Loving the Ladies’ Man by Kristin Canary
Chapter 2
Coffee is my lifeblood.
I really wish I liked tea instead. Tea feels so much more sophisticated, so much more … I don’t know. Literary.
As someone whose favorite book is and will forever remain Pride & Prejudice, I could so imagine myself sitting in a gorgeous Regency-style drawing room with Elizabeth Bennet sipping from our delicate china cups and discussing our favorite poetry.
Sigh. Everything about the Regency era sounds better. Well, except for the corsets and voluminous dresses. Give me my knit skirts and sweaters any day, thank you very much. (And who cares if others think I look like the world’s non-sexiest librarian? I happen to like being comfortable.)
Alas, not only does tea have too little caffeine to keep my engines running (remember, I work an insane amount!), but it simply lacks the same bold flavor of an americano. Plus my dad started slinging coffee at me when I was fourteen and was having trouble getting out of bed at the ungodly hour of four a.m. to milk the cows, so I’m basically pre-conditioned to like the stuff.
Which is why I’m completely at home inside Java Awakening, the little coffee shop and bakery five miles from my office. It’s where I come to escape from the stresses of my job—and where I meet up several times a week with my roommate and best friend, Kayla Clark.
A few hours after my meeting with Lisa and Connor, I pull open the coffee shop door and am met with a blast of air laden with the smell of dark roast beans and chocolate. Immediately, my shoulders relax as I breathe in the familiar sweetness. Overhead, there’s music playing, some sort of soothing pop song that I’m not hip enough to know the name of.
Patrons are spread out at industrial-looking black tables, talking in groups or reading or working at their laptops with headphones in. My heels click on the wooden floors as I make my way to the counter, where an array of my favorite sweets are displayed. Maybe I’ll treat myself to a chocolate croissant today. My waistline may not need it, but my spirits do.
I wait behind a woman with red hair harrumphing into her phone and study the handwritten chalkboard menu hanging behind the register. Just as the redhead is stepping up to order, someone tugs on my elbow and I turn to find Kayla.
I give her a quick hug. “You’re early.” I usually arrive about ten minutes before she does and order our drinks.
“I had to get away from the Wicked Witch.” Kayla is as sleek and gorgeous as ever, her highlighted light brown hair perfectly styled in waves around her shoulders, her green eyes made brighter by the vibrant red dress she’s wearing. Somehow it’s both stylish and professional, with some sort of high-waisted belt and light, fluttery material that skims her legs—legs that are made even longer by the four-inch heels she’s wearing.
I instantly feel sorry for her, and not just because of how much her feet must be hurting. “What’s she done now?”
We’ve all had a less-than-desirable boss at some point in our lives, right? I had one in college who constantly mixed up my schedule and made me work every weekend night shift, letting the prettier girls off the hook whenever they asked because they had “exciting plans” and boring Evie Denmark was just going to study anyway.
But Kayla’s boss Miranda might literally be the spawn of Satan. Not only is she a sexist—ironically only giving promotions to the handsome male attorneys at the law firm she owns—but she once made Kayla finish up a brief while recovering from an emergency appendectomy in the hospital.
The woman is always pulling stuff like that at all hours of the day and night. Kayla is basically “on” twenty-four-seven. But because it’s a good-paying job that’s allowing her to pay off her massive law school debt, she stays.
Even though Lisa expects us to work hard, she’s always been fair and considerate. And suddenly, I’m even more grateful for the fact that I got in on the ground level at Evermore just out of college, only a year after it opened its doors. It’s how I was able to move up from editorial assistant to full-blown editorial director in such a short time.
“What’s she done? Nothing out of the norm. Just being Miranda.” The tightness in Kayla’s face eases as she shakes out her hands and turns to face the counter. The red-haired woman moves to the side and it’s our turn.
Together, we step forward and Josh—the barista who is always working when we come in—greets us with a quiet smile. “Afternoon, ladies. You want the usual?”
His gaze lingers on Kayla, who doesn’t seem to notice. Behind his thick-rimmed glasses, I sense a sort of puppy dog-esque longing on his face. And sure, with his skinny jeans and the hipster vibe he’s got going on, he’s not exactly Kayla’s type, but from what I’ve seen of him over the last few years since we discovered Java Awakening, he’s a really sweet guy.
Since Kayla isn’t saying anything, I smile at him—trying to communicate with my lips and eyes what I can’t say out loud. Sorry about my friend. She’s oblivious. “Yep, americano for me, please. Gotta fuel up for a late evening.”
That gets Kayla’s attention. “You need coffee to stay awake for a girls’ night?” She smirks. “Are we that boring?”
At my cringe, she frowns, pointing her finger at me. “No, Evie. You can’t work.”
“I have to.”
“Says who?”
“One of my editors has a … family emergency.” Well, kind of. “I have to take over a project for her, and the only way I can fit it in is to work on it this weekend.”
Kayla groans.
Josh clears his throat. Oh yeah. We’re in the middle of ordering. How rude are we? “Sorry, Josh. Um, can you please throw in a croissant?”
“No worries. Sorry to hear you’ll be working late.” Josh hits a few buttons on the register. “Anything else?”
“Kay?” I elbow my friend. “What do you want? It’s my turn to pay.”
“No, it’s mine.” She looks at Josh, a firm set to her chin. “It’s mine.”
He chuckles and holds up his hands. “I’m staying out of this one.”
I roll my eyes. “You paid last time.”
Kayla pulls out her wallet. Ignoring me, she speaks directly to Josh again. “I’ll take a mocha, please. Here.” She shoves her credit card into his hand and turns back to me. “You have to save every penny if you’re going to be able to afford the bungalow.”
I freeze. “What bungalow?”
“The one a few streets over that you’ve been eyeing for years. It’s on the market, and from what I can tell from looking at it online, it needs a lot of repairs. Maybe you could get it for a decent price.”
Anything in California is not what I’d consider “a decent price,” since I grew up in Iowa, but I eagerly dig out my phone and step away from the counter. As I look up the one-bedroom bungalow on my web browser, I make my way to our usual table in the corner.
When Kayla arrives a few minutes later with our drinks and my croissant, I’ve already perused all of the pictures and my heart is pounding. She’s totally right. Even though I make beans, with the right loan, this might be within my price range. I can just picture myself in the adorable dwelling. Well, once I apply new paint and patch up the holes in the walls and maybe put down new laminate …
But then my chest deflates. What am I thinking? “I can’t afford this.” I take a sip of my coffee and enjoy the bold flavor zapping my tongue. “You know all of my extra money goes to my parents right now. Even if I got the promotion, I’m not sure if I’d be able to afford the house and an extra employee at the farm.”
“Promotion?” Kayla’s eyebrows make a V as she sits back in her chair and drums manicured nails across the tabletop.
“Yeah, to associate publisher. I just found out today that I’m being considered.” As we drink our coffee, I tell her about my meeting. “But you know Connor will probably get the job.”
“And why do I know that?” Kayla picks a small flaky bit off the edge of the croissant sitting between us and pops it into her mouth.
“Because, he’s Connor. He wins everyone over with his charm.”
“Everyone except you, apparently.”
“Right.” I tear off a chunk of the pastry and take a bite then a quick sip of coffee, unable to hold back a groan of pleasure. Okay, forget living in Jane Austen’s time. Give me americanos and croissants or give me death.
“Evie.” Kayla waits for me to look at her before proceeding. “You need to have more confidence in yourself. You’re an amazing editor and leader. And you could be even more amazing if you didn’t let everyone walk all over you.”
“I don’t do that!” Oops, a bit of coffee sputters out with my exclamation, but seriously. I snag a napkin from the table’s dispenser and wipe up the evidence that I’m as messy as a toddler. “I just try to help out whenever I can.”
“Those women make up crazy excuses to get you to do their work for them, and you let it happen!” Shaking her head, she pats my arm as if I’m one of her clients whose husbands cheated on them for years before they caught on.
I mean, sure, my team does seem to need help an awful lot, and sometimes their excuses are eye-roll-worthy. But honestly? I love working with words. Being an editor—helping to shape stories, to make them better—has always been my dream and I think I’d be happy to die with a red pen in my hand (because yes, I am totally that old soul who often will print out manuscripts and correct them by hand). So I don’t really mind when my team asks me to pitch in on a project, even if it adds a bit of stress when juggling multiple deadlines at once.
“Do you even want to be an associate publisher? Wouldn’t you have to worry about sales and be more about overall branding instead of actually working with the manuscripts?”
It’s like the woman has spy bots in my brain, although I suppose sharing space for the last seven years in our three-bedroom house in Point Loma—where five of us live, and Kayla is my roomie—is probably why she can read me so well.
And I could try to pretend I don’t know what she’s talking about, but she would know I’m lying and call me on it, so there’s no point. I sigh. “I’m not sure, to be honest. I do think there are a lot of parts I’d like, though I would miss the day-in-and-day-out editing. But I can’t keep working the same job. It’s just not an option.”
“Why not? You’re happy, aren’t you?”
“I mean, I love what I do. You know that.” I bite my lip. “But if I don’t make more money, I have to leave California.”
“Oh, come on.” Kayla rolls her eyes. She’s such a compassionate friend, I tell you. “Your parents will love you even if you don’t move home.”
“I know that.” I do. Really. My mom and dad are the best people I know. They love each other fiercely, something I strive to have in a marriage someday. And they love me just as much.
They loved—love—Janelle too.
And I’m the reason she’s gone.
I shake off the gloom that always appears alongside thoughts of my sister. “But I made a promise, and I don’t break my promises.”
“Look, Evie.” Kayla leans forward, poised to pounce, and puts on her scary listen-to-me-I’m-a-lawyer voice. “I’m guessing your parents don’t even remember you making that stupid promise, and I’ll never understand your reason for making it in the first place. I guess you felt the need to make yourself feel better about coming out here, but why should you feel guilty about leaving the nest and pursuing your dream? Isn’t that every parent’s dream for their kid?”
“You know why I made the promise.” My voice is low, trembling.
She sighs and, in a move that’s very uncharacteristic of Kayla, she takes my hand across the table. Squeezes it. “I know why you think you had to make the promise, but your sister’s death isn’t your fault.”
I open my mouth to protest, but shut it again with one lawyerly look from my best friend.
“Your parents want you to be happy—and you are. Here.”
Pushing away a hot tear that falls down my cheek, I shake my head. “And because they want me to be happy, they’ll never tell me the truth, but I know it all the same. They’re both getting older and can’t handle all the work like they used to, so they need my money or they need me. They need help, Kay.”
My americano has gone lukewarm by this point, but I down it anyway because I’ll be lucky to get home before midnight. If only they sold IVs filled with the stuff. Then I could hook myself up at my desk and be set for life.
I stand, decision made. “I can’t let them down, which means I have to get the job. And that means that the bungalow is off the table.”
“You’re a much better daughter than I am.” Kayla grunts. “I hope your parents appreciate you.”
I smile, but it’s weak. The fact is, I don’t really care about being appreciated.
I only care about being absolved.