B is for Barista (The ABCs of Love Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Newsletter Sign Up

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

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  C is Cowboy Sneak Peak

  C is for Cowboy Chapter One

  Newsletter Sign Up

  A is for Author Sneak Peek

  A is for Author Chapter One

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  The ABCs of Love

  Released titles include:

  A is for Author

  B is for Barista

  Coming Soon:

  C is for Cowboy

  D is for Doctor

  CHAPTER ONE

  Ivy Moorhouse tugged on the door of Velvet Undergrounds Coffee and pushed it all the way open with her hip. The old-school cowbell banged against the glass door, announcing her late arrival to the whole shop.

  The dark and delicious smells of the greatest coffee shop chain to grace the western United States floated to the door to greet her along with the icy blast of air conditioning required to keep people inside drinking coffee in Phoenix. She inhaled the smell and pushed her bicycle inside before letting the door slip closed behind her.

  Elizabeth Grant, the manager who hated Ivy, glared toward the door. Ivy imagined that Elizabeth (or, as she referred to her in her less charitable moments, Old Betty) was measuring the temperature differentials Ivy and her bike caused. How many times would Old Betty mention the Arizona heat today? Ivy wondered as she wheeled her bike to the back room.

  As Ivy walked back into the shop’s main room, Old Betty managed to purse her lips and send Ivy a look of disapproval at the same time that she took someone’s order. It was a skill Ivy grudgingly admired. For all her practice, she was so far unable to glare and smile at the same time. Maybe with a few more decades…

  Ivy’s thoughts drifted away as she pulled an apron from the hook at the register. She wrapped it so it covered most of the stain from last shift. Some kid had bumped her as she carried a huge mug of coffee from the counter to the couch by the stage. The shirt was dark gray, anyway. Nobody’d notice that the bottom half of the vinyl-record logo was sticky with caramel macchiato.

  She’d planned to wash the shirt before her shift, but laundry was far enough down on the priority list that she didn’t make it happen. Not after working two jobs. Eat. Sleep. Watch Putting It On, her favorite makeover show. Then laundry. If there was time. Priorities.

  She tucked the stickiest part of her shirt into the apron and scanned her hand to clock in. Top-shelf technology, side-by-side with retro-kitsch punk rock décor.

  Ivy loved the punk-themed room with 80s laser lights and vintage band posters all over the walls. She couldn’t tell if the juke box was actually vintage or if it was a careful reproduction, but she was fairly confident that every Velvet Undergrounds location had the same one. The shop managed to feel original and unique, even when there were franchises on practically every other block that looked exactly like this.

  Washing her hands and drying off on a bamboo towel, she waved goodbye to Old Betty as they traded places at the end of Betty’s shift. Betty’s grimace took in the whole room as she skulked out the door.

  As the cowbell clanged to announce another customer, Ivy leaned against the glass counter on her elbows. This was the posture that sold the most drinks: elbows on the counter, fingers laced together under her chin. It gave the impression that Ivy was friendly and harmless, both of which were at least partially true.

  She watched the guy walk into the shop, and she could tell by the way he looked around that he’d been inside a Velvet Undergrounds before. She saw him mentally checking off items he must have expected to see there: brick wall, funky couch, cool lamps, tiny raised stage, mismatched chairs around the tables, jukebox, posters.

  He looked like money, she thought. The kind of money that goes to business school. A quick glance told her that his pants had a crease. Make that went to business school. Professional now. Wearing creased pants. Come on, Ivy thought. Who are you trying to impress?

  She knew it was unfair to judge this stranger based on her previous terrible experiences of dealing with rich guys, but it was nearly impossible to help herself. In her limited personal relationships with wealthy men, she’d been burned two out of two times. One hundred percent? Those are hard odds to argue with.

  She watched him with his pressed button-down and the careful corporate hairdo. He walked toward the register and she decided to be as polite as she was trained to be. As polite as her contract required her to be. Maybe he’d surprise her by not being a jerk. Or maybe he’d at least leave her a decent tip. “Hi, there,” she said. “Know what you want?”

  When their eyes met, she felt a pull she hadn’t expected. It wasn’t that she couldn’t look away; she didn’t want to. He wasn’t smoldering at her, demanding attention. He was gazing. It had been a while since anyone had gazed at her like that.

  After a few eternal seconds, he broke eye contact and looked down at the counter. Not at the menu, just away. It looked like he was collecting himself. She became aware of her heartbeat, and she wondered if he could hear it, too.

  Wow. She hadn’t expected that. Not from this guy. He looked like he was waiting to go to class. As the teacher. At graduate school. At Harvard. This was not the look of the typical coffee-house flirt. And Ivy had a great deal of experience with coffee-house flirting. He cleared his throat and said, “I’m Bentley.”

  The guy was named after an expensive car. Was he kidding? If he cemented one more rich-guy stereotype, Ivy would be sure she was being pranked. She nearly laughed, but instead she saved the moment and merely nodded. “Okay, Bentley. Know what you want?” She knew she was repeating herself, but he hadn’t answered the question, and it was, after all, the purpose of his being there.

  He looked around, as if he was expecting to see someone else lurking behind Ivy. “I think you’re supposed to train me.”

  “For what?”

  He pointed behind the counter. “For working here?” The question in his voice was endearing. Unexpectedly charming.

  Ivy shook her head. Not because she didn’t want to train him, but because she didn’t believe he was actually coming to work there. He didn’t look the part. Not at all. He was far too well put together.

  “No?” he asked. “You’re not my trainer? Maybe a different manager?” He pulled out his phone, black and sleek and shiny. Another signal: Money. A far cry from the boxy shattered-screen number Ivy lugged around. “Did you not get a message from corporate?”

  Ivy snorted. “Titus Cameron doesn’t have my number.” She didn’t actually know if Titus Cameron had her number. The secretive billionaire playboy inventor of the retro coffee shop franchise The Velvet Undergrounds might, for all she knew, keep tabs on his employees. But he’d certainly never called her. The very thought made her laugh.

  The guy across the counter—Bentley—looked guarded, like one might if one suspected the coffee girl could be a tiny bit
crazy. His posture stiffened to a barely perceptible degree.

  She pointed toward the ceiling in a just-a-second gesture. “Sorry. I just got here. Let me check the boards.” The boards were not actual boards, but digital message centers on the shop’s tablets. Sure enough, there was a message for Ivy: train the new guy.

  “Okay. So. Welcome, I guess. Bentley.” Success—she used his name, and she did it without laughing. She waved him behind the counter and looked around to see a fairly standard early afternoon crowd—a few young moms in groups, a few card-playing old guys, a few high school kids skipping classes. “Good thing it’s not too busy. I can show you around the place. Did you do all the legal stuff? Paperwork? Fingerprints? Drug test and cholesterol screening?”

  He nodded along to her words until he caught up with the last part. “Was I supposed to…” he asked.

  “Nah, I was just kidding.” She pointed to the sign-in scanner. “Put your hand on that.” She clicked a few strokes on the keyboard, watching his hand. Somehow it was as good-looking as the rest of him. Unfair. She tucked her chin-length black hair behind her ear so she would have something to do other than stare at his hand. “Sign in like this,” she said. “With your fingerprints. Now you can get paid.” Even if it doesn’t look like you’re in a hurry for a low-wage paycheck, she though.

  “Do you know the menu?” she asked. When she realized how close to him she was standing, she took half a step back.

  “I’ve studied it,” he admitted, with a smile that showed he knew how eager that sounded. Ivy nodded, unwilling to grin back at him. He might misinterpret her good-natured disposition as attraction. And she refused to admit this attraction. At least out loud. Inside her head, inside her pounding chest, maybe she’d have to admit a little something.

  She took another small step back. “Right. Then you know that all the drinks are named for punk bands, performers, and movements. If you don’t know the references, you need to study up. You’d be surprised how many people want the stories behind the names. Not that it makes the drink taste any different.” She put her hand to her mouth, and as soon as she realized that’s what she’d done, she moved it away again. Why was she touching her mouth? Surely that sent some kind of subconscious message to the wealthy business school types.

  Focus, she told herself.

  She tapped her fingernails against a laminated copy of the menu on the counter. “Assume everyone wants the ‘grande’ size. Let them tell you if they want less or more. And always ask, ‘Would you like to round up?’ That’s really important to His Royal Founder. He wants to look like a humanitarian. In my experience, wealthy people are very invested in things that make them look connected to the little people.” Ivy didn’t try to hide the eyeroll. “But even if he’s only doing it to look decent, it is a great cause. This month’s donations go to one of our partner farms in Ecuador.” She pointed to the graphic map posted on the counter.

  “What do they grow in this partner farm in Ecuador?” Something about his tone made Ivy lean closer to him.

  “Bamboo. It’s a women’s collective farm. They grow the bamboo that makes our go-cups.” Why was there so much breath in her voice? What was wrong with her? She’d given the spiel about the bamboo cups dozens of times in the past two weeks, and it had never made her forehead sweat.

  She stood up straight. He smiled and nodded. “In that case, I’ll definitely remember to ask everyone to round up.” He didn’t break eye contact. Ivy found it difficult to swallow.

  This was a prank, she decided. “You’re not really going to work here, are you?”

  His dark, neatly-threaded eyebrows came together in a handsome version of confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “You are not exactly a coffee shop employee type.” As soon as she said it, she knew it had been a mistake. Nothing says “I’m cool” like a snap judgment based on appearance.

  That smile again. He didn’t appear to have taken offense.

  A college-aged kid in an ASU T-shirt came up to the counter. “Ramones, please. Supremo.”

  Ivy nodded, and Ben said, “Would you like to round up? It’s for our partner farm in Ecuador.”

  “Sure,” the kid said, shrugging and tapping his card against the reader.

  “I’ll have that ready for you in a quick minute. What’s your name?” Ivy said.

  “Louie,” the kid answered.

  When he moved to the couch and pulled out his phone, Ivy said, “Nice job on the round-up. You’re a natural.”

  Bentley gave her a half-smile. “And here you thought I wasn’t the coffee shop type.”

  She wasn’t sure if it was the way he looked at her or the fact that he remembered what she’d said, but she was finding it difficult to take complete breaths.

  “And,” he said, “I assume that because I’m not, that means that you are the coffee shop type.” It was a polite volley, an opportunity for her to talk about herself.

  She let the double-shot drip from the machine as she prepared the milk. “Yeah, I am.”

  “What makes us so different from each other?” he asked. She noticed that he seemed to be trying out different places to put his hands. He tried pockets, but that didn’t last. Then he folded his arms, but he dropped them to his sides again. Finally, he picked up a napkin with the Velvet Undergrounds logo printed in the middle. He folded it in half and in half again. The nervousness was opposite of what she’d expected from this guy who looked like he literally had it all, and it only added to his charm.

  All this time, Ivy wondered how to answer his question. “I think a common denominator in coffee shop employees is the need to make next month’s rent.” She pointed to his feet. “Your expensive-looking leather shoes suggest that rent isn’t a big concern for you.”

  He looked down and then back at her. Every time his eyes landed on her face, she felt a small shiver. She tried to convince herself it was the overactive air conditioner. She knew she was kidding herself.

  “Maybe I got the shoes hoping they’d help me land the job that would allow me to pay the rent.”

  She shook her head. “That makes absolutely no sense at all.”

  He smiled again. She could get used to making him smile. “Let’s just say that I need to learn a few things. And I think I’m going to learn them here.”

  “I’m an excellent teacher,” she said, hoping that didn’t sound as desperate and forward as she feared it might.

  She pulled a mug off the top of the espresso machine, poured in the double shot and added the steamed milk. The whole time, she talked. “Now, most places you go for a drink, they’ll fill up your cup, ask if you want them to leave room for cream, offer to ice it for you. But here, we don’t have to ask. Our menu is engineered to deliver a perfect concoction every time. You want a drink that’s hot and sweet? Cold and tangy? Warm and milky? We have it. Every possible flavor combination has been considered and constructed to meet your whims.” She set the mug down and wiped the rim with her towel. “For instance, this is the best vanilla latte in the city. I guarantee it.”

  He leaned over and took the mug in both hands. She didn’t let go. Their fingers met. “Or what?” he asked, looking into her eyes.

  She forgot how to answer his question. She forgot how to speak at all. It only took her a few seconds to regroup. “Pardon?”

  “If it’s not the best latte in the city, do I get it for free?”

  Was he flirting? Or was he asking because he would need to know when he started helping customers by himself? Normally, she’d think flirting. But this guy wasn’t her normal customer. If he hadn’t been so familiar with the menu, she’d have pegged him for the kind of guy who makes his coffee with an elegant-looking machine. One in his kitchen, and one in his office. Not the kind who willingly pays a premium and takes the time to wait for designer beverages served in sustainably-sourced go-cups.

  When she realized she was still holding on to the mug in his hand, she let go the drink and called out, “Louie?” mentally kicki
ng herself for the catch in her voice. The guy who’d ordered the drink came up to the counter.

  Nodding, she directed Bentley to hand over the mug. The customer said thanks and walked back to the couch. Now, standing next to this guy who made her feel particularly aware of her own mouth, she remembered that he’d asked her about free coffee. She gave Bentley the smile reserved for the grandpas who came in to play cards—polite. Harmless. “If you figure out the rules and you can handle the job, all your coffees will eventually be free.” She nodded. “Perks.”

  “I see what you did there,” he said.

  “What?” She’d heard him just fine, but she was surprised that he got her dumb joke.

  He looked at her as if he wasn’t sure she was kidding. “Perk? Coffee?”

  She smiled without saying anything. It was nice to have someone to chat with. Old Betty never got her jokes. Or if she did, she pretended not to.

  He smiled back.

  She ran her fingers through her chin-length hair, flipping the part from one side of her head to the other, exposing the purple hair underneath the dyed black.

  “How long have you worked here, Ivy?” he asked, standing several feet away. If his body language said anything at all, it said “casual, polite interest.” His gaze, though, said something else. She could work with that.

  “Since January. It’s a good place to work. Not too demanding, good coffee, great music.” She swiped a clean cloth across the counter and resumed her position with elbows on the glass, waiting for the next customer.

  “Should I clean something?” he asked.

  “We’ll get to it later. We’ll wash mugs. It will be a bonding experience,” she said, smiling. “So, how did you get hired to work here?” she asked. “As we have established, you don’t really look the part.”

  He rubbed his chin with his knuckles and looked at the floor. “I know a guy,” he said.

  Isn’t that how it always goes, she thought. “Well, let me give you a hint. The Titus Cameron corporation sort of works a vibe around here.” She gestured vaguely to the shop in general. “The punk-rock message they manufacture to make the Velvet Undergrounds feel original and exciting and totally unique is ironically what makes this shop exactly like every other store in the franchise.