“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.”