1
Murphy
“Excuse me, but I wanted an iced nonfat latte with one sweetener. This is ... well, it’s not that. It’s sweeter than anything I’ve ever had. Either way, this isn’t what I ordered and I’m in a hurry... so, here.”
Taking a deep breath, I tried to suppress an eye roll as a twenty-something, fairly skinny, long-lashed woman waved the coffee I’d just prepared for her in my face. It was no surprise to see she was wearing a pair of cutoff jean shorts and cutesy hiking boots, her curled brown hair splayed perfectly over the collar of her red-and-navy flannel shirt. It was the exact outfit I could imagine myself wearing if I were on the other side of the counter, living my best life in Vermont rather than slinging coffees for tips.
At that moment, I didn’t have time to wonder about what-ifs as she shouted at me over the noise of the steamer.
Blowing a frizzy strand of my own tangled red hair out of my eye, I said evenly, “That’s what I made. An iced latte with sweetener. Skinny, of course.”
Needing to fill the next order, I grabbed the next mug on the counter—a reusable dark blue Yeti, heavy as a brick, one of those fancy yet crunchy stainless-steel ones.
No surprise. We’re in Vermont, Murphy. A sticker markedamericano, extra hotwas stuck to its side, and I rolled my eyes for the second time in mere seconds.What’s wrong with one of our paper cups if you recycle it later?
“No, this has two sweeteners,” Little Miss Perfect Nature Lover said, narrowing her eyes. “I can tell the difference. By the way, no need to roll your eyes at me.”
Isn’t everyone in Vermont supposed to be nice?
“That’s not what I meant. I mean, I’m not,” I said as my coworker Roderick hurried behind me, carrying a tray of fresh-baked scones for the pastry display case.
Resisting the urge to snatch a sugary calorie-laden pastry for myself, I tried to catch my breath. Lowering my voice to a whisper, I said, “What I mean is ... the eye rolling wasn’t for you.” Unable to calm my nerves, I fluttered my hand in front of my face. It was an odd thing to do, and I had no clue why I did it. With Roderick finally gone, I said, “I was thinking about something I had to do later. Here, give me your drink.”
I tried to cover my tracks, hoping that one of my bosses, Zara Rossi, was too busy at the register to hear what was going on. I liked Zara, and I didn’t want to jeopardize this job or her good feelings toward me. She and her business partner, Audrey Shipley, had taken a chance on hiring me with no barista experience.
Little Miss Perfect raised a brow at me. “Well, maybe a little less energy on what you have to do later and more focusing on my drink. How about that?”
Who was this chick? And where did she think she was? Back in Manhattan, I’d expect this type of behavior—sadly, from my old friends or perhaps even myself—but this was the friendly Upper Valley of Vermont.
Reaching across the counter with my coffee-stained hand, I said, “I’ll remake it.”
Back when I’d visited the Busy Bean as a customer, I never acted this way. I’d been taught to always smile like a pretty socialite when meeting new people, to be polite and demure like a woman should be. Most importantly, I was expected to never, ever let my emotions get the best of me. Even when my world had been falling apart, I’d flashed my pearly whites and forged ahead, despite everyone’s best efforts to disparage me.
After a while, the effort to keep up the facade was too much—even for me.
The thing is, I’d been a little sassy in my former life, but I would have never handed the cup over like this girl did. I would have complained to the manager before buying myself a new drink, but the money didn’t used to mean much to me.
Taking the plastic cup from Little Miss Perfect Nature Lover, who obviously wasn’t concerned with the environment like the Yeti drinker downstream, I blew the same errant out-of-control strand of hair out of my face. I’d thought my two weeks of training with Kirk were hard, but manning the coffee bar by myself was a lot harder than I’d imagined. In the meantime, he was probably having a grand time in Costa Rica, while I was sweating it out in front of the mammoth espresso machine.
Without a lot of time to dwell on it, I was mentally going through the steps to make an iced nonfat latte when Zara called my name from across the counter.
“Murphy? Do you have the Americano? We have a doc who needs to get back to patients. I don’t mean to rush you, but hurry this one order.” Her dark hair in a glossy ponytail, tamed and in way more control than my own, drew my attention. I really needed to start putting myself together better for this job.
Looking up for a second, I took in the scene at the Bean. For four o’clock in the afternoon, it was packed. All the tables were filled with smiling, happy-go-lucky Vermonters and tourists. If this were New York, orders would have been shouted over noisy patrons barking for someone or anyone to hurry up. And no doctor would grab coffee on their own in the city. Here in idyllic Colebury, there was a short line at the register, and a guy walking toward the end of the bar.
“Shit.” I snatched my hand away from the steamer, blinking back tears to see a small blister forming. Looking up again, I checked to make sure I wasn’t seeing things.
Nope.
It wasn’t just any guy. Standing before me was Ben Rooney, although a more filled-out (if that were possible), and obviously more mature and grown-up version of the Ben I knew. It had been close to—I counted in my head—fourteen years since I saw him last, but I’d recognize him anywhere. His jet-black hair was still a wild mess, but the dusty scruff along his jaw and the tiniest crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes were new and way, way sexy.
Still, I’d know the guy I’d crushed on for four years anywhere. I’d only recently realized that he’d liked me too back then, but it wouldn’t have mattered. My parents would have never allowed it.
Who am I kidding?I didn’t allow it either.
Anyway, I swooned over the small creases that appeared as Ben smiled back at Little Miss Perfect.
Quickly pouring nonfat milk over the contents of a yellow packet sprinkled at the bottom of a new plastic cup full of ice, I poured in two espresso shots and pushed the drink across the counter. “Here you go. A brand-spanking-new iced latte.”
