by Katie Cross
Maverick leaned on his cart and peered out the front windows as he said, “You seem awfully nervous for a grocery store trip.”
“Maybe you set people on edge.”
He laughed, and it rolled long and deep. I hid my own smile.
“Actually”—I straightened—“I’m afraid you’re going to take your leg off and beat me with it for being such an irresponsible coffee shop owner.”
Another deep laugh, but I kept going.
No reason to let him know I liked the sound a little too much.
8
Maverick
She’d walked around the grocery store like a lost puppy.
At first, she’d headed toward the produce, then turned away, brow furrowed, and wandered down an aisle or two before finally pitching some toilet paper in her cart and stopping in the middle of the cereal aisle.
Didn’t take a genius to see her bank account as I walked up. Surprised me that she had at least ninety-seven dollars with how badly her business was failing. Still, color me intrigued as she spoke against sugar, then stacked her cart with it. She had to be shopping for someone else, even though I hadn’t seen anyone else.
Not your business, Mav, I reminded myself. I steered toward the chicken breasts in the meat aisle. Stay out of it and go back to Grandpa’s place.
But I didn’t.
My cart just seemed to follow hers.
“Chicken breasts?” she asked, a smirk on those bright lips. Her thick, glossy black hair swung around her shoulders. It had been a while since I’d seen eyes that blue.
“Root beer?” I countered.
She blushed but didn’t elaborate.
“So”—I leaned on the cart—“I gave you one weakness.”
“Hardly,” she scoffed. “I asked for it, thanks.”
“Even better. So, what’s one of yours?”
She hesitated, then let out a long breath. “My dad’s motorcycle.”
“Kind?”
She eyed me, then steered down the frozen fruit aisle, setting a smoothie mix in the cart.
“Triumph Bonneville.”
“A cruising man.” I tsked. “I like it. Bonnevilles are smooth. My dad rode one before—”
Her eyebrow perked up. “Before?”
“Before,” I said with finality. She wasn’t diving into her ghosts, so I wouldn’t dive into mine. “How long have you been riding?”
“Eight months. But I first tried it when he bought it almost a year ago.” She gave a tiny smile. “I love it.”
“He bought it before he died, I’m assuming?”
Her eyes tapered, but no other change registered in her face. “Yes.”
“I overheard your customer the other day.” No reason for her to label me a stalker this early. Though it seemed I wasn’t far off. “I’m sorry you lost him.”
She softened almost entirely, like melted butter. Then she snapped back together and eyed me with her usual suspicion. Felt better to be on firmer ground, although I liked that gentle edge.
“How often do you ride it?” I asked, steering back to safe territory. We pushed through the freezer aisle again. She kept half her attention on the freezer doors as I grabbed a bag of frozen peas and kale.
“I used to ride it every day. I—” She cut herself off. I acted like I didn’t notice and grabbed frozen blueberries. When she slipped behind me, her arm barely touched my back. I suppressed a shudder.
“When did you get your license?”
“This is more like an interrogation,” she said with a wry smile, tossing a pint of vanilla into the cart. She kept moving.
Intriguing girl.
She wasn’t shopping for her father, so who was she hiding?
Doesn’t matter, Mav, I reminded myself. She’s giving you internet and a place to turn around so you can get out of here and start over.
Because I didn’t want to be CRO for Mallory.
I wanted to talk to Bethany.
“I have an Indian Scout that I drive to work every day,” I said to distract myself from the silky threads of her hair falling across her neck.
“Oh?” Her voice lifted, and the genuine excitement that slipped into her smile hit me like a brick in the chest. “Not a Harley fan? That wins you points.”
I didn’t tell her I wanted all the points.
“How long have you had it?” she asked.
While I spoke about getting my first dirt bike at fourteen and stretched the easy topic out for a while, she relaxed. Navigating every aisle slowly, she opened up like a hesitant flower. I kept the chatter easy. Nonchalant.
“Never tried the Harley for more than a few hours at a time,” she admitted. “Dad loved them but never bought one. Too rattly for me. I have a couple of trips mapped out, though. Four- and five-day rides through the mountains, mostly on dirt roads.”
“Terrible idea for a Triumph.”
She grinned. “I know. I’d rent a hybrid, or borrow from a friend.”
“Harleys are loud and not ideal for long trips, depending on how you like the bike to handle. But as long as you’re in the open air?” I shrugged, leaving the rest implied.
She grinned, her face illuminated. Picturing her riding on a motorcycle next to me did funny things to my stomach, and I wondered if I’d made a mistake after all. Of all the businesses to save, why did I pick hers?
I already knew the answer to that.
“Now it’s my turn,” she said. “I get to ask a question.”
“Shoot.”
I tried to stay casual as I eyed a package of jerky.
“Do your tattoos have any significance?”
My gaze dropped to my left arm. Her bottom lip blanched as she bit into it. As if she worried the question were too personal.
To set her at ease, I smiled. “Most of them are my nieces’ and nephews’ names, wrapped around some design work.”
She smiled back, all velvet now.
“That’s lovely to hear. You must have a big family.”
“Huge. Well, relatively. Five brothers, four are married. The family reunions get a bit intense, but they’re always fun.”
“All of them have kids?”
“Just three, but it totals a whopping ten nieces and nephews.”
“Definitely enough for a sleeve,” she said, laughing. “I’m very jealous.”
“You like utter chaos and tribalism between young children?”
“Better than the silence,” she said quietly.
We ended at the same cash register run by a pimply high school kid. I gestured for her to slide in first. She unloaded her cart, grilling me on my family. She seemed fascinated. Shocked that I saw them so often.
Baxter and Mallory had built six brand-new houses in a wide cul-de-sac, then gifted one house to each member of my family. Some of my siblings lived there full time, near my parents. Some visited. I kept mine mostly furnished as a guesthouse and stayed there once every few months. The arrangement made for interesting Sunday dinners.
“One hundred fifteen dollars and forty-five cents,” the cashier said, drawing her attention back. Bethany reached for her purse, then stopped.
“Sorry, how much?”
The kid looked up through glazed eyes. “One hundred fifteen dollars and forty-five cents.”
She sucked in a sharp breath, looking through the items while he started to bag them. She riffled through the cash side of her wallet, finding only an extra dollar there. I was just reaching for my credit card to offer it when she shot me a dirty glare, produced another piece of plastic, and slid it over.
“Here.”
I put my hand back on the grocery cart as if nothing had happened.
Bethany tapped her pink shoe, chewing her bottom lip, while the cashier ran the credit card through. Then she held her breath. Finally, the machine chugged out a receipt, and he handed the card back. She let out a long breath.
“Have a great evening,” he muttered.
Bethany took the card, shoved it into her wallet, and
loaded her groceries into the cart. She stood there awkwardly for a moment before she turned around.
“Thanks,” she said, not quite meeting my eyes. “See you in the morning.”
Before I could reply, she was gone.
“Do you know any lawyers that would take pro bono work?”
Her question came the next morning, breaking an hour-long span of silence. I blinked, looked away from my computer, and focused on her face. She wore her wavy hair down around her shoulders again today. That ratted old hat sat on top of her head, a bit too charming for my liking. Her eyes, as usual, peered out with unrepressed curiosity. No yoga pants, just shorts that made me want to die.
“Depends on the nature of the request,” I said, turning back to the spreadsheet. Words changed in front of me as my assistant worked from the other side of the country. The shifting mosaic of words and letters would look like gibberish to anyone else, but to me they revealed the early rumblings of my idea.
If I could gently tip her over the edge and into it.
“Family law.” She cocked her head to the side. “I guess?”
“I don’t know any that are registered in this state.”
Or cost less than $750 an hour.
She frowned. I couldn’t imagine what she’d need a family-law attorney for, alone in her coffee shop. Seemingly alone in the world, anyway, if her fascination with my family last night was any indication. Something was amiss here. I hated a mystery I couldn’t solve in under an hour.
“What kind of problem is it?” I asked.
Her eyes clouded for a moment. She studied me as intently as if we’d never spoken before. As if I hadn’t been sitting in this exact spot in her coffee shop for the past several days, sometimes taking over her office, and always drinking her coffee.
“Ah . . . a problem.”
“I have a friend you could speak with for general counsel, but he can’t represent you here.”
“Is it a paid consultation? I’ve called around, and most consultations require a fee.”
“You wouldn’t have to pay, no.”
But I would.
She frowned, glancing outside, her gaze drawn to the east where the river spilled out of a canyon in frothy waves. Walls of granite and trees were visible from here. The mountains, so imposing, surrounded Pineville on all sides except the reservoir. Even that way, bluish peaks were visible in the distance, poking up like the jagged edge of a saw.
Ornery mountains. I liked them.
“Would you like to talk to someone?” I asked when the silence stretched over a minute long.
“No. I have someone I can talk to. Just don’t . . . don’t want to.”
With a heavy sigh, she grabbed her phone, tapped out a number, and disappeared into her office. Trying to turn my thoughts away from her predicament, I returned to my spreadsheet. My thoughts had scattered.
Who could she be talking to?
Why did she need an attorney?
Telling myself it wasn’t my business didn’t help.
When she returned, her lips were pressed in a resolute line. I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye, but didn’t ask. When her voice broke the quiet again, I looked up. She frowned at the machines along the counter. The strings that held her apron around her back had come loose, and the thing fell limply in front of her. Her black T-shirt declared I found my first love at the Frolicking Moose and showed a picture of a coffee cup beneath it.
She whirled around, icy eyes unreadable.
“I looked,” she said slowly, “and I don’t have an operations manual. But, you know . . . maybe I should.”
With that, she spun on her heel, walked down the hallway, and disappeared up a set of spiral stairs. With intentional effort to suppress a grin, I turned back to my work. Two hours of drywall awaited me at Grandpa’s, but first I needed to make a call that would keep my VA busy creating a logo and some graphic designs for the website.
Things progressed beautifully.
9
Bethany
Utterly infuriating.
Maverick, of course.
His pristine certainty. The unwavering confidence that couldn’t quite be labeled as arrogance, but almost. The fact that he always had a point—and one that worked well—made me want to throw a coffee mug at his head. I stalked upstairs, annoyed with Maverick, although he’d done nothing wrong. Except be right, exist, and make points that poked holes in my fragile denial.
I stuffed that away and turned my thoughts back to the shop. The decision of whether to keep Ellie and Lizbeth couldn’t be put off. I’d certainly done an admirable job of avoiding it the last couple of days, however. No matter how I looked at it, the fates of the girls and the coffee shop were entwined. Dad’s dream had to live or die, and so did the girls’ chances at a better life.
No, this wasn’t just Dad’s dream anymore. It was mine now. I’d inherited it. I couldn’t fix a lot of things, like the fact that he’d never meet his grandchildren, see me work as a real estate agent, or walk me down the aisle of what would be a very chic wedding.
But I could let his dream of the Frolicking Moose Coffee Shop live on.
Lizbeth and Ellie were curled up on the bed. A book filled Lizbeth’s hands, while Ellie watched a movie on my laptop. Ellie looked at me with glazed eyes, then turned back to the screen.
Lizbeth yawned. “Hey Bethany,” she murmured, turning the page with a little sigh.
“Holding up okay?” I asked.
“Ellie’s bored.”
A lusty picture of a man and woman graced the front of Lizbeth’s paperback. “Should you be reading that?” I asked.
Lizbeth waved a hand. “I skip the sex scenes. Sounds horrendous.”
A laugh bubbled out of me, easing my tension. Ellie eyed me again, then returned to her movie. A survival show set in Alaska, of all places, with treacherously steep mountains and snow everywhere.
I sincerely hoped she wasn’t taking notes.
My phone chimed, drawing my attention back to the text I’d sent in my office. First, I’d taken Jada’s advice and called Kin—his full name was Kinoshi, taken from his Japanese parents—but he didn’t answer, so I’d followed up with a text. His reply came in now.
I can meet up tomorrow night. Let’s hit Carlotta’s and catch up. And yes, I can give you some legal advice. Dinner’s on me.
My stomach curled a little. Some of the sweet, meddling ladies in the town had been attempting to get me to date Kin forever. He was kind, from around here, and wouldn’t get in the way of whatever I wanted to do with real estate, but he was also utterly . . . boring.
Outside, the sound of someone yelling floated through the window. Ellie darted over, abandoning the laptop on the bed.
“There’s a boy that plays on the edge of the reservoir a lot,” Lizbeth said as if she read my mind. “He looks like he’s Ellie’s age. She’s been stalking him.”
Ellie flipped her off.
“All right, eleven-year-old,” I said, ruffling Ellie’s hair. “No flipping the bird unless it’s to Jim. And that boy is Devin. His mom is Millie. She owns the hair salon up here, and he’s a great kid. You want to meet him?”
Ellie hesitated, not tearing her eyes away from Devin, then shook her head. She remained at her perch, looking out, chin stacked on her two hands. Lizbeth had already been reabsorbed into her book. I slipped into the bathroom, wound my hair into a high bun, splashed cold water on my face, and prepared myself to return downstairs.
“I can do this,” I whispered, psyching myself up. “I can face him for another two hours with him sitting there, sucking up all the gravity in the room with his massive shoulders, and not crush on him.”
Too late for that. I was way too lost in Crushland.
“Or feel deep shame over the fact that he almost offered to cover my grocery bill.”
I winced at my own reflection.
The $35,000 limit on Dad’s business credit card was just a couple hundred away from being totally maxed
out. Scratch that. Eighty-five dollars from being maxed out now that I’d charged our groceries to it. Horror that Maverick had felt obligated to pay for my groceries sat like cold water in my veins. As if the other morning hadn’t been embarrassing enough. Not being able to buy them food? What other expenses were there?
School supplies?
Clothes?
If I lost the Frolicking Moose, what then? It was all I had left except an almost-college degree and mountains of debt. Shoving that aside, I stepped back into the attic. I’d know better tonight, after dinner with Kin. Lizbeth had sunk so far back into her book that she didn’t notice me return.
I paused in the doorway.
“If you change your mind, Ellie, let me know. Devin is really sweet and loves to be outside. And if you want to come downstairs and play some board games, feel free.”
Ellie sank further into her sleuthing, and Lizbeth remained firmly entrenched in the arms of her romance. I slipped back down the spiral stairs, a quick retort ready for whatever Maverick would say.
But by the time I wandered back downstairs, he was gone.
Kin met me at the better of the only three places to eat in town: Carlotta’s Italian Restaurant.
Jada had taken the girls to her place to give them a change of scenery. She’d feed them home-cooked food from her childhood like she always had for me. Grits and shrimp. Jambalaya. Gumbo. It filled the belly and the soul, and I wished I was there with them instead.
Annoyingly enough, the thought of meeting Maverick here at Carlotta’s flittered through my mind and propelled me out the door. I shoved it away.
No need to stir that pot.
Candles glowed with an uncharacteristically romantic ambiance that made me uncomfortable. Surely Kin wouldn’t think we were anything but friends? Kin, already seated in a booth, smiled and stood as I approached.
“So good to see you again, Bethany.”
His sleek good looks, short dark hair, and kind eyes made him the catch of the town. Even though I didn’t want to date him, it was good to see him. Stephanie, who owned the restaurant, hummed under her breath as she passed by. I inwardly cringed at her knowing look.