Page 45 of The Barista's Beloved

“Maeve.”

She scowled at her brother. “Why wouldn’t he take it? He hasn’t got a job here, or anything to tie him to this place, and they’re offering to send him to Hawaii and give him buckets of money to do what he loves to do.”

“He’s got you,” Iain said gently.

“Yeah, well, apparently I’m not enough.” Maeve felt tears stinging her eyes again.

“I don’t think you should assume that until you hear it from him,” Iain said. “And if that’s true, I’ll punch him in the mouth. And then Naomi will shiv him with a chisel. Sculptors have very strong hands.”

She smiled through her tears. “Sweet, Iain, but it doesn’t matter. He’s on his way out the door.”

“It sounds like you sent him on his way without actually listening to what the man had to say. Find out if he’s taking the job before you complete your transition to full zombie.” He gestured at her eyes, his tone impatient but still kind.

“And if he is?”

Iain sighed. “If he is, I’ll be surprised. I’ll be honest with you, little sister. Naomi has her doubts, but they’re based on some of her own experiences, not necessarily on Ben, the actual person. He strikes me as a man who’s a lot different than the person he used to be, and someone who’s struggling with the transition into living the life he wants to lead.” He paused. “You know, you and I have always had a pretty significant safety net. I don’t think he does.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know that I’d call living with Da any kind of safety. He’d drive me absolutely mad in days. I can barely hold a civil conversation with him on the phone.”

Iain snorted. “And you’re the nice one. Imagine how the rest of us feel.” He sobered, and leaned forward. “But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s there, Maeve. And so is Brennan’s. If all of this failed—” he waved his arm around, encompassing her office, the distillery, and the life they’d both built here. “—we’d have choices.”

“Ben has choices,” she said stubbornly. “He could choose to not be an asshole.”

“I think he’s trying to,” Iain said dryly. “You just have to give him a chance to do it.” He sat back in his chair and rubbed his chin, scratching lightly at his neatly trimmed beard. “You know, we could use somebody to help us with our contracts.”

“That’s your job,” she said automatically. Iain handled virtually all of the administrative work for Whitman’s, although his real gifts lay in marketing and sales. He’d sold their whiskey to restaurants and bars up and down the west coast, and recently he’d been making inroads into the East Coast markets, too. Naomi had been snarky about his sales trips until he’d taken her along and managed to sell several of her sculptures to a gallery in Washington, D.C. Then she’d been too busy to complain.

“I know you’ve been buried in your barrels for the last several months, but I’m assuming you’ve noticed that our volume is growing.” He raised his eyebrows at her and she bit back a snarky remark.

“I have.” She’d been working nearly nonstop, not that she wasn’t delighted to do so. She’d built herself a fantastic team here, and being in charge of the distilling process herself was a dream come true. She’d spent years working in her father’s distillery, fighting a losing battle against the family’s resistance to change. When she and Iain had agreed to try to create a completely new blend, she’d been nearly dizzy with the freedom of it. The feeling hadn’t gone away since.

“I’d been considering asking for some time with one of the Brennan lawyers,” Iain was saying as she pulled herself out of her memories.

She made a face. “Yuck.”

He nodded. “Aside from the yuck factor, they’re still based in Ireland and I’m making primarily U.S. deals for what’s now a U.S.-based brand. Not that Brennan’s doesn’t have the expertise, but I’d prefer somebody local, you know?”

She nodded, not quite seeing where he was going with this. “So?”

“So you could mention it to Ben,” he said patiently.

Understanding bloomed, followed in quick succession by surprise, then hope, then disappointment and a fresh surge of grief. “It’s probably too late for that.”

He sighed. “You never know, Maeve. He might surprise you. You’re worth it, you know.”

She didn’t feel worth it. She felt battered, broken, and stupid. And possibly a bit embarrassed. Iain was right about the safety net they’d always had. Ben didn’t have one; he needed a job. And how could she blame him for wanting his own version of safety? The ease of doing what he’d always done, what he was good at—it was what she was doing, after all. It wasn’t as though she’d gone from distilling to being a dental hygienist or something. She’d struck out on her own, but she was still doing what she did best. Ben deserved to be successful again. She couldn’t begrudge him that. Despite everything, she loved him too much to want him to be unhappy.

The question was, then, what would make him happy? And was she brave enough to find out?

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