Page 7 of The Barista's Beloved

“I like cats. And books. And River Hill.” She didn’t know why she was feeling defensive. It wasn’t like volunteering in her community was wrong.

“Do you remember when you started volunteering at the shelter?”

She shrugged. “A while ago.”

“It was when your brother moved in with Naomi.”

“So?”

“You started spending time at the library when your mother told you about some girl you know back home having a baby.”

Maeve shifted uncomfortably. Who knew Max was paying such close attention to her life? His eye for detail apparently extended beyond his food. She had indeed started working at the library when her friend Aoife had given birth to her second baby. Not that it mattered. She was too busy to think about it, obviously. What with her work at the library and all. “So?” She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“The tourism board?”

She felt heat rising in her cheeks. “A few months ago. Angelica mentioned they needed help.”

“Nice try.” He leveled a finger at her. “Iain let it slip. Some old boyfriend got engaged.”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Maeve.” Max blew out a sigh. “I’m not saying you’re bothered by that sort of thing. You’re a genuinely nice person; I know perfectly well you’re really happy for all of these people.”

“So what’s your point?” She crossed her arms in front of her chest as though she might be able to ward off whatever attack he was preparing. A truth attack. The worst kind, honestly.

“You’re using all these volunteer opportunities to distract yourself,” he said firmly. “It’s some kind of coping mechanism.”

“For what?” She dared him to say it.

There was silence. “You know what,” he said finally.

“Because I’m single, sad, and lonely in my little house?” She scowled at him and pushed her plate aside. “Listen, Mister Vergaras, I’m perfectly happy. I’ve got my own business, and it’s well on its way to winning awards just as prestigious as yours. I’m making plenty of money, and I have more loving friends and family than anybody would know what to do with.” She realized by the end that she was standing, leaning over the bar, poking her finger into his chest. “If anybody has a coping mechanism, it’s you.”

“Me?” He scoffed, and picked up her plate to put behind him in a bin for dirties. “Not likely.”

“Keep telling yourself that, workaholic,” she said as viciously as she could manage. “Seen daylight recently?”

With that parting sally, she swept out of the restaurant, leaving him blinking in surprise behind her. She had mentoring to do.

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