Page 33 of The Barista's Beloved

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Aweek later, Ben reached into the fridge and pulled out two beers. Grabbing the bottle opener, he popped the cap off of both and strolled into Max’s living room.

“Thanks,” Max said, leaning forward to take the bottle of local cult beer from his hands. He’d just put in a full week at Frankie’s, and today was his one day to relax.

“Don’t thank me. You’re the one with the rare beer hookup.” Ben fell back onto the couch, his body sinking into the deep, soft cushions. So much better than the lumpy futon in his small apartment.

Everythingabout Max’s house was so much better, in fact. The living room was a temple to all things masculine, including a top-of-the-line seventy-inch high-def TV, a stereo system that could shake the walls, two different gaming consoles, and a sectional that sat approximately fourteen grown men for Sunday football.

In a quick moment of weakness, Ben missed his old condo in San Francisco. He didn’t necessarily miss his old life in the city, but it hadn’t been easy giving up all of his fancy belongings when he’d sold the place fully furnished to a twenty-three year old tech millionaire.

Max pushed to his feet with a groan, interrupting Ben’s walk down memory lane, and stretched his arms high above his head. His spine popped audibly. “The guys’ll be here soon. I should get the chili started.” Noah, Sean, and Iain were coming over later for their regular poker night.

Across town, Angelica, Naomi, Jess, and Maeve were binge watching The Gilmore Girls. Or at least that’s what they said they were doing. Ben knew differently, though. Maeve had confessed to him a couple of weeks back that they only got through one episode before a second bottle of Noah’s wine was opened and Lorelai and Luke’s on-screen relationship was replaced with talk of real-life relationships. Their last gathering had been especially uncomfortable for her, since Naomi had decided to share some pretty explicit details about how talented Iain was with his tongue.

He chuckled, remembering the horrified look on Maeve’s face as she’d explained that no sister ever needed to know what her brother was like in bed.

Briefly, Ben’s mind flashed back to all the wicked ways he’d used his tongue on her. Would Maeve tell her friends about their night together? He raised his beer to his lips as he considered how he felt about the group knowing they’d taken their friendship to the next level. He figured Naomi would be supportive; after all, she’d been pretty vocal at Frankie’s about wanting him and Maeve to hook up. The conversation had been horribly embarrassing for the both of them, but he found it hard to wish it had never happened. After all, it had ultimately led to her begging him to come inside her house … and then inside her, too.

“You have that look on your face again.” Max set a platter of various canapés and dips on the coffee table in front of Ben.

Ben blinked and glanced up, hoping he didn’t look too guilty. “Sorry, was just thinking about some things.” He reached out and popped a mini red bell pepper coated in a bacon cheese dip into his mouth.

“About Maeve?” Max’s hands were planted firmly on his hips and his lips were turned down in a scowl.

Ben understood Max’s need to protect young women who weren’t the best at protecting themselves, but Maeve wasn’t Isabella. Hell, she was the furthest thing from Max’s sister. Isabella floated through life—jumping from one dead-end job (and man) to the next—while Maeve had her feet firmly planted on the ground. The woman ran her own freaking distillery, after all.

“Look, man. I get that you want to protect Maeve, but she’s not your sister.”

His friend bristled. “I never said she was.”

Ben set his empty beer bottle on the table and pushed to his feet, clapping his hand onto Max’s shoulder. “No, but you’re doing that overprotective big brother thing with her, and you don’t need to. Maeve’s a big girl, capable of looking out for herself.”

Max raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Yeah? Then what was that scene at Frankie’s all about? Seems to me she doesn’t have the best taste in men.”

Ben tried not to wither under Max’s pointed stare. Surely his best friend didn’t put him in the same category as a douche like Steve Smith.

Ben grabbed his empty bottle off the table and headed toward the kitchen, Max falling in line with him. “She made a mistake,” he explained, even though he felt he shouldn’t have to. “I seem to recall you making a few of them over the years, too, but you don’t see anyone trying to protect your virtue.”

Max groaned. “Point taken.” Not too long ago, Max had been close to asking a beautiful, wealthy divorcée to marry him, only for her to run off with her ex-husband’s richer best friend, leaving Max with an expensive diamond ring and a broken heart. Since then, he’d seemingly sworn off relationships, settling for quick flings with locals who knew the score and tourists he’d likely never see again.

“All I’m saying,” Max continued, “is that I’ve been your friend practically my whole life, and outside of high school, I can’t name one woman you’ve ever been serious about. Admit it, you’re kind of a player. And like I said before, Maeve’s not someone you fuck and run on. She’s the type of woman you marry.”

“I’m not going to fuck and run.” How could he convince Max that he’d changed? You’d think the fact that he was still in River Hill instead of back in San Francisco—or New York, Boston, or Seattle—proved he wasn’t the same guy he’d been once upon a time. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t had ample opportunity either; he had an inbox full of inquiries from big name firms all over the country wanting to fly him out for interviews. But the thought of going back to that life didn’t seem as enticing as it once had.

He had a theory as to why that was, but he didn’t want to investigate those feelings too closely. Regardless, he knew deep in his bones that wherever this thing with Maeve was going, he’d never been the type of person to lead someone on the way Max was suggesting. Time to hit back.

“And the fact that you think I’m capable of doing something like that to someone as special as Maeve says more about you than it does about me.”

Max’s jaw flexed as he bit back whatever retort he’d been about to toss out, and his eyes flicked to the window where Noah, Sean, and Iain could be seen making their way up the walkway to the front door of Max’s mid-century modern house. “This conversation isn’t over,” he said, his gaze bouncing back to Ben’s.

Ben disagreed. “Yes, it is. Maeve’s a grown woman, and I’m a good guy. Maybe I haven’t always been one, but I’ve changed, Max. If you can’t see that, I don’t know what I can say to make you believe it.”

The doorbell rang, interrupting their discussion. Max stared at Ben for a beat and then nodded brusquely. “Okay, then. If you say you’ve changed, you’ve changed.” He brushed past Ben, stopping briefly to squeeze his shoulders, before moving to let the others in.

When Iain shook Ben’s hand a minute later, he tried not to look guilty for the things he’d done to his younger sister the night before. He didn’t have anything to hide, but if Maeve hadn’t liked hearing how Iain and Naomi spent their nights together, he was doubly sure the affable Irishman wouldn’t be quite so affable if he was treated to a play-by-play of Ben’s night with Maeve. One he hoped to repeat again soon.

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