B is for Barista (The ABCs of Love Book 2)

by Brenna Jacobs

  Bentley scanned the slides again and knew it. The new store was going to be a huge success. Many of those ideas had been his: things he wanted to add into the smaller shops, and ideas for more spaces for customers to gather.

  Seeing it all rendered like that, having it all visible in front of his eyes, Bentley felt a renewed sense of excitement as well as a regained trust in the board. These people knew what they were doing.

  Lexus bumped his leg under the table. “Good, right?” she whispered.

  “So good.” Bentley nodded and spoke to the whole room. “This is fantastic. I love it. I move we vote to go forward with the flagship project.”

  Motion carried.

  A pinprick of nagging doubt settled in the back of Bentley’s head, but he was used to that. Being a smart and successful businessman didn’t preclude him from feeling doubt and regret now and then. And he’d have a chat with Gary about what that tree-lined property was currently. Just in case. They’d figure out the best way to move forward. The best way for everyone.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Ivy checked her makeup in the mirror one more time. It was still fine. She felt self-conscious bubbles in her stomach, but that was normal, right? Date butterflies? She looked down at the blue dress and wondered if it was appropriate. She had no idea. It was easy to dress for work at Velvet Undergrounds. Black, black, black. And even easier to dress in scrubs for the Glen. But this was territory she hadn’t traveled for a while. The dress was subtle, not flashy, but she still felt conspicuously dressed up. Maybe if she changed her sandals for her Docs….

  When Bentley had sent a text earlier in the morning, she’d read it over several times to see if there was a subtle hidden meaning.

  Can’t wait for dinner tonight. What’s your address?

  Can’t wait for dinner? Or for dinner with her? And when he saw where she lived, was he going to make assumptions about her, beyond what he’d certainly already made?

  Or, she thought, in her more lucid and rational moments, maybe he was just excited to try the new restaurant and needed to know where to pick her up.

  No. There had to be more.

  There was always more.

  Bentley had been cute in his buttoned-up way that first day in the shop. He’d seemed a blend of confident and nervous. Charming and nerdy. “Adorkable,” as Dierdre would say. And when he’d let her help with the look, the hair, the shirt, the beanie and glasses, she’d felt his gratitude, and—maybe—more. He’d looked at her for longer than required. She’d felt his eyes on her while she was taking orders and making drinks, but she’d brushed it off. He was learning the ropes of the store, that was all.

  Only he’d gotten the menu down faster than anyone she’d ever worked with. He didn’t seem to really need much help. He was good at this.

  And then she’d googled him.

  Finding out that he was a Hollis Hollis? That had rocked her more than a little. Thinking back, she couldn’t decide what she’d expected. That he just happened to share a name with the country’s biggest hotel chain? That he was a distant cousin? As soon as she found out who he was, it all made perfect sense. His straight-laced formality was now more than a cute characteristic: it was his real world. Ivy was willing to bet that Bentley Hollis had “dressed for dinner” every day of his life. Like in the movies. Long, formal tables holding fresh flowers and too many forks.

  So what was he doing making coffee at Velvet Undergrounds? Why in the world had he shown up on her shift and started working with her?

  He didn’t need the money.

  Maybe, she thought, he’d been disinherited for some breech of rich-guy protocol. Maybe he’d disappointed the family somehow.

  Maybe there was a terrific scandal and his parents were keeping it hushed up, but as penance he had to go out and earn his way in the world.

  Except that when she’d stalked him online she saw that he had an Ivy League MBA. Earning his way in the world meant something different to people with east-coast business degrees.

  Maybe he was slumming. Like Stupid Rich Chad had done. Or maybe in a more benevolent way. It was possible that he just wanted to see how the other half lived, those who had to choose between paying the utilities and eating dinner that didn’t come out of a can.

  Maybe the whole rebuilding of the poorest parts of the city had gotten inside his head somehow, and now he was on a weird mission to bring his brand of wealth and class to the deserving masses.

  Maybe he just really liked coffee.

  Ivy checked herself in the mirror again. Still fine.

  She thought she heard footsteps on the metal stairs outside her apartment. She felt her heart rate increase. It could be him. She forced herself to slow her breathing and remember that this was a big building. It could be anyone.

  A knock at the door. Four knocks, actually. Not a loud, power-asserting slam, not a cheesy rat-a-tat-tat. A straightforward knocking that was nothing more than a request to be let in. Ivy shook herself. She really needed to stop with the overanalyzing.

  She opened the door. He stood on the welcome mat, a bouquet of flowers cradled in his elbow. His eyes darted to her face, the space behind her, his shoes. If she hadn’t as recently as twelve seconds ago told herself to stop analyzing, she’d have thought he looked nervous.

  But that was impossible.

  This was Bentley Hollis. And she was…

  “You’re beautiful.” He said it like it had just occurred to him. Like it was some kind of revelation. “I love that dress.”

  She felt herself blushing, so she turned and walked back inside. She didn’t want him to think he could win her over that easily. She was not the kind of girl to swoon over a compliment. At least, she’d never been before. Over her shoulder, she said, “Come in. Are those flowers for me?”

  He either cleared his throat or laughed, it was impossible to tell with her back to him. “They are. Yes. For you. Here.” He handed her the bouquet.

  Working at the Glen, she’d had experience with flowers. She could tell the difference between a bouquet that came from the grocery store and one that had an actual florist behind it. This one was the latter. She filled up a glass vase and put the flowers on the table in her tiny kitchen. She couldn’t deny that they brightened up the room.

  “Thank you for that,” she said. “They’re pretty.”

  Pretty. They were more than pretty, and she knew it, but that was what she had words for right now.

  He checked his watch. “We have a reservation in twenty minutes. It’s a nice night, so do you want to walk?” He didn’t give her a second to answer before he said, “Or I have a car if you’re more comfortable driving.”

  Was he nervous? Because he was acting like a nervous person would, talking too fast, trying out all kinds of places to put his hands, bouncing on his feet.

  She’d have thought that his nerves would make her feel more in control. Wrong. His jitters were contagious.

  “I’d like to walk. It’s so much harder for you to kidnap me if we’re not in a car.”

  He nodded. “Harder, but not impossible. Don’t underestimate me.”

  She couldn’t stop herself from laughing at that. Her laugh seemed to dislodge some of his anxiety. His shoulders dropped down from around his ears.

  “I won’t underestimate you any longer,” Ivy said with a grin. “Let me grab my bag.”

  One more glance in the mirror, and she saw that her smile made the “fine” look better.

  They clanked down the metal apartment building stairs, and Mr. Thompson put his head out his front door, one story down from hers. “Oh, Ivy.” He made it like a pronouncement. Oh, Ivy. Something very important will follow. But it didn’t. That was simply the way he talked.

  “Hi,” she said. “This is my friend Bentley.”

  My friend Bentley. She liked the sound of that. Bentley said hello and moved to shake Mr. Thompson’s hand, but the older man backed visibly away. Ivy put her hand on Bentley’s arm and gave a tiny shake of the h
ead. His hands went in his pockets.

  “Have a nice evening, Mr. Thompson.” Ivy gave him the standard wave, and he nodded his head as though they’d agreed on something. He slid back inside, back end first, barely missing closing the door on his own nose.

  Ivy led the way down the last flight of steps, across the sidewalk, and into the street. “So, that was Mr. Thompson,” she said. “He’s got a germ thing. He’s also got a set of vintage boxing gloves. And about a dozen cats.”

  “That’s a strange combination.” Bentley said it with a careful control in his voice, as though there was an obvious judgment, but he wasn’t going to make it.

  “Boxing gloves and germs?” she joked.

  “I was thinking boxing gloves and cats.”

  She liked when he smiled out the side of his mouth like that.

  “I googled you.” Oh, no. She had not intended to open with that. Or to admit it at all.

  He seemed to take it in stride. “And?”

  “There is only one Bentley Hollis in the valley that is less than eighty years old.”

  He shrugged. “That’s how I get all my social media names. Lucky, right? Anything else?”

  “You’re rich.”

  Well. There was the other thing she didn’t think she’d say. Any second now, she could give him details of her last stomach flu or tell him she dreamed about his messed-up hair.

  He nodded, as if people bluntly told him about his financial situation every day. “My family is very successful. And I’m doing pretty well, too.”

  “And I didn’t find this on the internet—just my personal sleuthing skills—but you have recently taken a job as a barista.” Ivy was very aware of Bentley’s left arm brushing against her right arm as they walked down the sidewalk.

  Turning to look at her, he said, “That seems odd to you, doesn’t it?”

  She could feel his eyes on her face, and she stopped walking. “Only a little,” she said, which wasn’t the truth at all.

  “I needed to experience something different,” was all he said. Somehow it seemed like the perfect answer. “Left here,” he said, pointing up the street at the intersection.

  Ivy watched him relax, his shoulders moving down and back. “What would we be talking about if you hadn’t stalked me online?”

  “Oh, now, hang on.” She shook her head. “You’re giving me way too much credit. I didn’t stalk you. I only got two pages deep. Everyone knows real stalking doesn’t go into effect until at least the fifth click.”

  “Of course. Everyone knows that. So, maybe you’d be giving me a lesson in online research skills?”

  She chuckled. “I could talk about a few things. I know everything there is to know about the 1967 Camaro Rally Sport Super Sport. And I make excellent crepes. And I could take your blood pressure, if you found yourself needing to know.”

  “Those are very interesting things,” he said, pointing at the next intersection. “Turn right here. And I appreciate knowing that you could take my blood pressure. You never know when that’s going to come in handy.”

  Sage nod. “Exactly. I might save your life tonight.”

  “And if I were in the market for an antique muscle car…” he began.

  “Now, wait a minute. Don’t diminish the ’67 Camaro to a category. It happens to be America’s most perfect car. It’s so much more than a muscle car. It has hideaway headlights,” she said, making a folding in and out motion with her hands. “It has a 350 big-block engine, and it absolutely guzzles gas. It was the original year, and no Camaro has ever come close to being as good as that one.” She could feel her smile stretching across her face, and she wasn’t sure if it was because she was talking about the car, or because she was talking to him.

  “How do you know all that?” he asked.

  “My dad. He had one when he was a kid, and he passed the love on to me. Too bad he didn’t pass the car on to me. I’ve never had one.”

  “You’ve never had a ‘67 Camaro?” Bentley asked.

  “I’ve never had a car,” Ivy clarified. “But I have my eyes open. There are a few beauties rolling around the streets here, and I’m first in line whenever anyone wants to sell.”

  Bentley looked at her again, something in his eyes that she wasn’t sure how to label. “I think if I squinted I could see you behind the wheel. But I have to say, I’m surprised. I would never have guessed that about you.”

  “I am,” Ivy said, “a woman of unsuspected complexity.”

  She thought he’d laugh, but he didn’t. He said, “I believe you,” like it was the most important sentence he’d ever spoken.

  She gulped.

  “Here we are,” he said, pointing to an unassuming door in an office complex. He opened the door for her and instantly her mouth started watering. The combined smells of meats, vegetables, spices, and something savory and understated made her stomach growl. The entry was full of giant green plants that made it feel like they were going to eat in the jungle. “Welcome to Chonggak,” a woman said. “Do you have a reservation?”

  Only then did Ivy realize that almost every table in the restaurant was full.

  Bentley gave his name to the woman, and she smiled and gestured to the back of the seating area. “Please, follow me.”

  At every table they passed, Ivy stared at the gorgeous, colorful meals. She wanted to ask the hostess to tell her what everything was called so she could order one of each. Even with her attention riveted to the food, she noticed people nodding, smiling, and waving to Bentley. Apparently, this was a wealthy-person’s restaurant where the rich friends came to play. She was careful not to look too closely, just in case Chad was one of the rich friends. Or Delancey. It was possible that Ivy didn’t really belong here, but it was also possible that she didn’t care. This may be her one and only shot at eating this gorgeous food, so she planned to enjoy it.

  The woman seated them near a water feature on the wall, which muted the noise of conversations in the crowded restaurant and made it sound like they were alone.

  Bentley pushed Ivy’s chair in and looked around before he moved to the other side of the table, sitting with his back to the people in the room. She thought that was considerate of him, especially taking into account how many of them he seemed to know. He moved away from them and made it clear that Ivy was the one he wanted to see. She felt the skin on her cheeks warm.

  “Did you see the food?” she whispered. “It was all so pretty. It’s Korean, right?”

  He nodded. “Know what you want?”

  “I think… everything.”

  He smiled at her. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll order us a bunch of stuff, and you can take home what’s left of anything you like.”

  “You assume there will be anything left,” she said.

  “That sounds like a challenge.”

  She shrugged. “Take it how you will.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Going out to dinner with Ivy was so much different—so much better—than any of the dates Bentley had been on in a long time. She didn’t seem to expect anything of him. She took him at face value. She didn’t try to make herself seem like the most interesting person in the room; she simply was the most interesting. She didn’t show off. She didn’t fawn over him. She was cool, and Bentley (who knew very well he’d be better described as “tightly wound”) deeply respected anyone who was effortlessly cool. Unless she really was like all those other girls, but a better actor. He didn’t think so, somehow. She seemed to think he was funny when funny was expected. She thanked him for dinner, but without the gushing that often came with a visit to a really nice place.

  He’d tried to explain it to Lex, but he quickly found that she hadn’t outgrown the younger sister trick of teasing him about girls.

  She leaned in and asked him in a too-sweet voice, “Want to tell me something else that Ivy said?” her voice bouncing over Ivy’s name.

  Bentley knew the only way to push off an offensive attack was with an attack of his own. “I
want to tell you everything she said,” he answered. “Let’s start with how she said hello when I got to her door.”

  Lex rolled her eyes and picked up her phone. “Not listening.”

  Bentley smiled. “Oh, but did I tell you about her other job? She’s a CNA.”

  “Almost a nurse?” Lex asked, her bored voice coming out around the phone she practically hid behind.

  “Be nice.”

  “Sounds like you’re being nice enough for both of us.”

  “That’s always been my job,” he said. He adored his sisters, he really did, but Lex could take the wicked wealthy woman stereotypes to a whole new level. He knew she wasn’t as big a snob as she acted, but her acting was very convincing.

  Bentley and Lex sat in their parents’ media room, waiting for Mercedes and her husband and kids to show up for family dinner. Hollis family dinner was a weekly formal affair that their mom loved. She sent out engraved invitations. To her children. Every week. And nobody missed a family dinner. Once, Lex was in the hospital with appendicitis, and the whole family descended on her room for Sunday dinner. As much traveling as their father did, he knew never to be away over a weekend. Bentley thought it might have been written into his parents’ pre-nuptial agreement. It was certainly carved in stone as far as his mom was concerned.

  “What’s for dinner?” Bentley asked, trying to get Lex back into a talking mood.

  She shrugged. “I never read the cards anymore.” The invitation always mentioned what meal would be served, as if that would make any of them think twice about coming. Bentley laughed about his mom’s tradition, but he’d never want to miss it. He wondered how Adam, Mercedes’ husband, really felt about giving up every Sunday evening. If he minded, he didn’t say. At least not in front of the family.

  For the first time, Bentley wondered if he could invite Ivy to Sunday dinner. It had been two years since he’d brought his last date home for one of these. Kate. She’d been a good sport, but she was pescatarian, and Bentley’s mom had not arranged the meal accordingly. When she broke up with him, Bentley had to wonder if Sunday dinner had anything to do with it. Or maybe she just hadn’t liked him enough.