Coffee Shop Girl (Coffee Shop Series Book 1)

by Katie Cross

  Lizbeth shrugged. Ellie shot me a perturbed glare, and I backed down. Comparatively, perhaps not much scarier than facing their drunk father. Almost two hundred miles of mountains and high desert separated us from Jim. The thought of them crossing it alone made me sick to my stomach.

  It must have been really bad.

  “Did you remember how to get here?” I asked Lizbeth. Ellie had never been here before that she’d remember, but Lizbeth had, when she was ten and Mama got a bug to see me. She drove up without warning, just popping up at the house where I lived with Dad and Pappa. She and Lizbeth took me to dinner, then drove back home.

  But now I wondered if there was more to that trip than met the eye. Had she been escaping Jim?

  “Barely,” Lizbeth said, pulling me out of my thoughts. “I knew the town name, but we had to figure it out by asking. I remembered the name of your dad’s coffee shop from the pictures you sent at Christmas last year.”

  “How many days have you been gone?”

  “A week.”

  Ellie reached out, grabbing the leftover half of a croissant on the plate that I’d loaded for them.

  “I’m sorry,” Lizbeth said, distress in her eyes. “We’re dropping in here so unexpectedly. But I thought maybe your dad could help us. He was nice to me that one time we came. Or maybe you could help us hide for a little bit while this blows over or . . .”

  I swallowed hard. “Dad can’t help you. He died eight months ago.”

  Lizbeth’s eyes widened, first with surprise, then possibly fear. Dad had been a large, intimidating man. Bigger than most, but kinder and softer than a butterfly. I suspected Lizbeth had always sensed something safe about him, even if he was just the father of her half-sister. Plus, Jim hated Dad. To the point of fear. Lizbeth had made a calculated decision in that brilliant mind of hers.

  This girl was more than just books and science.

  My throat ached. I wanted this conversation to be over with. Mostly because it proved just how awful a sister I had turned out to be. Amongst other things, like college student and coffee shop owner.

  “You didn’t say anything,” Lizbeth said, hurt in her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell us he died?”

  “I know. I didn’t say anything.”

  Ellie lifted one eyebrow.

  “Of course I’ll take you in,” I said, eager to turn the subject. “It will be nice to have someone else around here.”

  “We won’t stay,” Lizbeth promised, resolute. “Dad might look here. We don’t want to bring him to you. Just help us find somewhere to go until this blows over, or something. Maybe I can find a job and—”

  “Support two people on the income of a sixteen-year-old who should be in high school?”

  “I’m smart enough to figure it out.”

  The impetuous decision to leave Jim’s house had saved Ellie’s life, but to travel two hundred miles to a distant half-sister? Surely there was someone closer to them who could have helped.

  Who could have called the cops, or something.

  But then what?

  A sudden tightening of her jaw told me that Lizbeth had already thought this out. Without me, they were headed straight to the foster system. The same system that had raised and destroyed Mama. If book-loving Lizbeth would rather brave two hundred miles of mountain wilderness on a chance my dad would help them out, it must be pretty bad at home.

  Ignoring my rising panic about debt, bills, and credit card payments that would soon be turned over to a debt collector to harass me into the grave, I squeezed her cold, trembling hand.

  “We’ll figure everything out. First, you two need a hot shower, some fresh clothes, and a really, really long sleep in my comfortable bed. The portable A/C machine kind of sucks, but it’s better than roasting to death. Sound good?”

  Lizbeth sighed, gratefully transferring the position of leadership to me. She had always been a kind soul, born to speed through math equations, read books, and float on the idea of every romance she could find. Where Ellie had always thrived in rugged, unusual circumstances, Lizbeth preferred predictability.

  “You did the right thing, Lizbeth.”

  Ellie stared at me through Mama’s sooty lashes, her expression as hard as a diamond. Lizbeth paused, looking between the two of us.

  “If Jim comes?” Lizbeth asked, voicing Ellie’s unspoken question.

  “He won’t.”

  “If he does?”

  “I’ll kick him off my property and tell him to go back to the hole he was born in. Then I’ll call the cops.”

  What a joy that would be.

  The certainty in my tone seemed to calm Lizbeth. Ellie straightened, eyeing me, and fell in step behind Lizbeth as I led them into the hall and up the stairs.

  4

  Maverick

  Bethany was distracted today.

  I sat at the same table, same spot, this time with a cup of coffee in my half-curled hand and a view of her puttering around the counter. An old pair of jeans and a tank top today. That old hat kept her hair in a ponytail away from her face, but it fell down her back like ebony ribbons.

  While trying not to obviously watch her, I kept a running tally of the number of times she moved the milk gallon from one spot to another. Why didn’t she just put it in the fridge? And what was with the wrinkle between her eyebrows?

  Distracted didn’t quite say it.

  Something had happened between yesterday and now. The challenging spark that had ignited her pride, preventing her from taking my money yesterday, had dampened. She stopped, looked at the ceiling, and frowned.

  Shifting uneasily, I realized I might have to wait on my proposal. If I posed my offer today, would she take it? So much of success in business contracts was about reading the person. Discerning what they needed and what they wanted. Business deals turned on saying the right thing at the right time. For all I knew, she hated this shop and didn’t want to save it.

  At which point, I would be screwed.

  The shop was quieter today, as if it sensed her mood. Few sounds outside. An occasional car driving past. I couldn’t help but wonder if she had high-traffic hours after the morning commute. With a reservoir like that, surely they had a peak in the summer.

  Business, I reminded myself. This is just business. It doesn’t matter if she’s having a bad day.

  The dry heat of the morning filled the shop, buffered only by the whisper of wind sliding in the drive-through window. Ignoring another sly glance sent my way, I reviewed what I knew from public records and soft inquiries around town.

  So many people willing to talk in a small world like this.

  Bethany Beecham.

  Twenty-three.

  Owner for the last eight months.

  Shop previously owned by her father, an avid fisherman, who died of a heart attack eight months ago.

  Banks locally (assumed).

  Mother is deceased.

  Lives above the shop.

  Dropped out of college.

  Wants to pursue real estate (this was a rumor from the bartender—not sure of its origin).

  Hates coffee.

  I stared at the screen for several minutes, letting my thoughts run.

  Normally I had a good sense for deals like this. This time, I couldn’t feel it out. Her careful avoidance of eye contact and her total absorption in whatever was distracting her today, kept the ground tentative. Besides, some of this couldn’t be true. Who owned and ran a coffee shop if they hated coffee?

  Thankfully, I liked the challenge.

  Drawing in a breath, I decided to get the first step over with today. Putting it off would only create more uncertainty. A bad day was often a good time to pounce. With struggle came vulnerability, and with vulnerability often came an openness to change.

  As I approached, she paused. Her gaze met mine. Her sparkling, aquamarine eyes startled me. For a second, she hesitated as I approached. Then she straightened, her chin tilted up, her shoulders back. Her eyes flickered to my sleeve of
tattoos, then back to my face.

  I smiled, but not too much. She didn’t seem like the type to trust charm. I remained quiet. Breaking the air first gave her control. It helped, especially on bad days.

  “Was your coffee okay?” she asked.

  Watery, I thought. “It was perfect, thank you.”

  Her shoulders relaxed a bit. “Good. Can I help you with something?”

  Stop wearing those pants, for starters.

  “Do you have somewhere I could take a call? I have a business meeting with a member of my team, and I don’t want it to be interrupted.”

  Her teeth bit into her lower lip for a second before she said, “Sure. I have an office you can use. It’s a bit messy.”

  “I’m not afraid of messy.”

  I’d better not be if we’re going to do this together.

  “Down the hall, first door on the right.” She gestured to a short hall only a few steps away. A wry smile appeared in a flash. “And no, it’s not a closet. It’s the office.”

  “Ah, thanks.”

  Her pulse picked up in her throat, but she didn’t break eye contact with me. A new tension lived in her body that hadn’t been there yesterday, despite the unmitigated disaster of a day. As if she looked away, she’d break.

  Good.

  I leaned on the counter with both hands, closing the distance between us. Throwing her a little off-balance was my only goal, but it backfired. Instead, I was thrown off track. She smelled like cotton. I couldn’t think for half a breath. Hints of it lingered in the musty shop.

  She immediately leaned back.

  Ignoring the annoyance in her expression, I asked, “Can I make a deal with you?”

  She blinked several times. “A deal?”

  “Yes.”

  “About what?”

  “I’m here to renovate my grandfather’s cabin, but I have meetings to keep up with in the morning. The internet can’t be installed for another couple of weeks.”

  Or just one week.

  “And you want to work here?”

  I pointed to her office. “I want to work there.”

  “That place would give a mole claustrophobia.” She eyed my tall frame. “Will you even fit?”

  “I’m sure it would be fine, thank you. I’ll give you a hundred dollars a day.”

  By sheer experience, I kept my laissez-faire attitude about it. A hundred dollars was nothing. Coworking spaces in the city sometimes cost more than that, and without such attractive scenery. Besides, it didn’t matter how much. What mattered was her reaction.

  The final test.

  Her gaze tapered, studying me. She looked up to the ceiling, then back at me with a wary mien.

  Good girl, I wanted to say. Don’t trust me yet.

  “How many days?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest.

  “Five days a week.”

  The math computed quickly in her mind. I could almost see the numbers adding up. If my estimations were right—and when weren’t they?—that would double her revenue on slow days. A pittance for a place like this, with massive overhead.

  The moment I saw her comprehend the amount, her brow grew heavy. “Why a hundred dollars a day?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that’s ridiculous.”

  “Why is it ridiculous?” I shot back. Nothing was as exciting as a counter. “I require a service that you can provide. I need a place with internet and a quiet room. You can give me that. It’s the same business exchange as when you bring me coffee.”

  Her eyes widened. “It’s not.”

  “I disagree.”

  “No. I won’t make that deal.”

  “Why not?”

  “I appreciate the offer, but it’s too ridiculous.”

  “Really?”

  She tilted her chin up. “Yes. You were here yesterday. Doesn’t take a genius to see that this place is a hot mess about to start on fire. No one would offer two grand a month in rent for a four-square-foot office. C’mon. I’m not an idiot.”

  Oh, this girl. She was about a breath away from giving into this place. Maybe she would burn it to the ground. I could see the resentment in her eyes now, and that was good. Right where I wanted her.

  “Regardless of your opinion”—I straightened, and she seemed relieved—“I still need an office. What would make this palatable to you?”

  She hesitated for at least ten seconds. I let it ride, waiting without expectation or pressure. Only a rookie tried to fill the silence.

  “Twenty-five bucks a day,” she said with a piercing annoyance that would have cowed a lesser man. “Unlimited use before noon. If you need it after that, another twenty-five dollars. You can pay by credit card weekly, at the beginning of the week.”

  Quick deal-making meant she was fast on her feet, and her pride meant she wanted to earn her money, not just take it. Both admirable traits, but they were working against her in this environment.

  With a smirk, I held out a hand. She accepted. I felt her touch all the way into my shoulders.

  “You have a deal,” I said.

  She held out her other hand as I let hers go with unexpected reluctance.

  “Great. Now give me your credit card.”

  5

  Bethany

  “What is going on, Bethany?”

  Jada met me at the back door of her office with a perplexed expression. She wore a tasteful knee-length black skirt and a bright-purple peasant top. Around her neck hung a stethoscope and a mess of beads. Despite her professional presentation, her shoes were a pair of ballet flats, double-reinforced for extra protection from standing on her feet all day. Her thick black hair was pulled back in a bun at her neck.

  I stepped out of my clunky, post-college car with a heavy sigh, a small purse hanging off my shoulder.

  “You sounded odd on the phone when you called,” she continued. “I’ve been worried about you. Why did we have to wait until my staff was gone to meet? And who is this?”

  “Ellie wouldn’t come unless you were the only one here.”

  “Ellie?”

  Lizbeth sat in the back seat, eyeing Jada warily. She’d donned one of my old caps and tied her hair back, hiding her beautiful fiery strands. She seemed entirely too small and vulnerable. Ellie lay under a blanket on the floor of the car. She’d refused to leave the attic until I promised her she could completely hide and Jada would be the only person we’d see.

  “Something a bit unexpected came up,” I said. “Do you have an exam room we can sneak into? I’ll explain it all there.”

  Jada’s curious expression dropped into concern as she gazed past me to Lizbeth, then back to me. Something seemed to click.

  “Of course.” Jada gestured toward her office. “Just back here.”

  Lizbeth’s door opened. She undid her seat belt, murmured something to Ellie, and stepped out. Ellie followed; blanket pulled over her.

  Jada caught my eye over their heads. I sent her a grim expression back and shook my head. She quickly led us toward the building.

  Once inside, Lizbeth let out a breath of relief. Ellie peeked out from under the blanket as Jada strode into the back, but kept her face tucked into the folds. A few seconds later, I stood next to Lizbeth in a small clinic room that smelled like mothballs and a cotton-scented candle. Cartoon animals painted on the wall eased the sterile atmosphere.

  When Jada shut the door behind us, Ellie stiffened. She stood against the wall, back straight as an arrow.

  Jada stayed on the other side of the room, arms at her side, a warm smile on her face. Lizbeth returned it half-heartedly, but Ellie didn’t emerge from her blanket. Although she didn’t make it obvious, Jada was watching them closely. Having someone else see them filled me with relief. They weren’t some apparition that dropped into my life so unexpectedly.

  “I’m Jada, the doctor in this small town. It’s good to meet the two of you.”

  Lizbeth mumbled something. Ellie stared at the wall.

  Jad
a tilted her head to the side, nonplussed. To Lizbeth, she asked, “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “And how old are you?” she asked Ellie.

  “Eleven,” Lizbeth said. “She doesn’t speak much.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Won’t.”

  “Well,” Jada said, pulling in a deep breath as she studied Lizbeth’s fading bruise. “Let’s be honest with each other. You’re not here for a regular checkup, are you? Somebody hurt you.”

  Jada cast Ellie a long glance, then turned back to Lizbeth. “Will you tell me what happened?” she asked gently.

  Lizbeth recounted the same story she’d told me without wavering, still hesitating to throw full accountability on Jim. No doubt she had practiced retelling it on the long march here, deciding what to say ahead of time so each girl knew what to hide. That probably meant they were hiding something else. They’d always been close, but now they seemed to share a brain.

  “Ellie might not let you see them,” Lizbeth said, “but her ribs are hurt. There are a few bruises, and she had a hard time breathing. Seems to be getting better, though. We had to walk really slow at first.”

  The blanket remained immobile, even though Ellie was peeking out through a fold. But her eyes remained hidden.

  “I’d like to take pictures of the injuries,” Jada said to Lizbeth and me, her tone firm but still gentle. “The documentation will be beneficial to you and your sister later.”

  Lizbeth’s nostrils flared. She looked at me in a panic. “For what?” she asked.

  Jada calmly said, “To protect you in court so you can leave that house forever and go to a better home. Do you want that?”

  Lizbeth said nothing, appearing torn.

  Ellie stirred.

  Jada turned to a clipboard she’d been scrawling notes on. “I’ll make sure to write as much as I can in the reports so it would be clear to any jury what my findings are. The injuries speak for themselves.”

  Lizbeth’s cheeks flared apple red. I put a hand on her shoulder. “Lizbeth, don’t you want to get away?” I asked softly. “Isn’t that why you came here?”