Coffee Shop Girl

by Katie Cross

  “Okay.” I blew out a long breath. “You’re right. I need to figure this out. How do I start an operations manual? I’m ready to get started, but I don’t . . . I don’t know how to do that.”

  He grinned, and his deep voice rolled like thunder. “That is easier than you think, and takes longer than you think. But if you have help, it can be efficient.”

  Lizbeth straightened, shoving her romance novel into the space between the cushion and the chair. “Are you writing a book?” she asked.

  Maverick sized her up. “Yes, but it’s no romance.”

  “That’s fine.”

  He turned, half-facing her. She tilted her head back, accepting his study. “Do you have nonfiction experience?” he asked.

  Lizbeth thrilled to the attention. “I read everything.”

  “Can you type fast?”

  “Seventy-five words per minute.”

  “You interested in helping?”

  She shot me a look, then nodded. “Yes, I am.”

  Maverick looked at me but pointed at her. “You have an assistant. While I get this spreadsheet figured out and your financial situation put into real numbers, the two of you will get started.”

  Dread, maybe anticipation, built inside me. I’d never had a team. Going into this with people felt . . . freeing. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. How hard could it be to write down the things I did every day? A breeze. Maverick looked toward the hallway, but Ellie had disappeared.

  He slipped into business mode now, all hints of devilish testing fading. Even his serious face made my heart flutter.

  “You’re going to teach Lizbeth everything about this company as if she were a new employee. I mean everything. How to run the credit card machine step-by-step, complete with all the ways it can go wrong. How to make a cappuccino. How to write on the chalkboard.”

  I scoffed. “She knows how to write on a chalkboard.”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “But does she know how you want her to do it? This is your store. Your rules. You tell her where to find the chalk, how to plan out what the menu will say, and how to use colors. You can be general if you want, but it still has to be stated.”

  My lips rounded into an O.

  Why did I have a feeling we were about to start something so big I’d never recover?

  “If you do it, Lizbeth will write it down. Lizbeth, grab Bethany’s computer. Open up a document, and get ready to type as fast as you can. First thing, Bethany, is to make a list of all the things you do in a given day, from the time you open to the time you close. Then we’re going to make an operations manual.”

  “No. Espresso beans are different from coffee beans. We need to explain that . . . somewhere.”

  “Craaaap,” Lizbeth growled, her voice echoing in the hollow space that her arms made as she rested her forehead on them. “This is going to take forever. Literally.”

  I stood behind the counter, staring at the cash register with a lost expression. How had I survived this long? Just dictating all the things that I did in a day had been hard enough—I was a surprisingly busy woman. But then tackling even one task and detailing all the ways it could go wrong made my brain hurt. From there, I still had to walk Lizbeth through each step. Even my hair hurt at this point.

  It was only four thirty.

  “Take a break,” I said, rubbing my temples. “My mind is mush.”

  Lizbeth shoved away from the table with a groan.

  In between helping the occasional customer, reviewing what Lizbeth had written, and compiling a separate list of other tasks I’d have to explain, I felt like my skull couldn’t contain all my racing thoughts.

  Maverick had poured over my financial situation, calling banks, credit card companies, even one of my suppliers. Around noon, he’d looked at the clock, shoved his computer in his bag, and said he’d be back with a completed report later.

  “Keep going,” he called over his shoulder as he left.

  In truth, it’d been easier to work without him around stealing all the air. Jerking my attention his way whenever he called someone with that deep voice of his. The most wonderful distraction. Lizbeth had snapped her fingers in front of my face more than once.

  My stomach twisted. “Where’s Ellie?” I asked, glancing around.

  Lizbeth shrugged, eyeing the hallway. “She was playing with a feather and a fishhook a while ago.”

  “What? Where did she get a fishhook?”

  Lizbeth yawned. “She’s always finding weird stuff outside. You should have seen her box of treasures at home. I can’t believe she parted with it. She was so in love with that thing. I think she hid it in the barn.”

  I opened the drive-through window and looked outside. Sure enough, Ellie was out there, blanket over her like a tent, crouched down. Although I couldn’t be sure, she was either looking for something on the ground or spying on Devin again. Maybe both. He wasn’t in the canoe this time. He stood in the reeds near the reservoir, studying the mountains. She wouldn’t wander far, at least.

  “Would you like me to make dinner?” Lizbeth asked as she slid off her chair, stretching her dainty, pale arms toward the ceiling. Sometimes I had a hard time seeing her as sixteen. She seemed more like a young nineteen or twenty.

  “We can throw something together.” I waved a hand. “There’s stuff upstairs.”

  “I’ll do it,” she said quickly.

  “You don’t—”

  “I want to.”

  I opened my mouth, but stopped. If doing some work made her feel a little more comfortable, I wouldn’t prevent her. Maybe it’s how she’d survived with Jim. “All right.”

  Lizbeth hummed under her breath as she moved toward the spiral staircase, long hair shimmering like fire. She carried her open book in front of her, gliding expertly without seeing anything but the words on the page. Maybe both girls had fallen into their own retreats—books or the outdoors—to escape.

  A text pinged my phone. I picked it up to see an unknown number.

  * * *

  Meet me at the bar tonight, if you can. I’d rather review the numbers without the girls there to hear.

  * * *

  Had to be from Maverick. He must have pulled my number from the financial stuff. A hot weight dropped all the way into my stomach. Needing to talk at the bar couldn’t mean anything good. Not at all. With a heavy sigh, I texted, What time?

  His response was almost immediate.

  * * *

  7:00. See you then.

  * * *

  Grimacing, I shoved my phone into my pocket. My stomach tingled with nerves. I wanted to hide. Too bad it wasn’t a date. I frowned.

  Maybe I needed a romance novel.

  When I peered back outside, Ellie had stood up, the blanket draped over her head and shoulders like a nun’s habit. This time, her head poked out. She was staring at Devin—who had slowly started walking away, his back to her—like a lost child.

  14

  Maverick

  Bethany looked like she’d walked to her own funeral that night.

  Under the anemic bar lights, her face had paled. Not likely the torture of recounting operating procedures hour after hour—although that wasn’t fun, either.

  Maybe it hadn’t been the right move to text her hours before we spoke, but Ellie and Lizbeth didn’t need to hear this. Besides, I liked the idea of getting her to myself. She was far more fun when I could actually rile her up.

  Unfortunately, this part of the job would really suck. Emotional support had never been my strong suit, but I’d have to figure it out. If I could do it with Bethany, I could do it with other store owners.

  Based on what I’d seen, things weren’t good with the Frolicking Moose. In fact, this shop was already half-drowned and taking on more water. They were just this side of total debt annihilation. If the girls’ chances were between Bethany or the foster system . . .

  I let that thought go.

  “Hey Mav,” she said over the too-loud country music.

&nbs
p; I liked the easy way my name rolled off her tongue.

  She eyed me warily as she slid onto a stool next to mine. She wore the same dress but had brightened up her lipstick and slipped a light jacket on.

  Though I softened my expression with a quick smile, it didn’t seem to ease her tension much.

  I lifted a hand for the bartender, signaling for one more.

  “Hey.”

  She grimaced. “That bad?”

  “Maybe.”

  Once the beer arrived, she took a giant swig, then set it down and met my gaze with a long inhale.

  “Tell me.”

  “You first.”

  Her eyes widened. “Me?”

  “Listen, if you really want me to help you, I need the whole story. Not the least of which is the fact that there could be a very angry man invading your life any day now, and I don’t like that.”

  “You don’t have to like it.”

  I fought not to roll my eyes.

  “Don’t you think you need to be worried about some guy barreling into the coffee shop with a gun? I’m worried you and the girls aren’t safe. You have to include me in all of this.”

  I tapped on a pile of papers enclosed in a folder to illustrate my point. Her expression clouded.

  “All of it meaning the Frolicking Moose?”

  “And Jim, yes.”

  She didn’t seem surprised. Bethany was sharp. The idea that Jim could come after them would have occurred to her. Although she’d turned a blind eye to her financials too long, I could tell she’d thought this inevitable ending out. That gave me a little comfort, but I still didn’t like this situation.

  Not at all.

  “The whole story,” she murmured. As if mentally deciding something, she nodded once. “Fine, but not here.”

  She’d lived here long enough that everyone knew her, if the sheer number of greetings and friendly catcalls when she walked in meant anything.

  “Fair enough. Let’s take this to my place.”

  With one last uncertain glance, she agreed. I grabbed my coat and followed her out the front door, relieved to get her somewhere I could have her to myself.

  15

  Bethany

  The sun had just started setting by the time we made it to his grandfather’s cabin.

  I knew the area as soon as Maverick turned off the highway to wind through roads that led deeper into the mountains. The truck climbed effortlessly up steep, dirt hills until we leveled out on a small driveway that fed off from a one-track residential road. The driveway curved over a forested slope before stopping at a hidden house that took my breath away.

  The seat belt hissed as it slid across my chest.

  “This,” I breathed, is your grandpa’s cabin? This looks like a luxury home.”

  He cracked a half-smile. “Yeah, but it’s not as glamorous on the inside. It only looks this good on the outside because the contractors just finished the wood siding.”

  I followed him through the dusky evening. He led me to a door along the side of a three-car garage below the house. Above it, a sprawling deck jutted out, elevated above the treetops on the steep mountain below. My breath caught at the sweeping panorama view.

  “It’s the most beautiful house I’ve seen near Pineville.”

  Considering how often I’d stalked all the real estate sites over the last five years, that was saying something.

  “It is, but there’s a lot to be done. Electrical rewiring. Laying down some tile in the kitchen, installing new countertops and carpet, reworking the wooden floors and the brick around the chimney. He built it big, but not modern.”

  “Is this why you’re here?”

  He didn’t glance up, but his expression grew thoughtful. “For the most part. My grandfather died and left it to me in his will. He knew I liked this sort of work, I think. I have good memories from here.”

  A flurry in my stomach caught me by surprise. The fact that Maverick had family here, and had visited before, meant we might have run into each other in the past. And, though this felt like a long stretch, maybe he could be here to stay. Because that was a wagon ride I’d jump on.

  His vague response left me with even more questions. But I let most of them go. For now.

  “Who was your grandfather?”

  “Wayne Davies.”

  “Oh! I knew him, but not well. He’d play golf with my dad. Sometimes he’d come get coffee in the morning, but he seemed to like his isolation.”

  Maverick smiled and opened the door into the house. “He loved golf and silence.”

  The warmth in his gaze and the hint of a dimple on his left cheek forced me to look away or make a fool of myself. I steered the conversation back to safer ground as we stepped inside. “You’re doing the renovations yourself, aren’t you?”

  He nodded, meeting my gaze with a wry look. “A lot of them. That surprise you?”

  “Not really.”

  He lifted one eyebrow, and I took it as a silent question.

  “You seem like the hands-on type.” Though it went far deeper than that. If Maverick thought I’d assumed he wouldn’t do all the work because of his leg, he was dead wrong. Dad had always proven that having a prosthetic leg didn’t stop him.

  “I am.”

  “Well.” I turned back to my perusal of the interior. “It’s breathtaking.”

  Thanks to the height of the main A-frame, the house peered over all the trees that draped like a skirt down the mountain. In the distance, the reservoir glimmered in the dim light, reflecting the rising moon. The far-off mountains looked like jagged black teeth. Aside from tools, wooden planks, and plastic sheeting, there were no hints of life in the house. No knickknacks or errant shoes. Not even a dirty dish.

  We wandered through the kitchen and onto the patio.

  “Grandpa had good taste,” he murmured, leaning against the railing, “that’s for sure.”

  I managed a smile, preferring the view of Maverick to the mountains. Not that the mountains weren’t breathtaking, but I’d grown up with them. He was something else altogether.

  “He had better-than-good taste,” I said. “This place will be a dream when you finish.”

  “Will it?”

  His query seemed genuine as he glanced around.

  “Not your style?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “A little too much for me.”

  “You prefer a shack?”

  “A tent would do,” he quipped, but there was an edge to his tone. “Something small and uncluttered.”

  “Uncluttered?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t like things. My family says I’m a minimalist.”

  Interesting.

  “Clutter can be distracting,” I said, studying the vista instead of the sooty eyelashes that hid his mysterious caramel eyes. “I can appreciate a little minimalism. But maybe not tent-level. I’m assuming that you don’t plan to stay here?”

  “No.”

  The simple word, spoken without emotion or wavering, made something inside me crack. But why should it? He owed me nothing. I knew almost nothing about him. This was just a crush that I’d let get a little too much steam. It had felt wonderful not to be so alone.

  Still, best nip this growing attraction in the bud now.

  To preserve myself, I switched to safer topics. “The Frolicking Moose story. You ready to hear this?”

  “Lay it on me.”

  For the next ten minutes, I told him about the coffee shop. About Dad retiring from his work in Jackson City and wanting something grounded. His plans for adding a bed-and-breakfast—that brought an adorable little smirk to Mav’s handsome face—and how much he loved fishing. I breezed over the heart attack and the funeral and went straight to the day after the funeral, when I picked the shop up.

  When my dreams for real estate really started to tank, and everything pulled me under.

  “I can’t remember much, to be honest. My memories of the early days when I was trying to figure everything out are hazy.�
��

  Wrapped in grief. Fuzzy, the way humidity and heat warp the horizon. All I could clearly recall was stumbling around, a knot in my chest and tears at the ready. Dad’s picture in my pocket. Coffee spilled on the floor and me not remembering how it got there.

  Constant loneliness in my chest.

  “And Lizbeth and Ellie? What’s the story there?”

  My lips pressed together. For a moment, I’d forgotten about my inherited parenting duties, and the reminder brought a sudden chill.

  “Not really that pertinent. Suffice it to say, Jim will eventually look for them here. I don’t know when that will be. I don’t think he’ll make a scene in public. Despite all evidence to the contrary, he doesn’t normally make a big deal out of things. At least, not with people around.”

  As if he saw something dark in me, he straightened.

  “Come inside.” He gave a little jerk of his head. A night breeze had descended, stirring goosebumps on my arm when he touched the small of my back. “Let me show you what I mapped out for the Frolicking Moose. Great name, by the way. Who came up with it?”

  I laughed, relieved to turn the spotlight away from me. “That was 100% my dad.”

  “A frolicker?”

  We moved inside, and he flicked on the light. At least some of the electricity was working, then.

  “A total dork. You’d never know he was a colonel when you met him outside of work.”

  He perked up like a cat. “Army, huh?”

  “You too?”

  He winked. “Something like that.”

  His laptop sat at a kitchen island complete with brand-new counters that still had a protective layer across the top. He headed to the fridge first. I watched him go, wondering if he was being evasive on purpose.

  “No beer,” he said over his shoulder, “but I have water. Want one?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Seconds later, he stood next to me, his arm brushing mine. The brief contact sent a dizzy thrill all the way into the pit of my stomach. I breathed through my mouth to avoid the scent of pine while he navigated his computer. There wasn’t even a document on his desktop. No sign of clutter there, either, as he pulled up several spreadsheets. His arm didn’t move.