The Barista's Beloved (The River Hill Series Book 4)

by Rebecca Norinne

  “Nothing, nobody.” She shoved the magazine in his face, making him step backwards onto Aimee’s foot.

  “Ow!”

  “Well, now somebody is,” Maeve said. “Are you okay?”

  Aimee nodded. “I’m fine. Look, Iain.”

  He finally looked at the magazine. “That’s you.” He blinked, then looked closer. “That’s you? On the cover of Whiskey Times?” He whooped and grabbed Maeve in a bear hug, lifting her off her feet.

  She laughed. “Put me down!”

  He did, although he held her by the shoulders for a moment longer, shaking her slightly to emphasize his words. “This. Is. Awesome.”

  “So awesome,” Aimee chimed in.

  Maeve let the grin spread over her face. “It is pretty awesome.”

  “I have to go work up a press release,” Iain said abruptly. “Like, now.” He practically ran out of the office.

  Aimee laughed. “I have to go file the rest of this mail and check on the number two still again.”

  Maeve nodded distractedly as the other woman left, then sank down into her chair and flipped to the page the article started on. The fresh faces of American whiskey include Maeve Brennan, an Irish native with a decidedly new take on the classics…

  She finished the article feeling like her head was floating somewhere near the ceiling. When the magazine had called her, she’d thought it was a coup to even be asked for an interview. Whiskey Times was the biggest publication in the field—her father had been featured more than once. He’d never been on the cover, though.

  The reporter had told her they were putting together an article about several female distillers, a growing trend in the States that she was proud to contribute to. She’d eagerly consented, thinking that Iain’s promotional efforts were really paying off. She’d never dreamed of seeing her face in glossy print bigger than the thumbnail portrait they usually printed next to the biographical information about each interviewee. But there she was. Full-sized. Looking fierce and proud and competent, a red-headed child of the Brennan dynasty striking out and making waves on her own.

  Her throat ached suddenly, and she wanted more than anything to call her mother. But it was late in Dublin, and Colleen Brennan was probably putting her grandbabies to bed at Fionn’s house, a weekly tradition. They’d talk tomorrow. In the meantime … she glanced at the clock. It was nearly lunchtime. And there was a friend waiting for her who she was pretty sure would be happy to hear about her accomplishment.

  The taco truck was worth the drive. Maeve felt obscurely like she was betraying Max’s friendship as she inhaled the carne asada drizzled liberally with a molten tomatillo sauce that was deceptively pale green.

  “These are really good,” Ben mumbled around a mouthful of food. They were perched side by side on a rickety picnic table bench, facing away from the table and the other customers who were sitting on the opposite side.

  Maeve nodded, and caught a drip of salsa that was trying to escape from the far end of her taco. She popped her finger into her mouth without thinking, and Ben shifted next to her. She glanced up at him, but he was looking down at his own taco. She chewed another bite and finally paused to take a breath. “Noah once started a petition to make Max keep his carnitas tacos on the menu permanently at Frankie’s.”

  “I’ve had those.” Ben nodded. “They’re amazing.”

  “These are different,” she said thoughtfully. “Different, but good.”

  “Sitting outside eating out of little foil packets is a whole separate kind of experience than the one Frankie’s offers.” Ben laughed. “There’s room in the world for both.”

  “I agree, but I’m still not telling Max we came here.” Maeve popped the last bite of her taco into her mouth.

  “What, you think I’m tattling? I don’t have a death wish.” Ben handed her a napkin from the pile he’d been holding down with his thigh to keep them from blowing away.

  “Do we need to swear a vow of secrecy?” She wiped her hands.

  “Definitely. Might need to make up a special handshake, even.” He finished his own taco and cleaned his hands. “So what’s your exciting news?”

  She’d texted him a message that was mostly exclamation points when she’d left the office. “You won’t believe this. It’s the coolest thing ever.” She dug into her purse, found the magazine, and then handed it to him still folded over.

  He uncurled the pages and stared. “This is you.”

  She nodded. “Yep.”

  He read the title. “Whiskey Times?”

  “It’s the biggest industry publication around. They sometimes feature a couple of distillers and do interviews. My dad’s been in it a few times.”

  “Not on the cover, though.” It was a question, but he didn’t make it sound like one.

  “Not on the cover,” she agreed, satisfaction sweeping through her again.

  His grin took her by surprise. She’d been running into him all over town, and as they’d talked about everything from their embarrassing friends to their childhoods, it had been easy to make herself forget just how attractive he was. Now, she felt her stomach twisting as a shot of pure arousal hit her straight in the pit of her belly.

  She took a slow breath and returned his smile. Friends. We’re friends. He doesn’t do relationships, and I don’t do one-night stands, and even if I did I wouldn’t want to ruin this… what is this, anyway?

  She had to train her body to think of Ben the way she thought of Max. Brotherly friendship. Her libido, unfortunately, wasn’t getting the message. Why Ben’s good looks did things to her insides that Max’s dark handsome features didn’t was beyond her.

  “This is really amazing,” he was saying as he flipped through the article. “You give good interview.”

  She swallowed, trying not to think about giving good anything. “Thanks. I’m really excited.”

  She watched his face as he read, enjoying the play of his mobile features. He frowned thoughtfully, chuckled once or twice, and squinted as though he were looking for something. “Hey, you don’t say why you named your whiskey Whitman’s.”

  She smiled. “It’s because of a quote.”

  “By Walt Whitman, I have to assume.”

  “Good guess.”

  “It was a real stretch, let me tell you. What’s the quote?”

  She looked out at the sky, the sun glowing above them from behind a few perfect wisps of cloud. “Simplicity is the glory of expression.”

  “What’s it mean?”

  “To Walt Whitman, or to me?”

  “Well, he’s dead, so…”

  She laughed. “Iain read it in one of his university classes and he printed it out and brought it home for me. I would stare at it as I was learning about distilling from my ‘da, and think that I wanted to try something … simpler. Every expression—that’s like a product line for us—is an opportunity to refine and get better. And sometimes it felt like my family’s idea of getting better was to keep on doing the same things that had worked for generations.”

  “So you wanted to go simple?”

  “I wanted my whiskey to be beautiful in its simplicity.” She remembered the long days of doing things her father’s way, and the secret hours working with Iain to develop their own expression. And the fight afterward. She wasn’t going to let that memory cloud her success, though. She was on the damn cover.

  He flipped the magazine back over and stared at her picture again. “So now that you’re a cover girl, what’s next?”

  She laughed. “Hopefully, lots of people buying whiskey.”

  “No modeling career?”

  “Seems unlikely. I’m a little busy.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Oh, shit.”

  “Late?”

  “About to be.” He handed her the magazine and rose. “Thanks for inviting me to lunch, Maeve. And congratulations on the article. It’s really fantastic.”

  “Thanks.” She stood, too, suddenly unsure of what to do. How did you say goodb
ye to a friend you sometimes wanted to lick? A hug, maybe? She raised her arms and moved in, then realized he had one hand up and waiting. A high-five? Oh, god.

  “Oh! I’m sorry.” She moved to raise her own hand just as he was readjusting into hugging position.

  “Er—”

  “No, I—”

  “Um—”

  By the time they managed to part with a firm handshake and a pat on the back (from him, to her), Maeve was ready to crawl underneath the taco truck and die. She let him leave first so that he wouldn’t see her shrivel away into nothingness. Smooth, Maeve.

  She shook her head and made her way to her car. There was no time to dwell on that awkward exchange—she had a new volunteer program to get to.

  Half an hour later, she locked her car and was actually whistling as she walked down the sidewalk to the old school building that housed Youth Mentors. When had she become a person who whistled? Well, it had been a damned good day, that last bit with Ben aside. She had to keep reminding herself that they were friends, and not listen to the parts of her body that wanted to throw themselves at him. Or on him.

  She patted the side of her purse, over where the magazine lay, the boost of self-confidence it gave her driving away the last of her embarrassment. She practically skipped up the steps to the front door. While she’d emailed back and forth with the organization’s founder, Joan Mayfield, several times, this was her first time actually entering the building. She was waiting to be matched with one of the kids as a mentor; in the meantime, she’d volunteered to help with some of the filing, and maybe update a few of their organizational processes.

  She was looking forward to finally meeting Joan in person. What she didn’t expect was to open the door of the office and find the older woman in tears.

  Two tissues and a mug of tea later, Maeve had the gist: Youth Mentors and its historic building had just received a letter from a development company intending to turn the old school into trendy condos. And they didn’t seem particularly interested in the well-being of a small nonprofit, or the kids it helped.

  Maeve brushed her fingers across the magazine hidden in her bag, and remembered the fierce, proud woman on the cover. “We can fight this,” she said. And again, louder. “Joan, we can fight this.”

  6

  “You working late tonight?” Ben swallowed the last of his iced tea and pushed his empty glass toward Max. It was only three o’clock, but he was bored; he didn’t know how he’d make it to bed time without going insane. He’d been hoping to persuade Max to turn the restaurant over to his sous chef so they could grab some beers down at The Hut, a dive bar at the edge of town on the river.

  Without looking up from what he was writing on the specials board, Max chuckled. “You could say that. I’m doing an overnight brisket for tomorrow’s dinner service.”

  Ben groaned.

  “What?” Max asked, his eyebrows pinched in concentration as he put the finishing touches on the fancy calligraphy announcing the meal.

  “You were my last hope.”

  Max finally looked up. “For what?”

  “I need to get out of that apartment, man. I’m going crazy.”

  Max looked at him like he’d spoken in Swahili. “So call up one of your friends.”

  “Dude. You are my only friend.”

  Max’s chin jerked back. “Seriously? You’ve lived in River Hill for like six months. You should have friends crawling out of the woodwork by now. You’ve always been Mr. Popular.”

  Ben rolled his eyes. “I’ve lived here for three months. And that was the old me. I’m trying to turn over a new leaf.”

  “By not meeting people?”

  “No,” Ben answered. “By not hanging out with assholes and douchebags.”

  Max set down the marker and leaned back against the counter, his legs crossed at his ankles and his arms over his chest. “What about Noah?”

  Ben shook his head. “He’s out of town at some big wine competition. And no way am I hanging out with Angelica by myself. She frightens me.”

  “I get that.” Max rubbed the bristles of his short, dark beard. “And you can’t call up Sean to go with you to The Hut. Aside from the whole not drinking thing, Big Mitch banned him.”

  “What happened there?” The couple of times Ben had met Sean, he’d been pretty open about his sobriety, but no one had ever mentioned him doing anything that would have caused him to be banned from any of the town’s drinking establishments, let alone a dive like The Hut. While Ben had been tossed from one or two bars in his lifetime, he couldn’t imagine what you’d have to do to actually be banned from one. He imagined it had to be pretty terrible.

  “Nothing.” Max waved his hand in front of his face as if the incident wasn’t worth discussing.

  Which Ben didn’t suppose it was. Lord knew he wouldn’t want Max and Sean to be sitting around gossiping about him.

  With that thought, his shoulders hunched in on themselves. “I guess that means it’s Chinese takeout and reruns of Law & Order.”

  “You have to stop watching that show,” Max said, setting to work arranging the bar for the coming dinner rush. “It only makes you depressed.”

  “You’d be depressed too,” Ben countered, “if you went from running your own kick-ass restaurant to watching episodes of Master Chef to get your fix.”

  “Which is exactly why you need to stop watching it. You’re not a lawyer anymore.”

  Ouch. Ben knew he hadn’t meant to sound so callous, but the barb hurt just the same as if it had been intentional. He knew what he was—and what he wasn’t. He didn’t need his oldest friend reminding him of it.

  “What about Maeve?” Max asked, apropos of nothing.

  Or at least Ben assumed the question was issued out of the blue, but then he smelled her perfume. Or maybe it was the scents of the distillery clinging to her hair and clothes. Whatever it was, it made his mouth water.

  She hopped up onto the stool next to him. “What about Maeve?”

  Max smiled and grabbed a bottle of sparkling water from the low fridge below the counter and then reached for a glass. When it was three-quarters of the way full, he topped it with a sprig of mint, popped in a straw, and passed it to Maeve. “You got plans tonight?”

  “Nope,” she said, tucking the straw between pursed lips. “Why? You wanna hang out?”

  Ben looked away before she or Max could catch him staring. While he didn’t necessarily consider himself a good guy, he wasn’t a total asshole either. He really had to get his overactive imagination under control. Every time he saw Maeve his mind automatically jumped to all the filthy things he wanted to do to her. Like right now, he would happily give his left kidney if it meant he could have have her sweet pink lips wrapped around his cock the same way they circled that goddamn straw.

  And that right there was why he’d avoided hugging her the other day. While Maeve had been unable to pry her eyes away from the horizon, he’d been unable to take his eyes off of her. She really was the most beautiful woman he’d ever met. But it went much deeper than that. He’d been proud of her, too. And seeing how proud she was of herself had been a huge turn-on. The first time his stomach had pitched and rolled during the conversation, he’d assumed the tacos had been off, but when it happened a few more times with no other adverse effects, he realized what it actually was.

  Whether conscious or not, Maeve had shared a side of herself with him that she didn’t often show the rest of the world, and the knowledge that she trusted him in that way had driven him absolutely wild. He’d always been drawn to strong women, and despite her easy disposition and obvious need to please the people around her, it was a revelation to find out the woman actually had a spine made of steel.

  He’d been hard the entire afternoon.

  Which was why when she’d reached out to hug him, he’d taken a step back and put his hand up for a high-five instead. Possibly offending her had seemed the safer of his options, but then things had turned a different sort of
awkward between them. By the time they’d parted ways, he’d managed to convince himself their lunch date was going to be their first, last, and only one.

  So the fact that Max was trying to foist him off on her now wasn’t a welcome turn of events. He didn’t know if he could pretend to be impartial when she eventually gave him some thinly-veiled excuse for why she was busy or how she needed to be somewhere else.

  “Nuh-uh,” he said, shaking his finger at Max. “I don’t need you arranging my play dates for me.”

  “Play dates?” Maeve’s voice came out as a surprised squeak, and Ben swiveled on his stool to face her. Her cheeks were flushed pink, causing her freckles to stand out even more starkly against her normally pale skin, and her eyes were wide with what looked like apprehension.

  Damn, Ben thought. He really had fucked things up the other day with that high-five. Better that, he told himself, then have her feel the literal extent of his admiration. They were friends; she didn’t need to know how big his dick was.

  “Ben’s bored,” Max explained as he resumed leaning against the counter behind him. “And since I’m busy making overnight brisket, he has no one to hang out with.”

  “Thanks for making me sound like a loser,” Ben shot back.

  Max shrugged. “If it walks like a duck …”

  “What did you have in mind?” Maeve asked suddenly, causing Ben’s heart to kick violently in his chest. Maybe she hadn’t been completely repulsed by his bumbling attempt at keeping things strictly platonic.

  “I’d proposed beers down at The Hut, but—”

  Maeve shuddered. “The last time I was there, Big Mitch’s nephew Cooter asked what it would take to make me his ‘old lady.’” She used her fingers to make air quotes. “I’ve watched enough episodes of Sons of Anarchy to know I want nothing to do with that lot. Especially since he’s no Charlie Hunnam.”

  Ben was no Charlie Hunnam either, but with his increasingly long dirty blonde hair and the five o’clock shadow he sported more often than not, he was way closer to the actor than the large, hairy bikers he’d met the few times he’d been at The Hut. They were all good enough guys, but none of them would be winning any beauty contests anytime soon.