Page 12 of The Barista's Beloved

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 goodbye 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.”

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