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

by Brenna Jacobs

Bentley looked around and felt justifiably proud of what he’d created. He had built a place people loved to be, a place that fulfilled something—if not a need, at least a common and consistent desire.

  It felt great to know that he’d done this; he’d made this happen. There had been plenty of battles with his father and with the board along the way. They were laser-focused on ways he was spending more money than they thought he should.

  He fought hard against the corporation’s ideology of “The Most Money is the Best Money” when he demanded that all the Velvet Undergrounds’ coffees were sustainably sourced and the disposable cups compostable. His father joked that he’d raised a hippie, but Bentley never doubted that Walter Hollis was proud of him.

  Bentley had put up a fight to get board approval for a local furniture manufacturer to make all the shops’ couches. Yes, they cost significantly more than mass-produced stuff from overseas, but with every new order, his cost margin went down.

  Basic economics. You had to spend money to make money. And Bentley was spending significant money. And even though he wouldn’t say it out loud inside the shop, he was making significant money, too. It was all working out.

  The business part was definitely a success. A few more weeks and he’d have fulfilled his dad’s requirements for gaining full control of the company from the board. Cameron Enterprises would no longer be a Hollis Holdings project; it would be his.

  His and Titus Cameron’s. That was the only glitch in this whole operation. Lex had been so certain that creating a mysterious and fascinating persona as the face of the Velvet Undergrounds would lead to the pinnacle of PR magic. She’d been right. Titus’s name was on everyone’s lips, both in the business community and in Lex and Mercedes’s social circles. There was a buzz around Titus Cameron that went well beyond his financial success. He’d become some kind of mythical billionaire playboy character, and some days that amused Bentley. Other days it perplexed, worried, and frustrated him.

  His mind fought with itself. Half the time, he wanted to shout out, “I’m him. I’m Titus Cameron,” while the other half, he wanted to yell, “News Flash: Titus Cameron doesn’t exist.” And both were true.

  A therapist would have a field day with that one.

  He glanced at the door again, and then the clock. She wasn’t late, he reminded himself. But apparently she didn’t subscribe to the Hollis Family Timeline: if you’re not five minutes early, you’re not on time. Elizabeth Grant might have agreed with him. She kept looking at her watch and sighing, making under-her-breath comments about what time her kids finished school.

  After a few more minutes of that, Bentley was getting uncomfortable. And he didn’t want Ivy to get in trouble. “I can handle things here,” he told Elizabeth. “Go ahead. It’s fine.”

  Elizabeth thanked him but refused, and he wondered if she wanted to stay so Ivy could feel her disapproval. She and Ivy had a weird friction, a vibe that seemed to say there was always conflict. Like putting a tropical bird in a cage with a honey badger. Just not a good idea. No wonder they were so rarely scheduled to work the same shifts.

  He took orders from the next two customers before he had time to realize that Ivy was officially late. But the next time the bell jingled, there she was, stomping into the shop looking beautiful and a bit scary. Her eyebrows crashed down over her eyes, daring anyone—particularly Bentley, it seemed—to look at her the wrong way.

  Too bad he was no good at small talk. “Hi, Ivy.” He tried not to look at the clock. He failed.

  “Don’t start with me about being late. Take it up with Titus Cameron.” She slammed a drawer shut and tied on her apron.

  Elizabeth made a dismissive noise as she tossed her apron into the “used” bin. “Right. Because we’re supposed to believe that you were with Titus Cameron.”

  He didn’t think it was possible for Ivy to look more annoyed, but there it was—an increase in her ire. The pink in her cheeks set off her purple-black hair. Aside from the fact that she looked ready to punch someone, she’d never been more attractive.

  Bentley looked away.

  Ivy chose not to answer Elizabeth, but a minute later, after Elizabeth’s unsubtle exit, when he and Ivy were alone, Bentley had to ask. “What did Titus Cameron do this time?” he said, over his shoulder as he washed a mug.

  Ivy dropped a box of lids and swore. She picked the box up and swore again. When a flap opened and lids went streaming out, she kicked them across the floor.

  So maybe this wasn’t an ideal time to chat about Titus.

  Bentley slid the lids that had stayed in the box into their holder on the counter, and then took orders, made the drinks, and served the next three people in line. By that time, Ivy had regained control and cleaned up her mess.

  He didn’t know how to bring the subject back up, so he stayed quiet, checking inventory and straightening the counter.

  Without any prompting, Ivy spoke.

  “Sorry about that, before. It was nothing personal. I just super hate Mister Titus Cameron today.”

  “Today more than usual?” He was nervous to say anything, for fear of getting his head battered in by coffee mug. but she’d set that one up.

  Ivy’s response was a sigh, heavy and deep. “He’s outdone himself. It’s not every day that he kicks a few dozen old people to the curb.”

  Bentley wasn’t sure he’d heard that correctly. “What?” He knew it didn’t make him sound very smart, but he was confused.

  Her hands balled into fists. “I know, right? What an upstanding citizen. Bringing admittedly excellent coffee to the masses somehow doesn’t excuse evicting a bunch of care-center residents from their home.”

  “I don’t get it. What does he have to do with a care center?” Bentley felt disingenuous talking about Titus in the third person, but he was sure Ivy had made a mistake, and if he could, he wanted to correct it, so she’d stop hating Titus so much. It was weirdly painful to Bentley. And personal.

  Ivy spoke very slowly, as if to someone who didn’t understand English. Or to someone who was not smart enough to follow her when she spoke normally. Either way, Bentley recognized condescension when he heard it. “Once upon a time, Titus Cameron bought a property. He’s tearing down the existing building, never mind that a bunch of elderly people are still using it as shelter from the blazing Phoenix heat. This is because Titus Cameron is an evil money-grubber, and a very bad man. The end.” Ivy turned away and picked up a broom. She attacked the floor with a similar spite, but it didn’t make Bentley feel better to know that she despised dirt as much as she despised him. Well, Titus. Which, obviously, was the same thing. Mostly.

  Was he more upset that she hated Titus, or that she was wrong about him?

  Bentley could admit that he was used to people loving Titus. He liked it. A lot. Lex had created a mythical wonder-boy who was easy to love. Titus was cool. He was smart. He had mystique. He put great jukeboxes in his shops, and he served delicious coffee. Titus worked as the face of the company. And Bentley loved that it was partly himself, even if his connection was going to remain a secret for a few more months. That thought brought up a question.

  How much longer did the persona of Titus Cameron need to be the face of the Velvet Undergrounds? At the end of this sixty-day experiment, would he unveil himself as Titus?

  He could picture it: the media event of the decade. Lex could orchestrate some kind of reveal, where Titus was discovered to be the guy who’d been making the neighborhood’s coffee for the past two months….

  Bentley gave himself a mental shake. Come on, man, he told himself. This is a solid, researched business strategy. Don’t let it get away from you because some incredibly interesting girl, who—it has to be said—despises you, makes bad judgments about the company.

  He watched Ivy beat the shop’s dust into submission with that broom, glad he was far enough away that he couldn’t hear her grumblings. They were surely about Titus, and he could live without hearing himself maligned in her voice.


  During a break in the customer line, he texted Lex.

  Are you nearby? I need to talk to you.

  He made a few more cups of coffee, trying to watch the door without looking like he was watching.

  He checked his phone an hour later, and Lex had sent a message.

  Busy. Tonight. Dinner.

  He sighed. Dinner was hours away. He needed reassurance now. If other people were talking about Titus like Ivy was talking about him, they were in need of some quick PR magic. It was comforting to know that his sisters’ social circles loved Titus, but they weren’t the ones he was worried about. What if all the regular people felt like Ivy felt? He pulled out his phone again to check the clock.

  “Time goes faster if you do the worst jobs first.” Ivy put a lid on a go-cup and handed it across the counter to a middle-aged woman who looked like she really needed it.

  Bentley was ninety percent sure Ivy was talking to him. “Which worst jobs are you thinking of?” He wiped his hands on a towel and tossed it into the bin.

  Her eyes followed the arc of the towel. “Get the dirty towels ready for the laundry guy. He’ll be here in the morning.” She pointed out the bin he should put them in. “Then, when you take the trash out, you should wipe out the garbage cans under the liners. Things ooze out of the plastic and it gets rancid in there.” Ivy pointed at the offending trash cans in case he was unsure what she meant. He watched her try to cultivate a look of disinterest, but he could see the challenge—and the smile—hiding there in her face.

  “You’re really selling this. I can’t wait,” Bentley said, half smiling. He loaded the dirty linens into the crate by the back door. She wasn’t wrong about that being a nasty job. Things that smelled delicious on the serving end could turn on you in the laundering process. He wanted to remember to send a message to the laundry company to thank them for getting the linens so clean. Because right now, they were the polar opposite of “so clean.” Nasty.

  Five minutes later, Bentley rethought what nasty meant. Cleaning out the trash bins, arm inside the can up to his shoulder, Bentley wondered if this job had ever actually been done before. Most everything that went through the shop was recycled, but the garbage—the grounds and other food waste—landed in these cans, and in this space between can and liner seemed to hang a haze of mingled odors he’d never imagined.

  Hands in gloves, he attacked the offending smells with industrial cleaning products that made his eyes itch. He’d taken the cans into the back, but he’d left the door open, ostensibly so he could see if the shop got too busy for Ivy to handle. But he knew better. He wanted her to see him doing the dirty work. He wanted to prove he could handle it. His gag reflex made him wonder if he could, in fact, handle it. She was watching. Nearly every time he looked out the door, she turned away from him. But not every time. Sometimes he saw that smirk on her face—the one that showed how proud of herself she felt for passing off this job. The whole time he cleaned, he pretended to ignore Ivy, who seemed to enjoy watching him scrub.

  He liked that she was watching.

  When a customer would enter the shop, she’d smile toward the back room, watching him kneeling there with half his torso inside the filth of what he previously thought was a sanitary disposal system. “Let me take care of this one,” she’d half-shout into the back room, with the left side of her mouth quirked up into a smile that dimpled her cheek. “Know what you want?” she’d ask the customer, and Bentley wished she’d ask him that.

  He was pretty sure he knew what he wanted.

  As he swiped the last corner of the last can, he decided he had worked up his courage. He stood, tossed the offending rag into the new and growing laundry pile, stripped off his gloves and stepped over to the sink to wash his hands. He liked the feeling that he’d been using his body for honest manual labor. It had been a long time since his job required muscle.

  He dried off his hands and carried the newly disinfected cans back to the counter.

  “That was an adventure,” he said to Ivy. She’d made no secret of watching him clean while she filled orders and flirted with customers. She was a talented multi-tasker.

  She shrugged. “It’s good for you to try new things.” She said it with the detached wisdom of an ancient sage.

  He couldn’t have asked for a better opening. “Agreed. And isn’t it good for you, too? Trying new things?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, a look of distrust that he hoped was faked. “Sometimes,” she said, the word coming out slowly and stretched. No commitment. He hoped he’d change that.

  “Want to try a new thing with me? Tomorrow night?”

  Her face registered shock, and he couldn’t be sure there wasn’t some fear there. He clarified. “Dinner? There’s a new place that’s getting great reviews that I want to try.” He felt his voice shrinking. What he wouldn’t give for a tiny portion of his sisters’ confidence.

  Ivy took a step closer to him, and he felt his neck burn hot. “Bentley. Are you asking me out?” Her face was a mask, void of emotion. But she’d said his name. Everyone knew that was a sign.

  “I am,” he said, not quite loudly enough to convince either of them. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I am. Will you come to dinner with me tomorrow night?” He knew he should breathe, but he couldn’t until she answered. He kept his eyes on her face, hoping for a tiny crack in her mask. Even when he heard the door chime, he watched her for a sign that she’d say yes. She turned away from him to assist the customer. She said, “Help you?” and his sister’s unmistakable bored drawl responded, “Give me something low-fat and caramelly.”

  Bentley turned to Lex. “Hi,” he said, much too loud.

  Ivy stiffened, turned away, and said over her shoulder, “Bentley will be happy to get that for you.” She grabbed the bathroom cleaning kit and walked away.

  He watched her disappear into the ladies’ room, and his hopes for tomorrow night vanished with her.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Ivy hung the “Cleaning in Progress” sign on the bathroom door and stood with eyes closed and her arms wrapped around herself for a full minute. How could she, even for three minutes, have let herself believe that there could be anything between her and Bentley? They were almost complete opposites. He was rich and formal. Those things defined him. She was neither. He was proper, almost old fashioned in his manners. She matched the punk rock vibe of Velvet Undergrounds. He was nice. She was snarky and sarcastic, using her flirting skills to make customers want to come back and be teased—and tip well. But his kindness seemed sincere, and somehow, she had misinterpreted this as interest in her.

  She knew better. Somehow she’d let that knowledge dissolve as Bentley had scrubbed manky trash cans for her. For her. She’d watched him, arms deep inside the cans, stealing glances back at her. She’d thought they’d shared something. That he’d been attracted. And he’d actually asked her for a date. He’d gotten as far as a formal invitation, when she showed up. Again. And poof, the mirage disintegrated.

  Yeah. Right. Like anyone would be into Ivy when The Blonde was around.

  Ivy shook a small amount of cleaning powder into a sink and rubbed circles in the porcelain, muttering to herself. “Stupid blonde hair. Blonde sweater, all boring and perfect on her. Blonde jewelry that probably cost more money than any or all combined items in my closet.” She rinsed away the cleanser and moved to the next sink, continuing her rant even as she realized how dumb she was being. Of course Bentley was into that woman. She was Bentley’s type. And Ivy would never be that type.

  Realizing after a few minutes that the sink wasn’t going to get any cleaner than clean, she moved into the stalls, swishing and scrubbing and wiping down surfaces. She ran the mop across the floors, polished the mirror to perfection, and refilled the scented oil in the diffuser. She wiped the weird streaks away from the hand dryer and restocked paper towels, emptied the trash can and replaced the liner, and then realized that she couldn’t hide in here all day.

  At
least Perfect Blonde would be gone by now. Ivy washed her hands one last time and rolled the cleaning cart back toward the counter.

  The first thing she noticed was the line. There were at least six people waiting, she could tell with just a glance. And Bentley was leaned over the counter, his head nearly touching the Perfect Blonde’s head. Her elegant, manicured fingers rested on his hands, which were fisted on the glass. It looked like they’d had an argument. Good. Arguments built character.

  At least Ivy hoped it was good.

  She looked more closely. He was upset, and she was calming him down.

  Meanwhile, the populace was thirsty.

  Ivy passed behind Bentley and hissed, “Don’t let the line interfere with your moment. I’ll take care of this.” She felt the venom in her voice come across even stronger than she planned. She turned to the first waiting customer and turned on her charm.

  “Help you?” she asked. From the side of her eye, she saw Bentley move away from Perfect Blonde, who shrugged and picked up her cup. Ivy saw her perch on the edge of a leather chair.

  Preparing and serving drinks for the people in line allowed Ivy to freeze out every effort Bentley made to help. He’d offer to fix, reach, measure… and she’d refuse. “I’ve got it.” It was her mantra. She stopped short of actually elbowing him out of the way. He put himself in front of the pastry window. As soon as anyone mentioned anything made of flour, he reached in and handed it over. If she hadn’t been so disgusted by him, she’d find his eagerness mildly adorable.

  Good thing she was disgusted. No room for adorableness today.

  Customers continued to trickle in fast enough that there was not a break in the line for almost an hour. Ivy watched the cash in the tip bowl grow, and waited for Perfect Blonde to disappear, but she seemed happy to stay perched on the edge of that chair, pretending to read her phone while she watched Bentley with the mild contempt of someone who knows she’s won an argument. If it was any less beautiful, the curl of her lips would be a sneer. Ivy was beginning to hate that woman, and that softened her anger toward Bentley from ice cold to somewhat frosty.