Page 25 of The Barista's Beloved

10

Ben pulled open the dirty glass door and stepped into the sparsely furnished office located in a strip mall on the industrial edge of town. It took his eyes a moment to adjust, and when they did he was gratified to see that even though the developer’s lawyer talked a big game, he worked in a shit hole. The room was practically empty, save for a large, dented metal desk, a fake, dusty plant, and a water dispenser that glugged every couple of seconds. It was the sort of place corporations begrudgingly rented for temporary minions who didn’t deserve better.

A door on the far end opened, and the other lawyer—who Ben recognized from a photo captioned ‘S. Smith’ on the Hartwell Properties website—stopped short.“Can I help you?” He tossed a rolled up magazine onto a folding chair just outside the door.

Charming.

Ben sauntered— strutted, actually—over to the man’s desk and dropped a manila folder filled with copies of the motions, counter-motions, and injunctions he’d spent the last two days filing on behalf of Youth Mentors. The bundle also included a notice from the EPA saying they were going to investigate the site to determine whether or not the nest Maeve had seen belonged to an American peregrine falcon. If so, these guys could kiss their River Hill condos goodbye. They might eventually be able to work through all the bureaucratic red tape Ben intended to create for them with the other motions he’d filed—things like historic property registration, property line contestation, and even a questionable lien on the city’s ownership of the property—but it would take months and no developer wanted to take on on that type of overhead. Even if they got through all of that, as a rule, developers did not want to tangle with animal rights activists. He knew this from first-hand experience.

“What’s that?” Smith asked, tilting his chin toward the envelope. “You’re not serving me with papers again, are you? If that bitch ex-girlfriend of mine wants child support—”

“Those, you asshole, are all the reasons why your boss should pull up stakes and build elsewhere.”

“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.”

“You sure about that?” Ben slid his hands into his pockets casually and rocked back on his heels. He’d dealt with guys like this before. He knew it was only a matter of time until the other man lost his shit. All he had to do was exercise a bit of patience. Thankfully, Ben had all the time in the world.

Smith pushed the sleeves of his shirt up his forearms and advanced on Ben with a scowl. “You sure you want to come into my place of business and put on this tough guy act with me? You don’t know who you’re fucking with.”

Actually, Ben did know, and he wasn’t the least bit frightened. He’d had no trouble at all finding out more about Hartwell’s S. Smith from a quick search of court records. As it turned out, this guy was notorious for making threats that he never actually backed up with action. He was a straight up bully who talked a big game and got people to back down through lies and intimidation. What he didn’t know, of course, was that Ben had already hit rock bottom. There was nothing this man could threaten him with that hadn’t already happened. For the first time since he’d been escorted out of that SoMa high rise, he felt free.

“You’re going to come into my office and insult me? Do you know who I am?” Smith was still ranting.

Ben stood his ground. “I know exactly who you are, and here’s a word of advice: the next time you roll into town intent on disrupting the fabric of the community, maybe keep your opinions about the yokels to yourself. Oh, and don’t steal other people’s coffee, Nancy.”

“Who the fuck is Nancy? Better yet, who the fuck are you?” He grabbed the envelope and ripped it open. After reviewing the top couple of pages, his angry gaze popped back up to meet Ben’s calm one. “What the hell is this? The goddamn EPA? Those hippies managed to find a lawyer stupid enough to take on their case?”

“No. They found one who was good enough to win their case.”

The other man glared at Ben for a few beats, his expression going from angry, to confused, and then finally recognition. “Wait a minute. You’re the coffee guy; you’re no lawyer.”

“I am a lawyer. I work at a coffee shop. Two separate things.” Ben turned on his heels and strolled toward the door, then paused. “Oh, before I forget. Make sure your client signs page ten. I wouldn’t want to have to sue them for negligence, too.” He pushed open the door and stepped out into the sunshine, leaving Smith sputtering behind him.

Ben chuckled as he climbed into his BMW, relishing the befuddled look on the other man’s face. Ever since he’d decided to help out Youth Mentors, he had been looking forward to using that line. Ed, an old show about a lawyer who’d lost his job in New York City and had moved home to Ohio to run a law firm out of a bowling alley, had been one of his favorites back in the day. In fact, it was the title character who’d made him want to become a lawyer in the first place.

God, he’d missed this.

Most people thought being a lawyer was boring. And it could be—all those hours of researching past cases for precedence, or searching the books for some obscure loophole they could use to get a case thrown out. But it could be exhilarating, too. In fact, Ben thought those long hours spent poring over legal tomes were all part of the thrill of the chase.

Just when you thought you’d hit a dead end, you’d dump another cup of coffee down your throat and dive back in, determined to find the thing that could be the difference between winning and losing your case. And then, bleary eyed and lacking sleep, you would, and all those hours hunched over a desk, your finger turning yellow from the highlighter you’d been gripping for hours on end, would be worth it. You’d saved the day. You’d walk into the office the next day, showered and freshly shaved, your thousand dollar suit molded to your body, and the team would clap and tell you what a badass you were.

Except now there was no office to go back to. He didn’t have a team of interns and junior associates who’d fawn all over him and tell him they couldn’t wait to be like him someday. There was no Michelin-starred restaurant the partners would take him to and pass him a hefty bonus. There was only his tiny studio apartment over Max’s garage, and Frankie’s, the nicest restaurant in a twenty mile radius, would have to do for his round of celebratory drinks.

And he definitely had something to celebrate. A horn blared behind him, and Ben snapped back to attention. He flipped on his blinker and turned toward home, his car shooting forward with purpose. For the first time in months, he knew what he wanted.

* * *

Ben practically ranup the stairs to his apartment, yanking his tie loose as he went. The suits—as good as they looked, and as much as they appealed to the opposite sex—were something he’d never learned to enjoy about being a lawyer. He was a t-shirts and jeans kind of guy. Always had been, always would be. As he pulled a soft, time-worn shirt he’d owned for over a decade on over his head, he took one final look at himself in the mirror and mussed his hair just so.

It was longer than it had ever been, but he kind of liked it. Briefly, he wondered if he’d have to get a haircut now that he’d decided to go back to work. Part of him hoped not. Whenever he imagined Maeve kissing him (which usually happened when he was standing naked in the shower), she was frequently fisting a hunk of his hair in her hands and tugging on it. Strange as it was, the fantasy of her pulling his hair was something he didn’t want to do away with by cutting it all off.

Fifteen minutes later, he opened the door to Frankie’s and scanned the crowd, his gaze landing on Max behind the bar mixing drinks while he chatted with Noah and Sean. With a spring in his step, he sailed through the crowd and pulled up a stool next to them. “Gentlemen.”

Max did a double take, and his eyes bounced between the other two men. “Hey. I thought you were busy tonight.”

He’d told his friends what he was doing, and they’d had a few notes about the historical relevance of the building that had been helpful. Sean had grown up in River Hill, and Noah and Max had lived here for a long time, so they’d been able to provide him with a few small details that Ben would have otherwise spent hours searching for. Not that he wouldn’t have found them, but he appreciated the help. More than appreciated it.

He reached for a printed menu. “I wrapped things up early. Turns out I still got it.”

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