Page 17 of The Barista's Beloved

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Maeve stared at the notepad in front of her. It was covered with scratched out notes and half-formed ideas. She scrubbed a hand over her face and groaned. She’d planned to dedicate this morning to working out a plan to help Youth Mentors, but drinking Ben under the table last night wasn’t exactly the best preparation. She was glad she’d called Max when Ben had glanced up at her from under those thick dark blonde eyelashes and a slow, sexy grin slipped across his face. Loose-limbed from the alcohol they’d been drinking, he’d been more than appealing when with a wink he’d asked if she’d like to take their conversation horizontal.

And oh, god, had she wanted to.

Certain parts of her body were still screaming about the fact that she hadn’t taken him up on the offer. A round with her vibrator after she’d sent Ben home hadn’t done much to take the edge off. And a second round this morning had only reminded her just how long it had been since she’d been with an actual, live human man. And just how big Ben’s hands were. She’d pictured them on her as she’d come, biting her lip to avoid whispering his name out loud.

She was a mess.

And now she was trying to figure out how to save a nonprofit while her entire body screamed at her to pick up the phone and call Ben. Except he’d been drunk, and he hadn’t quite seemed… himself. Not the pleasant, easy friend she’d come to know. More intense, and hard-edged. He’d once told her a few things about his life as a hotshot corporate type before he’d come to River Hill, and now she wondered if it was that Ben she’d gotten a glimpse of. He never seemed particularly proud of his past, and she remembered again that he’d told her that he was a d-bag the second time they’d met.

Sleeping with a drunk douche wasn’t quite Maeve’s style, no matter how many cobwebs she was brushing out of her unused lady parts these days. She liked her friendship with Ben, and sex was pretty much guaranteed to ruin it. She’d much rather have the guy who’d been thrilled about her success as a friend than one night of incredibly hot sex with the guy who wouldn’t call her afterwards. Right?

She rested her chin on her open palm and stared down at her notes again. Thinking about Ben wasn’t solving her problems. She sighed. There was only one person she could think of who was mean enough to give her advice on how to fight fire with fire. She picked up her phone and dialed the international number, waiting the standard two rings before it was answered with a brusque greeting.

“Hello, Dad.”

“Hello, Maevey.” Cathal Brennan was the only person who called her that. She rolled her eyes.

“I have a question for you.”

“Well, I didn’t think you were calling just to say hello to your old dad.” He snorted. “You’d better call your mother after this. If she hears you talked to me and not her, neither one of us will hear the end of it.”

Maeve laughed. “She’s next on my list, but I have different questions for her.”

“Tell me what you need. And I’m not sending you any more whiskey, you hear me? If yours can’t stand on its own, you can move yourselves home to Ireland and come back to work for the family.”

“Dad, I don’t need any whiskey. I haven’t needed any in more than a year. In fact, I just gave away the last of it last night.”

“You gave it away? Maeve…” The warning note in his voice was unpleasantly familiar.

“My private store, Dad. Can we not fight about whiskey today?” He was still none too pleased that his two youngest children not only had no intention of coming back home to work with the family, but were achieving far more success with their own whiskey than any of them had ever dreamed. After her mother had backed Maeve’s decision to strike out on her own with a generous gift of her own money, Cathal had reluctantly agreed to support them. But he still wasn’t thrilled about it. Maeve was used to the weekly digs about her moving home, but that didn’t mean she enjoyed them. Having an ocean between them for these conversations was far preferable to having them in person, though. “I didn’t call about the business, actually. I have a different question.”

“What have ye gotten yourself into now?”

She sighed and powered through. “I’m volunteering with a nonprofit—” She ignored his audible snort. “And they’ve just gotten word that a developer intends to buy out their building and force them to stop operating.”

“That’s a shame.” His voice indicated that he didn’t really care.

“I want your advice. How can I stop it? You’re the one who taught me how to fight back.” She still remembered his large hands over hers, gently curving her fingers into tiny fists. “If they give you hell, Maevey, you give it right back.” She didn’t like giving hell. She’d given hugs instead, and he’d despaired of her long ago.

“Maevey, sometimes it’s not worth fighting.” He sounded tired.

She felt tears sting her eyes. “There’s always something worth fighting for, Dad.”

“Some old building? Fight for yourself, Maeve. You don’t need to go up against some developer. You own your place outright. Focus on the whiskey first; help others second. You can’t move forward without a place to stand.”

“I have a place to stand, Dad! Whitman’s is fine!” She felt her voice rising and her stomach twisting. God, she hated arguing. “I just want to know what you would do if you were me.”

“I wouldn’t be spending all my time petting cats and kissing babies, that’s for sure.”

“Dad.”

“Maevey, I don’t have any advice for you. Sometimes this is just the way of the world. Progress waits for no man. Or woman, in your case, I suppose.”

“It’s not progress, Dad; it’s condos.”

“So buy one. That dinky little house you rent is no place to raise a family.”

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