Pretend Honeymoon (Romance)

by Bella Grant

  He turned and walked away, stopping briefly at another table to check on his customers before returning to the counter. Ava watched, dumbfounded. Things like this never happened to her. She was used to being a wallflower—or, at the very least, a wildflower, one that grew free without being picked for some man’s bouquet. She wasn’t used to sexy men with perfect five o’clock shadow covering perfectly tanned jawlines making her special drinks because they somehow knew she had dropped the ball while ordering and picked something she didn’t actually want.

  Ava sat on the couch, grappling with this mixed bag of feelings. It was a combination of surprise, pleasure, and slight offense at the presumption, but also a humorous appreciation of this person who saw through her, a person who saw what she wanted and delivered it without being asked. She must have had a pretty zoned-out look on her face, because when Mateo returned, he didn’t miss commenting on it.

  “What are you swooning over?” he asked curiously, flopping down on the leather couch and taking a sip of his plain, black coffee. Noticing her fancy latte with the beautiful swirling leaf in the foam, he asked, “Didn’t you order the same thing I did? Why does yours look so much better than mine?”

  “Yeah, I did,” Ava said with a little smile, sipping her drink happily.

  “Huh,” Mateo replied and dropped it. “All right, so brass tacks time. I want to hear your plan for when I’m gone. What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing. I’ll die of loneliness with a sad, broken heart,” Ava announced, trying to be funny.

  “You’re soooo funny,” Mateo replied, smirking. “Seriously. Are you going to get a roommate? Are you going to finally declare a major? You’ve got everything you need to graduate except course work in your major. You’re one semester away from your degree. As soon as you pick one, you’ll be out of there in no time.” He squeezed her shoulder. “I’m worried about you, Ava. I know how much the apartment costs, and I know how much you make, and you telling me not to worry is not making me worry any less.”

  “I know, I know,” Ava said evasively. “I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do. I mean, I can get another job, but that will cut into school. I’m already working at capacity, and anything more will probably kill me if I try to take classes too.”

  “Don’t even fucking think about dropping out,” Mateo said sternly. Ava knew by his voice he wasn’t messing around. This wasn’t a pep talk, it was a directive. “You’ve worked too damned hard to turn back now. I swear to God, Ava, if I find out you quit school, I will kill you with my bare hands—and don’t think I won’t do it.”

  “I hear you.” Ava nodded. Mateo was generally a chill guy, but every once in a while, she knew not to test him on certain things. In those moments, he felt less like a best friend or a brother and more like a very stern father, one whom Ava knew not to disobey. “I won’t quit school, I promise. But that leaves me very few options.”

  “You could get a roommate,” Mateo suggested, shrugging noncommittally. She knew he already expected her to shoot that idea down. They were both very particular about their personal space, a result of growing up in the system, no doubt. She was vehemently opposed to the idea of a stranger as a roommate, and Mateo respected that. She made a face. “Well, what then?” Mateo asked firmly. “You need a plan. All I hear right now is why things won’t work.”

  “I guess I’ll get another job or move to a smaller apartment, or both,” she said at last. “Honestly, I don’t want to live there without you, anyway. It’ll be too hard. Every time I come home, I’ll be looking for you.”

  “That’s fair,” Mateo nodded. “Well, what about this place? You could work here. It’s a pretty groovy café with good vibes, and the manager seems nice. I mean, he clearly digs you.” Mateo wiggled his eyebrows knowingly. Ava didn’t answer him; instead, she deliberately took a sip of her latte to hide the smile spreading involuntarily across her face.

  Chapter 2

  Carter

  Carter liked to arrive at the coffee shop an hour before his employees did. At just after 5:00 a.m., the pink fingers of dawn were spreading across the sky. He loved this time of day. There was a peaceful stillness to the land, and he enjoyed driving past the solitary houses illuminated by the sunrise with the occasional yellow window, where inside people were getting ready to start their days.

  On a morning commute like this one, Carter first conceived the idea to start his café. He was twenty-one when he dreamed up the possibility of not simply opening a coffee shop of his own, but a chain of them. The next several years of his early twenties had passed by in a blur, a collection of research and fundraising, scribbling ideas on the corners of napkins wherever he went.

  He didn’t just want a coffee shop. He wanted a lounge, like a cool, swanky club without the liquor. He wanted a place where people could come to relax and enjoy themselves, something between the mom and pop shops with old, dirty couches and tattered posters, and the sterile, mass-produced atmosphere of Starbucks. And most of all, he wanted to serve damn good coffee to people who actually appreciated it.

  Seven years later, his dream had come to fruition. He had his coffee shop. In fact, he had twenty of them in six cities, up and down New England, and he was poised to open another three in the coming year. His business model was solid, and his investors were happy—delighted even—with the consumer base that ate up what his shops offered. People were tired of their green straws and white cups. Their custom coffee orders no longer felt special or individual. People wanted to experience something more, a full aesthetic experience, and Carter was determined to be the man to give it to them.

  It was all marketing, in reality. Carter knew that. People wanted to be sold an idea. “All the world is a stage, and all the men and women on it merely actors,” or something like that. Ergo, figured Carter, he would set up the perfect backdrop for the life young people wanted to live. A cross between an Urban Outfitters catalogue and a speakeasy, where people could sit a while and immerse themselves in what felt like the life they wanted to live.

  Carter knew his looks helped him. Most people he met had the same type of reactions to him—the women got flustered and the men jealous and competitive, or they wanted to be bros. He didn’t try to manipulate people’s emotions. He didn’t have to try. He didn’t unleash some dashing smile on his female customers in order to get them to buy his product. It was never a conscious maneuver.

  Mostly, he liked people, and people liked him, which didn’t stop him from feeling alone. On mornings like this one, driving alone on the back roads into town, passing all the sleepy, single-family homes where folks were starting their days, was the closest he typically felt to the world. In it and a part of it, but more like a caretaker than a participant. He was the set designer, the stage director, not an actor or an audience member. He lived behind the scenes, and the people he interacted with rarely ever saw the real Carter. And for the most part, that was okay.

  Despite being liked by people—or maybe because of it—Carter struggled with intimacy. For whatever reason, women had certain expectations of him, and the reality always seemed to disappoint. There was a side of him that was colder and harder than the friendly face he wore in public, and after a few dates—or a couple months of dating if the women were determined—his relationships, or pseudo-relationships, always ended. He was too demanding, they’d say, or too dominant, or too controlling. Always “too” something or never enough of something.

  The reasons they gave varied, but the results never did, and without fail, Carter would go back to sleeping alone in his bed. He told himself it didn’t matter, that now was the time for him to concentrate on growing his businesses and expanding into new markets. He had plenty to keep him busy.

  But it did suck not having anyone to share the dawn with, or speculate on what kind of family lived behind those frosty, lighted windows penetrating the darkness, or to pull into his arms at night. He wanted someone whose bare shoulder he could kiss softly as he drifted off to slee
p. He wanted intimacy with a woman. The right woman. But Carter James truly struggled with the very intimacy he wished for. The women who came onto him usually knew who he was, and even if they didn’t, they knew a fancy watch and a nice suit when they saw it. He attracted a certain crowd, which made intimacy difficult, if not impossible.

  Outside his shop, he flipped through his keys and unlocked the door. He’d found an amazing space in an old brownstone with stained glass windows and decorative iron. There was a dumbwaiter in the kitchen and a balcony overlooking the main floor of the shop, which was lined with wall-to-wall built-ins, except for the small bays in front of the windows, which he’d turned into private nooks. This was by far the best space Carter had found for his shops, and he wanted to make this a flagship location. He lived in this town, where he grew up, and where he planned on spending the majority of his life. He had deliberately waited until now to open this location, determined to make it a success.

  Almost everything was in place for the café to take off. His staff had been hired and trained, his customer base was eager to be caffeinated, and he had a fantastic new chef to launch a food element. He was missing just one essential piece, a general manager to run the operation. He filled that spot for now, taking on the duties and making sure they were done right. Part of Carter’s success was his insistence on opening each new location himself, rather than delegating it. He wanted things done his way—the right way—from the very beginning.

  Carter made himself a cappuccino and put on a Bob Dylan record. He sat down on one of his couches—the one where the cute girl had sat the day before when he ignored her order and decided to make her what he thought she would want. A risky move, granted, and he wasn’t sure why he did it since she was with her boyfriend. In truth, it came down to giving the customer what they wanted. Carter knew a black coffee wasn’t going to put a smile on her face, no matter the quality of the bean.

  Shaking away the distraction of the girl and her slender legs, long hair, and quizzical expressions, Carter finished his cappuccino and opened the general manager applications that had poured into his email over the last few days. He had seventy-three applications in his inbox, with minimal solicitation, yet none of them spoke to him. Carter knew he was particular, but he could tell instinctually if someone was the right fit and whether they had what it took. Although his family told him he was crazy for always relying on his gut, his instincts had gotten him this far and were the reason he was now a multi-millionaire only a few months after turning thirty.

  The knock at the door startled him, and he felt his pulse quicken from the surprise. Glancing at his watch, he confirmed it was hardly 5:25 in the morning, and the shop would not open for another thirty-five minutes. Still, he was done with his coffee and was disappointed with the applications he had received for his general manager position, so there was no reason to linger on the couch. He placed his cup in the dish bin and opened the shop door.

  Carter was surprised by the person standing on his threshold. The last person he’d expected to see was the long-haired, long-legged girl from the day before—and from his thoughts just moments ago—peering up at him, illuminated by the early morning light. His first instinct was to invite her in, but he didn’t want to set a bad precedent with customers, and he needed this next half an hour to get ready for the day.

  “Hello,” he said. “I’m afraid we don’t open for another thirty minutes.”

  “Oh, I know,” the girl stammered. “I’m here to ask about a job?”

  The girl’s words were a statement, though she spoke them as a question, and Carter couldn’t help but smile at her evident discomfort. She was shy and awkward, and he knew what it must cost her to stand on his doorstep just after dawn, asking for a job—or, at the very least, he could guess by the pink tint to her cheeks and the way she struggled to hold his gaze.

  “I see,” he said softly. “Well, in that case, please come in.”

  Carter stepped aside and held the door open for her, considering what he was doing. Don’t be a fool, he cautioned himself. She is young—too young—and beautiful, and you’re in no position to get yourself into trouble. As he thought these words, his mind was made up.

  He had watched her the day before, and although he had nothing to go on but his instincts and his perception of people, Carter had a feeling she was a smart, serious girl who knew a thing or two about difficult times and who would work hard to make sure she never had them again. What gave him this impression, he couldn’t say. Something about her eyes, maybe, and the old-soul feel to them.

  “I don’t have any barista experience,” the girl admitted regretfully, “but I’m a hard worker and a fast learner, and I need this job badly. Please. I’ll do pretty much anything.”

  “I’m afraid you’re too late for a barista job,” Carter answered in a slow, measured voice. He knew what he was going to say, but he wanted to give his brain one last shot at vetoing it. “However, I am hiring a general manager.”

  “Oh…I mean, I don’t have any managerial experience,” the girl stammered. “I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

  She turned to leave before Carter could finish his thought. “Wait—wait,” he said, reaching out to grab her hand. The gesture surprised him and, evidently, her too, because she turned immediately and stared at her hand in his.

  “Sorry.” Carter released her immediately. “I just meant I’m interested in hiring you for the job. Experience doesn’t always matter. It helps, yes, but what I’m more concerned with is can you do things my way? I’m a very particular boss, and frankly, I’d rather have someone who can do things exactly as I want them after being trained than someone with years of bad experience, doing things the way someone else wants them. Does that make sense?”

  “Of course it does,” the girl replied.

  “Excellent,” Carter smiled. “Can you do things my way?”

  “I’m sure I can.”

  “What’s your name?” he asked. He was eager to put a name to her face and stop thinking of her as the girl.

  “I’m Ava Baxter,” she replied, pushing a strand of hair out of her face with one graceful motion of her hand.

  “Carter James,” he said, extending his hand. She took it, and he thought he felt her fingers tremble as he held them in his. This girl tried so hard not to be nervous, and he found it both adorable and endearing. “How old are you, Ava?” he asked, cocking his head to the side.

  “I’m almost twenty-one,” she replied, standing up a little straighter as if to give the illusion of a maturity her age denied her.

  “I see.” Carter nodded. “And what do you do, Ava?”

  “I’m working and going to school part-time,” she replied.

  “If you’re already working, why are you looking for a job here?” Carter asked.

  “My roommate is moving away for law school, and I’m in a bit of a bind. I can’t afford to keep my apartment on my own, but I don’t have what I need for a new security deposit, so I need to figure out a way to not be homeless at the start of next month,” she rambled nervously, although Carter thought he’d heard a tone of defiance in her voice.

  “You can’t ask your parents for money?” Carter pressed. He didn’t encourage kids to live off their parents. He certainly hadn’t. Rather, the overwhelming majority of young people he met were living with a safety net, but he had the impression this girl wasn’t. He wanted to know why.

  ‘No, I can’t,” she said, offering nothing more, and he didn’t press her.

  “And you go to school?” he asked, repeating her words.

  “Yes, I’m a senior at the university,” she replied. “Part-time. I’m going on scholarships.”

  Carter had made up his mind. “All right, Ava, here’s the deal. I’m going to hire you as my general manager. There will be an introductory period, during which I’ll assess whether your performance meets my expectations, which I’m optimistic it will. Moreover, I will decide whether you are capable of following my directio
ns. If, after a month, I feel your performance meets my exacting expectations, the job is yours. I will pay you $29,000 a year, with insurance and vacation, and you will work thirty hours a week while you’re in school. That’s twenty-five dollars an hour. You won’t do better than that in this industry by a long shot, but the downside is you have to put up with me as your boss.” Carter gave her a smile he hoped was charming and reassuring.

  Ava’s eyes opened wide and fixed on his face. “Are you serious?” she asked, obviously stunned by the offer. “Are you messing with me?”

  “I assure you, my offer is genuine,” Carter said softly.

  “But…I have no experience. What do you gain by hiring me?” she asked, confused.

  “I’m getting a blank slate. To me, that’s invaluable. You’re an asset, Ava. I’m prepared to compensate you as such.” Without saying it, Carter mentally added, and you’re beautiful, and you intrigue me. I need more beautiful intrigue in life.

  “Um, okay. Yes! I’ll take it,” Ava stammered. “Absolutely.”

  “Excellent,” Carter replied, nodding with satisfaction. “I look forward to working with you. I’ll need to run a background check, of course, but that shouldn’t take more than a few days. How does next Sunday sound as a start day? We’ll give you a good day of training to ease you into the weekday rush.”

  “I think that sounds incredible,” Ava said, nodding excitedly. Carter smiled. “Thank you, sir. I can’t tell you how much this means to me. I…thank you.”

  “It’s no problem at all. Before you go, just fill out this application so I have your contact info,” Carter said, handing her the paper. She took a seat at the counter, and he busied himself at the espresso machine while she filled in the boxes.

  “Here you go.” She placed the paper before him.