“Hello?”
“Um, Hunnie, hi. It’s Murphy Landon. We met at the farmers’ market.”
“Oh, Murph, whatcha up to? You lonely on a Sunday night? What are you calling me for? Some company?”
“Uh, no. Shoot, I forgot it was Sunday night and you’re probably relaxing. I worked at the Bean today.”
“Ha. Well, this is Vermont. Things aren’t as fancy here. It’s fine to call me on a Sunday night. How’s the Bean?”
“I don’t mind it. Actually, I’m liking it quite a bit, and thanks for the tip on the white shorts.” One thing my mom had taught me that stuck and was worthwhile—always lead with a genuine compliment.
“It’s nothing. So, are you up for the internship?”
“Yes, that’s why I was calling. I wasn’t sure if you’d made up your mind.”
“I’m not an idiot. If I can have some big-city chick help me, I’m taking it. That’s what I need to get some of those fancy pants in Manhattan and Boston to buy my honey.”
Butterflies swarmed my belly. “I can’t make any guarantees—”
“Look, Murphy. You know Ben, and that’s good enough for me. If he likes someone, and I can tell he likes you, they’re good people.”
“Oh.” Good thing I was on the phone. My cheeks were burning like crazy.
“Listen,” Hunnie said, “I gotta run. I’m heading out. Call me tomorrow around two? Does that work? I’m usually at my desk then, and we can set up a time to meet and go over a few projects.”
“Sure. Wait—is it okay that I keep my job at the Bean? I know you advertised this as a paid internship, and I don’t want to break any rules.”
“Definitely stay at the Bean. Zara pays better than I do—unless I can get the Rooneys to jump on board with my petting-zoo idea. Ha. Talk to you Monday. Now, go find that surgeon hottie, hear me?”
Hunnie hung up before I could respond to what she just said, and Ben was knocking on my door.
My head swam with what this all meant in sleepy, small-town Vermont.
10
Ben
“Wait,” I said, empty containers of Thai—not Chinese—food spread across the weathered table in front of us.
“It’s true,” Murphy said, trying to scowl. “So what? I’m learning.”
“Murph, you work in a coffee shop, a fancy-pants craft-coffee joint, and all you have is a Keurig at home. How is this possible?”
“It makes fine coffee,” she said defensively. “I used to go out for coffee a few times a day in New York because I didn’t have a coffeemaker back then. And then I moved here, and it was a while before I found the Bean. Even so, I still use the Keurig sometimes in the morning. I can’t spend ten bucks every time I want a cup of coffee.” She pulled her feet underneath her, her back against the armrest, her gaze pinging around the room as she desperately avoided my eyes.
I couldn’t help the laugh rolling out of me.
We’d had a great dinner, devouring everything in front of us, and finished a cheap bottle of wine. I wasn’t sure what the protocol was now.Should I leave? Could I stay?
Then Murphy asked if I wanted coffee and pie. Apparently, she had a pie in the freezer from one of her earlier jaunts to the farmers’ market. Cherry. Then she’d said, “I think I have decaf pods for the Keurig,” and I lost it.
“This Keurig thing, it’s new for you? Like breaking and entering into your own car?” I was joking, but sadness washed across Murphy’s face. “No, I didn’t mean anything by that. Seriously. I was just kidding.”
“It’s cool. I know I was pampered. Believe me, the first person to admit that is me. Being here, struggling to make it all happen isn’t easy. But I’m doing it.”
Murphy’s makeup had worn off some, and her hair fell loosely over her shoulder. She looked stunning to me ... and I was desperate to reach out and touch her.
“You’re definitely doing it, but you need a fancy espresso maker or something for home. So you can practice your art.”
