Coffee Shop Girl

by Katie Cross

  But I didn’t know if I hated it enough to leave it yet. Enter Pineville and the Frolicking Moose.

  “A corporate world doesn’t fill my happiness bucket, let’s just say.”

  She tapped her crust on the box. “Why not?”

  “It’s a difficult funnel that forces your life to revolve around other people and their schedules. That’s fine. I love to see other people succeed because of what I put into place, but there’s no . . . open space.”

  “To move.” Something flickered in her eyes, but quickly disappeared.

  “Yes,” I said quietly. “No freedom. Before I left, Mallory extended an offer to me. She wants to promote me to the Chief Revenue Officer over the company.”

  “Wow. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Are you . . . are you going to take it?”

  “That depends very much on how things pan out with the Frolicking Moose.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You’re kidding.”

  “Not kidding.”

  “That’s not fair! There’s enough pressure as it is,” she said, half-laughing. “You can’t put that on me.”

  “Has nothing to do with you.” I shrugged. “And everything to do with my setup. The Frolicking Moose will prove whether I can take my skills in the sales force and my knowledge of business and apply it to a brick-and-mortar Mom-and-Pop kind of shop. It’s not always the same thing.”

  Her gaze tapered to slits. “You really are testing this with me.”

  “As previously discussed.”

  “Very diplomatic,” she replied wryly, a laugh hidden in her voice. “I think I understand.”

  “Do you?”

  “Maybe. Working for Mallory may be good for you on several levels, but it’s not great. You don’t want to give up something that promises stability and some level of passion, but not much else.”

  Startled, I nodded. “Yes. That’s how it feels.”

  “It’s how I feel about the coffee shop.”

  “Really?”

  Her brow furrowed. “I love it because Dad loved it, but I don’t want to be strapped to a shop my whole life.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  She looked at me. “That’s a great question.”

  “Do you have the answer?”

  “Real estate.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. When she drifted into deeper thought, her lips twitched to the side of her mouth, and one side of her face wrinkled. I reached for my beer to keep myself from staring a little too intently.

  “I want to sell homes, and I want to eventually carve out a niche in the high-end market. I love luxury houses. The feel. The theme. Merging functionality with beauty and art. It’s a cool thing. Plus, I love the sales process for houses. It’s a big part of someone’s life. Whether it’s a first-time home or the result of a lifetime of work. It’s cool to be part of that. Plus . . . I never knew where my home was. Of course, it was with Dad. But he was military for a while. Pappa would come over while he was gone. Or I’d go to Mama’s. It’s just . . . I want to give people that security.”

  “I know the feeling,” I murmured, unable to tear my eyes away from the dark lashes that contrasted with her freckled skin.

  “With renovations?”

  “Yes. I love it. I love taking raw material, infusing new life, and making something else out of it. Particularly when I can reuse what already exists. It’s efficient and less wasteful and impacts everyone more positively.”

  “Sounds like your new business idea.”

  Startled, I blinked. Though I hadn’t seen the parallel before, there definitely was one, and I made a mental note to follow up on that later. I didn’t like the idea of such a big facet of me remaining undiscovered to me but apparent to everyone else.

  “Yes,” I said.

  She smiled, as if she knew she’d caught me by surprise, and grabbed a second slice of pizza.

  “Well,” she continued, “your high-level position is certainly a far cry from renovating a cabin and selling it or trying to help small business owners save themselves. So, what’s the big motivation behind the helping-small-businesses idea?”

  “A high-level position is lucrative,” I admitted. “There’s something amazing about being able to scale that high, impact an entire culture or way of life within a business—which is really like a little city itself—and know that you’re helping people be their best selves. Success is literally everywhere. But it’s also isolating. It forces me inside all the time. Even though I work, I never feel like I’m changing me.”

  She seemed to mull that over. “Interesting. But working with smaller businesses can’t come with much money.”

  “It won’t.”

  “And?”

  “And?” I repeated, laughing. “Money isn’t the only measure of a good life.”

  “No, but it sure helps.”

  Debating over whether I should be totally honest or not, I let out a long breath. “Yes, I make a lot of money and I have sound financial investments right now. But I’ve never dreaded going to work more. Wished the next day wouldn’t just be a repeat of the previous one. The Groundhog Day effect of working in corporate is killing my brain cells.”

  I forced a smile for some levity, but her expression remained as serious as I’d ever seen it.

  “And moving around, saving people? That will help you feel better?”

  “Freer, I think.”

  “But what if it doesn’t?”

  “Then I have new information, and I make a new plan.”

  She nodded once and smiled, but there was a distance to it. I quelled a rush of uncertainty. Something I’d said didn’t sit well with her yet again, that much was clear. But I had no way of knowing what it was without asking. And that would obliterate this beautiful back-and-forth.

  And imply that I cared enough to fix it, or stay.

  Enough of that deep dive. Time to turn this back around to her.

  “The big question here,” I said as I shoved away the almost-empty pizza box. “Is what kind of movie you want to watch.”

  I tilted my head toward the couch. She slid her hand in mine without hesitation. My palm engulfed hers as I tugged her into the other room. Grandpa’s old couch didn’t look like much, but it was still the most comfortable couch I’d ever sat on. Plus, the cushions were weak in the middle, guaranteeing she’d sink closer to me.

  “I rented four movies.” I sat on the couch and pulled her next to me. “On the off chance you liked zombies, romance, football, or thrillers.”

  “All in the same movie?”

  “No! Different ones. But that would be an awesome movie.”

  She grinned ruefully, but I could see the fatigue in her eyes. Just in case, I reached behind us, grabbing a blanket from a basket by the couch.

  “And if I tell you I prefer romance?” she asked.

  “We’re all over it. I can deal with romance. Mallory used to have them playing in the background when she was stressed at work. Something about them calmed her down.”

  Bethany paused and pulled her knees to her chest. “What if I fall asleep ten minutes in?”

  That is my ultimate plan.

  “I fully anticipate you will,” I said, laughing.

  She smiled back wearily. “You choose, because I’ll probably conk out.”

  “Zombies it is.”

  “Great,” she muttered, “now I’m going to have nightmares.”

  Also in my plans.

  “Nah.” I grabbed the remote. “I’ll keep you safe.”

  A wrinkle appeared in her forehead, then smoothed out. Without another word, she snuggled closer into my side. I draped the heavy quilt over both of us, and a little sigh escaped her as she burrowed in. My arm dropped naturally around her shoulders, pulling her close.

  A cool mountain breeze whispered into the room as the movie began. Her warmth and the sweet scent of lavender melted me. I played with a lock of hair that spilled across her back, fa
scinated by the silky texture.

  Bethany murmured something after the initial credits flickered away to reveal a dark mountain scene. But her body relaxed before I could decipher it, and when I glanced down, she was fast asleep in my arms.

  I held her more tightly and wondered if maybe freedom was overrated.

  25

  Bethany

  My eyes flew open.

  Breath held, I stared at a dark, unfamiliar ceiling with shadows moving across it. Outside, flashes of lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating the room. A roll of thunder reminded me of Maverick’s deep voice. Rain pattered gently against the windows, the drops tumbling over each other to slide down the glass.

  A warm body stirred behind me. Maverick held me close to his chest, a protective arm around me so I wouldn’t fall off the couch. I closed my eyes, dimly remembering our conversation over pizza.

  Recalling Maverick at dinner, at ease but still somehow on guard, sent flurries through me. He spoke with such certainty. Here was a man who knew exactly who he was and what he wanted. Unfortunately, he didn’t want a girlfriend with two kids and a shop.

  Still, there was his arm around me. The warm caress of his breath on the back of my neck.

  It impressed me—how he could figure out what he wanted and make a plan, and then let the plan unfold. Like success sought him out.

  There was more at play here than just our simmering romantic tension or my desire to run my hands through his beard. The only thing I knew for certain was that Maverick would do what he wanted. He wasn’t the type to be swayed. In the end, he’d stay or he’d go.

  With the undeniable warmth of him wrapped almost entirely around me, I snuggled deeper into his chest. While I had it, I would soak it up. His arms felt deeply personal, although nothing but uncertainty loomed ahead. My place in his world was about as stable as a fault line.

  In that moment, I didn’t care.

  I felt warm, safe, and comfortable. With my next breath, I slipped back into sleep, his name on my lips and a promise to remember the power of his touch forever.

  “Are you and Mav dating?”

  Lizbeth and I sat in the canoe on a calm lake, a hundred yards away from the shore where Ellie, Devin, and Maverick fished from a long dock. Every now and then, Maverick’s baritone laugh rolled over the water. Lizbeth slathered more sunscreen on her freckled shoulders and stared at Maverick from behind the aviator sunglasses I’d loaned her.

  “Uh . . .”

  “I have romance-dar. Whenever something romantic happens around me, I pick up on it like a satellite. I saw the way he was ogling you in the shop on Friday. Plus, you were wearing that really red lipstick, and you only do that when you’re really happy. And while I can’t confirm it, I have my suspicions that you didn’t sleep at home on Friday night, because the bed was still made when we got back. You never make the bed.”

  “Whoa. No snap judgments.”

  She held up two hands. “No one said the word sex, Bethany. Just sayin’.”

  “Because there was none.”

  She stared.

  My response stalled in my throat, suspended like a rock. Maverick and I had made it abundantly clear that we weren’t dating, but that hadn’t stopped his hot look at me when he’d arrived. Or his intense study of my swimming suit.

  How to explain that to Lizbeth when I wasn’t even sure I understood it? I’m crazy about him and want to date him with no hope of a future, didn’t sound great.

  When Maverick showed up today, he’d laid a big, fat kiss on me while the girls were up in the car. I nearly lost all muscle control, which would have forced him to pick me up. Which, in hindsight, would have been great.

  Missed opportunity.

  “I know you have this whole back-and-forth thing going on,” she continued, “but I’m telling you, it’s getting old. Would you just admit it, already?”

  “Not happening,” I muttered.

  She flashed me an amused look.

  I dipped my canoe paddle farther into the water, casting a dancing ripple on the surface. “I don’t know for sure what Maverick is thinking, but I know it’s not a relationship.”

  “A flirt fest?”

  “Ah . . .”

  “Are you his friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Client, for sure.”

  My nose wrinkled. That didn’t throw us in an ideal light, and friend was a little too blah for me. Love interest sounded as exciting as middle-school crush.

  “Do we have to label it?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “I can tell you what he’s thinking,” she said, leaning back and setting a floppy straw hat on top of her head. Lizbeth was all easy grace, like a young Audrey Hepburn. “This is a classic romance, Bethie. He’s a troubled soldier returning from war with PTSD and a closed-off heart. Only the perfect, feisty woman who stands up to him when all the others won’t will steal his heart. Just be sure to refuse his kiss and not be impressed with the glorious state of his body.”

  She clutched dramatically at her chest while I tilted my head back and laughed. Maverick had PTSD about something, all right, but I had my doubts it had anything to do with the war.

  Her smug grin faded.

  “Seriously, Bethie. Is he messing around, or what? Not that I’m complaining. I could listen to his voice all day, and Ellie isn’t as tense when he’s around. But he’s got to pee or get off the pot, you know?”

  While I didn’t love the metaphor as it pertained to me, I could see where she was coming from. A thousand responses flooded my mouth, but I couldn’t say any of them. They all revolved around two unexpected attachments that had fallen into my lap weeks ago. I didn’t want Lizbeth to think they were a hardship in my life.

  Besides, Maverick would roll through here once he finished his grandpa’s cabin, girls or no girls.

  “He’s not the committing type,” I said. “He mentioned not even having a place to live while he travels around fixing businesses. I hardly think he’d want to be calling home to a girlfriend while he gets his company off the ground. What we have is just . . . for fun.”

  Lizbeth lifted a hand as if I’d proven a point. “He’s the stereotype! I told you.”

  “He is not,” I muttered, splashing her with my oar. “He isn’t troubled.”

  “But his heart is closed.”

  “His heart is . . . fine.”

  She smirked when the answer stuttered out of me, then her expression became serious again. “Maybe he’s never felt love.”

  I groaned. “Those romances are filling your brain with utter mush. They’re going to take you away from me if I don’t start giving you something of substance to read.”

  A flash of fear appeared on her face but vanished just as quickly.

  I let out a long, regretful breath. That had been really stupid. “I’m sorry,” I said, shoulders slumping. “I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

  Lizbeth gave a half-smile and a shrug. “It’s okay. I know what you meant.” But her voice sounded strained. Any hint of trouble and she panicked, though she tended to hide it well. “And you’re wrong. I’m too brilliant for them to touch me intellectually.”

  She said it without malice or arrogance, and she was right. Lizbeth was borderline genius. She’d skipped two full grades in elementary school. If Mama hadn’t died, this next year would have been her senior year in high school. Her quick mind computed at twice the speed of mine, which made her fairy-like creativity even more interesting.

  “When are you going to college?” I asked, eager to change the subject.

  “Dunno. Thought about testing out in a year or two, then applying around. I need to ace the SAT first.”

  “You could probably go anywhere.”

  “Probably.”

  But I can’t pay to send you. The realization stuck in my throat. With a mind like hers, she might not need college money. She could get scholarships easily.

  “What do
you want to do?”

  “Tech,” she said. “Something with computers, most likely. I have a lot of ideas, and I want to see more women leading in that world.”

  “Not writing?” I asked with a wry jab of the oar at her foot. She snorted.

  “I want to read all the books, not write them. Besides, there isn’t as much stability in a creative endeavor like that. I want to put the work in and know I’ll get the result I expect. I want the comfort of the scientific process or the ritualism of code.”

  “I think that sounds awesome.”

  She grinned again, but her expression was far more subdued.

  “But I still think Mav is holding a torch for you.” She flicked at something under one of her nails. She never did let a topic go easily. “You need to pay attention to it because an opportunity to act may present itself, and I hope you do. I could watch those broad shoulders all day, baby.”

  “Holding a torch?” I snorted, dipping the oar back in the water. “Are you eighty-two?”

  “It’s what all the books say!”

  I laughed again. “Okay, Grandma Myrtle. Thank you for that. Listen, Maverick is holding a torch for his business, not me. Maybe he feels a mild attraction to me because we’re stuck in the same working space all the time. And maybe he kisses like fireworks and gangbusters, but that means nothing about longevity. We’re having fun. Bottom line.”

  “Or,” she cried, lifting a finger, “he’s secretly pining for your love and doesn’t know it.”

  I pretended to vomit off the side. She leaned forward, arms wrapped around her knees.

  “You kissed. I saw it.”

  My gaze locked with hers. “What?”

  She grinned, white teeth sparkling in the sun. “Friday morning.”

  “Geez, Lizbeth! You do have romance-dar. You were there?”

  “I saw the light on downstairs, and you hadn’t come to bed, so I was going to offer to help with whatever you were doing. When I peeked in, you two were hot into it.” She shrugged. “Who am I to interrupt a kiss like that?”