. His sisters were Mercedes and Lexus. (Ducati and Bugatti would have been better, she thought. Funnier, anyway.)
How many people did he think lived in this city who were named Bentley and had families who worked with hotels? How long did he think he could hide the fact that his father was some kind of gazillionaire?
No wonder Bentley was so awkward behind the counter. He’d probably never worked at a food service or retail job in his life. He’d probably never worked at all. And now here he was, in an economy like this, taking someone else’s income opportunity.
Ivy felt the familiar flare of social injustice. The righteous indignation fueled her pride in her own accomplishments. Not to mention the flush of unfairness that slid across her skin every time she was forced to remember Charles Gordon Connolly, otherwise known as Chad, the Horrible Despised Rich Cheating Hipster. It had been three years, but even three years was not enough to forget the humiliation of the way he’d treated her. Chad was everything wrong with wealthy guys. He drove a pretentiously expensive-looking car that he treated much more carefully than he treated Ivy. He bought clothes that were carefully distressed-looking, but cost a small fortune. He pretended he was some kind of “man of the people,” when in fact, he was hiding the truth: he was a giant snob who looked down on everyone who had less money than he did. And that wasn’t all. Chad was—weirdly—a cheap date. He never took Ivy anywhere nice if he had to pay. He took her to a few events in the city, but she always discovered that he was using his parents’ tickets because they were unavailable to attend. He managed to show off his money at the same time as never, ever spending any of it on her. He had explained it to her once.
“People with money have money because they’re not out there spending it all. I’m going to make a comfortable life for myself, but you don’t
get that by ordering flowers that are going to die. You don’t get that by giving presents to every girl you meet.”
Ivy had no interest in Chad buying gifts and flowers for everyone. Only once in a while for her.
But that wasn’t his deal, apparently.
After a few months, Ivy discovered that his deal was, in fact, other women. Several of them.
The first time she’d caught on to this, she found herself behind him in a grocery line. He was with a very perky redhead. Who, by the way, paid for their food. He’d told her later that the redhead was his cousin’s roommate, and that they were making dinner for the cousin. Who was at home. Sick. In bed. Conveniently. Ivy wondered why she’d never even heard of this cousin before. The next week, she was in the bike shop having her fork straightened when she saw Chad coming up the sidewalk with a blonde woman draped over his shoulders like a superhero cape. Huh. Suspicious. When he was parked near her apartment, kissing that girl with the short dark hair, she began to wonder if he was bumping into her on purpose, with his rainbow-array of women.
If she’d been inclined to wait, Chad could probably have come up with another way to prove his disinterest, but Ivy had taken enough. Next time he called her, she’d ended it. He was not gracious; in fact, he laughed and asked if she thought he was supposed to be heartbroken.
She didn’t bother to answer that, since he must have been asking metaphorically. He clearly had no heart.
Then there was Delancey. Last year. Who’d followed the same path, except without the varied cast of characters. Only one other woman. Ivy’s roommate. That one was both easier to end (no waiting around to see if he’d become sorry) and harder (because she had to find a new place to live). But she was happier now, living alone and staying away from wealthy men. Simple.
And now, here was Bentley Hollis, working some kind of adorable nerdy barista vibe to catch unsuspecting working women, but only until he grew tired of hourly-wage work and went back to his penthouse life. He probably had a maid. Who brewed his coffee for him.
He’d probably gotten every single thing handed him since he was born.
Nobody’d ever handed Ivy anything.
And now he was getting all chummy, and she wasn’t having it. Even though his attempts to rumple himself up were pretty cute. She could admit that. But it was cuter before she knew who he was. Before she had proof that he was one of the elite—the people who think, understand, know that they’re above the rules.
“No.”
Enough heads turned that she realized she’d said it out loud. “There’s no hazelnut in a Nirvana,” she said in Bentley’s direction. Nice save, she told herself.
Why was he smiling? What kind of man smiled when he was being corrected? Ivy shook her head. Maybe it was a privilege of wealth to laugh in the face of reproach.
And what was he even doing here, anyway? Was he a plant? Some kind of corporate training exercise? Was he involved in an elaborate prank? Was this slumming? Was he bored? Maybe it was a dare. Going to work as a barista seemed like a thing a wealthy guy would take on as a dare.
The bell signaled another customer. Ivy was relieved to turn her attention toward the door. Then her smile became sincere when she saw that it was Walt, the sixty-something guy that came in at least twice a week and always said the same opening line.
“Well, hello, Ivy. What should I try today?”
Ivy found that wearing a nametag made certain types of people eager to say your name. Often, the creepy type. But Walt was sweet. Genuine. And she loved that he let her order for him, and that he was always game for a pastry upsell.
“Hi, Walt. Good to see you.” She smiled at him, feeling a shift away from her annoyance with Bentley. Walt reminded her a little of her dad. Uncomplicated. Charming, in a gentlemanly way. Polite and appropriately distant.
Ivy turned and pretended to study the menu. “I think today is the day to try the Ska. It’s a raspberry mocha. A little sweet, a little sassy, a little unexpected. Isn’t that how today feels?”
As always, Walt agreed. “That is precisely how today feels.” He stood at the counter while she created his drink, chatting about the weather. Not just anyone can make small talk about the Phoenix weather, but Walt mentioned things other than the heat.
“I got out into the hills this morning for a hike,” he said. “The air had that hint of sagebrush that always smells like the beginning of something good.”
Did she imagine it, or did Walt look from her to Bentley when he said that? She decided to ignore it. “Which hike?”
“There’s a trail not too far from my house that I like to use,” he said. “I head out early, before the sun comes up.” He looked at her with that dad-like smile. “Starting out in the blue of early morning and watching the sky lighten is an emboldening sensation. Makes you feel like anything’s possible.”
She nodded and leaned on the counter. “I’ve had that feeling. Twice in my life.”
His laugh was gentle. “Don’t worry. You’ll feel it again. There’s time.” This time she was sure he looked from her to Bentley.
She passed him a mug and reached for an almond cookie. “This is on me today,” she said. “But don’t get used to it,” she added, with mock seriousness. “A girl has got to be responsible with her resources.”
“That’s very kind. Thank you.” He nodded and pulled a twenty out of his wallet, stuffing it into the tip jar. He leaned closer and whispered, “Make sure you share that with the new guy. He looks like he could use all the help you can give.”
Ivy nodded, but whispered back, “You think? I’m betting he’s just fine. Look at his expensive shoes.”
Walt shook his head. “I wasn’t really talking about money,” he said. He straightened up and patted her hand before picking up his drink and cookie. He sipped his Ska and nodded. “Thanks for this. You were right—sweet and sassy is exactly the ticket.”
He gave Bentley a glance and a smile before sitting at a table and pulling out a book. Ivy pretended not to notice Bentley watching her work, but she felt his eyes on her. When she accidentally looked at him, she noticed he was not only watching, but studying. Smiling.
CHAPTER SIX
Bentley watched Ivy chat with his father over the counter and wondered if she had any idea that her regular customer was Walter Hollis, one of Phoenix’s most influential residents.
He hoped not. There was something about the way she’d chatted with him that Bentley wanted to watch again, and he was pretty sure she would bolt if she knew the truth. At least, if she knew he was Bentley’s dad.
Bentley knew that his dad visited a Velvet Undergrounds shop every day, but he thought this particular one must be the favorite. There was something about this location that had made Walter suggest that Bentley should do his sixty days here.
Now he wondered if that something was Ivy.
Bentley would not put it past his dad to play Cupid.
He chuckled to himself. He heard it come out of his mouth—a legitimate chuckle—and stopped. He rolled his eyes. No girl like Ivy would ever be interested in a guy who laughed like that.
But he was amused. In the last few hours, she had made a complete reversal. Two of them, in fact. Something had happened right before he almost poured coffee on her, and that something had shifted her whole attitude. He loved that she was ruled by emotion that way. It was so opposite of his sisters. So different from what he’d been raised to be. He liked it. It felt real.
Now, his dad had left, Ivy was in the back room, and nobody was in line to order, so he tried a couple of more masculine laughs on for size. Under his breath, of course. Nobody could hear him.
Over the Toy Dolls on the store soundtrack, he heard Lex’s distinctive snort of derision, which for years had most often been directed at him. She stood behind him on the other side of the circular counter.
“What are you doing, Ben?”
He knew his sister loved him, but sometimes when she talked like that, with her slow drawl edged wit
h knives, he felt like an awkward thirteen-year-old again. It was the voice of mockery shrouded with benign intent.
He took a small breath and faced her. “Hi, Lex. I’m doing persona work.”
Her perfectly arched eyebrows moved up on her forehead. “Which means?” she prompted.
Bentley counted the seconds of his inhale (seven) and his exhale (nine) before answering. “I’m becoming the type of guy who works in a coffee shop.”
She shook her head once and pointed a designer fingernail at him. “You are already the type of guy who works in a coffee boutique.” Her clarification came in the most sincere voice, but he recognized the overtones of Public Relations.
Could it be considered a boutique if there was one on every other block? He wanted to argue, but he didn’t want to lose. He kept his mouth closed and wiped the counter. After rubbing the clean cloth over the entire surface, he said, “This is going to be a long two months.”
“You’ll be fine,” Lex said. The cutting edge was gone from her voice, and she was once again the sister who believed he could do anything.
“Dad was just here.”
Lex nodded. “I saw him leave.”
“We’re going for a whole family gathering?” He hoped she knew he was kidding.
Lex shook her head. “Dad wants to keep his eyes on all the shops. I, however, only need to keep my eyes on you.”
As he folded the cloth, Bentley watched Lex adjust the ring on her index finger. The effect of her jewelry was very different than the effect of Ivy’s. Lex’s rings whispered money, and Ivy’s screamed weaponry.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, which she did a lot. As if every thought that crossed his mind was somehow vital.
“Nothing.”
There went the eyebrows again. “I doubt it.” She knew him well enough to know that his mind was generally busy.
“I was thinking about your rings,” he said. That’s all, he told himself. Stop talking now. “And Ivy’s.”
Well.
“Ivy?” She pointed behind the counter where Ivy wasn’t. Lex did a pantomime of Ivy’s scowl, which was much cuter on Ivy. She moved her hands along her jawline to suggest Ivy’s haircut. All of which delivered the message that Lex almost remembered who Ivy was, but that Ivy was not quite important enough to take up space in her head.
B is for Barista (The ABCs of Love Book 2) Page 5