Page 19 of Bitter Haven

Ryan got in a dinged-up blue Honda Civic and drove away. Erin only meant to comfort him with her hug—he'd been so upset by her questions. But when Ryan crushed her into his rock-solid chest, she'd quickly gone from "poor kid" to "I want to stay." It had been so long since she’d had a fierce male hug, her desire overwhelmed her common sense. And common decency, too. But oh, he felt so good. Ryan was lean muscle—like holding a warm rock with a thin coating of firm foam.

She shifted uneasily. Ryan was at least five, maybe ten years younger than she was. Guess she'd find out for sure when he filled out the tax paperwork. Plus, she was his boss. Taking advantage of the help was sexual harassment. Didn't matter if it was a woman or a man—it was wrong. Besides, she doubted Ryan felt anything for her, other than gratitude she didn't freak out about his arm. She was so much older—and her face reflected both her age and the stress she was under.

When Ryan had shown her his arm, he'd obviously expected her to react with horror or fear. All too often, military members came back from the war-torn lands America sent them to with awful physical and mental scarring. Everyone should understand they owed their freedom to these kids. They should treat them with gratitude and care, not fear and disdain. Even if someone didn't agree with the war—and nobody in their right mind wanted war—they still shouldn't take that out on the military members following legal orders. They should reserve their hatred and horror for the politicians who sent the kids there to fight useless, never-ending battles. And the money-grubbing contractors supporting the politicians. Those were the jackasses who deserved disdain and disgust.

But she wouldn't solve America's political problems tonight or any night. Back to the real problem. She had the perfect employee, and she needed to keep him. Ryan wasn't outgoing or super friendly, but he was a bit of a perfectionist; that was already obvious. He'd become a great barista. She'd probably lose some customers who came to see Tiffany, but she would gain true coffee connoisseurs once he got good. And Ryan would be better than Tiff in a week or less.

Erin grinned. William was right too—put Ryan in a tight T-shirt and the ladies would probably triple. When Ryan realized the silver-haired crowd was drooling over him, he'd be horrified. She chuckled. But maybe he'd welcome that kind of attention. If he played his cards right, he could really luck out and get himself a sugar mama. Sugar grandma? The chuckle turned to a laugh. With his "stay away" vibe, that wasn't likely. And, as his boss, it was her job to protect him from all kinds of harassment. She'd have to institute a "look, don't touch" policy. She sobered. For herself too.

Back to business, Erin. She double-checked the locks and set the alarm. Trudging down the long drive, the dust kicked up under her feet, sweat rolled down her back, and she gratefully passed through the open gate separating her home from her business. From the fence onward, tall ponderosa pines shaded her drive, blocked an amazing amount of highway noise, and kept the dust down. The big shop and garage helped too, bouncing noise back to the road. Even with the trees, the long summer days were scorching, but the sunshine made the heat bearable. Winter was long and dark in Montana.

Letting herself in, she sighed with pleasure in the cool dimness. Home. The thick foam-insulated walls kept heat in—or out—efficiently and muffled the remaining highway noise. Her wallet and keys landed on the little hall table with a metallic thud. She pulled off her boots, sighing with relief. Entering the kitchen, Erin relished the slightly rough, cool slate tile under her hot, tired feet. She grabbed a beer from the fridge, ambled into the living room, and plopped down on her worn but comfy leather sofa, pulling up the footrest.

Hiring Ryan solved one problem, anyway. She had half-a-dozen more to figure out. Erin tipped back the bottle, the sharp citrus flavor of the hops complementing the smooth brew. The stupid lawsuit was probably the most pressing. Sam had sent their official reply off to the opposition and the Court, and they waited for the Adams' reply.

Ryan would help her with the second problem, too. She could spend more time on the Barracuda and get it, and Cust, out of her life. The third problem was stickier. No one could solve her mom. But maybe with Ryan on board, she'd have time for a social life, and she could find her own dates. She snorted. Michael was the social one. Which was strange, since her military career field was public affairs, but it was true. She was a homebody, an introvert. That was one reason she loved her work and living away from town.

Ryan was also going to keep her from going under, at least right away. By agreeing to trade hours of work for the apartment, her cash flow would skyrocket. And with the ridiculous lawsuit, cash was critical. She should spend more time selling coffee than working on cars, for now; the profits were smaller but steady. But she had to finish the 'Cuda and send it far away, along with Chaz. She shuddered, his sleaziness sending shivers of revulsion along her spine.

Taking another swallow, she considered the Cust problem. Maybe Ryan could help with that, too. If she could talk him into going to some of Mom's events with her, maybe Chaz and the rest of them would get the picture that she wasn't interested. She'd get called a cougar, but it was almost fashionable these days.

But she couldn't. She was the boss, and she had to be professional. Ryan was an employee only—less chance of another lawsuit that way.

Maybe she could start her regular afternoon rounds again. She tapped a fingernail against the bottle, the sound ringing in the quiet house. She'd close a little earlier in the afternoon and get a workout in before going to Deb's for the shop’s pastry order.

Erin tipped the bottle high and swallowed the last bit. All right, time to stop dreaming and start doing. A salad for dinner, check email and social stuff after, watch a little mindless TV, and go to bed early so she could get up and do it all over again.

#

Three weeks later, Erin waved at a departing customer. "See you tomorrow!"

"Argh!"

Erin spun. "What?"

"I'm never going to get this milk steaming thing right. I always turn it on too high, too fast and end up with milk everywhere!" Milk dripped from Ryan's eyebrows and chin, plastering his shirt to his solid pecs.

She chuckled. "Don't worry, it happens to everybody. You've only dropped the pitcher once. Tiffany did it almost daily." She shrugged and turned to her next customer. When she finished, she shuffled close and whispered, "Besides, your fan club appreciates the view." She nodded at the table of silver-haired ladies sipping coffee and chatting, casting glances and smiling at him.

"Gee, thanks," he grumbled.

"Good tips."

He growled. Erin returned to the drive-through window for another order. William was right. She'd ordered some thin, long-sleeve T-shirts with her logo, a size smaller than he asked for, and her female customers doubled overnight. The loggers still came in, but they didn't stay nearly as long; no, now she had tables of women coming in all morning. And they all bought espresso drinks first, then changed to drip coffee.

And she sold a lot of T-shirts.

A fan club member stood on her tiptoes, trying to wipe his face off. She must have said something too because poor Ryan blushed fire engine red. At first, she’d enjoyed seeing the tables turned, but the objectification bothered her more than a little. She’d have to give him larger T-shirts, although it might not help. But the lectures usually worked—most of her customers took it well when Erin reminded them how they felt about unwanted touching. One lady laughed and winked. "Honey, I still get pinches! But I understand; look, don't touch."

William wasn't the only one who had guessed right about Ryan—he was a perfectionist. After Erin made a jig to hold the filter, he'd practiced compacting the espresso until he got the right pressure, so his shots were consistent, no matter what arm he wore. Their drive-through customers increased as word spread about the quality of the espresso. And despite the milk bath he'd gotten, he was getting much better at steaming milk, too. Soon, Ryan would need help only during the drive-through commuter rush, and then only because there were more customers.

If it wasn't for the lawsuit, Erin would thank Kaylee Adams. She waited for the next car to pull up. The logger who told Erin about Tiffany and Kaylee's fight had agreed to talk to Sam, but he hadn't made an appointment. Every time she reminded him, which was about twice a week, he grimaced and told her he was just too busy. Funny—he was sitting in her shop drinking coffee every morning, not out chopping down trees. Yesterday, she told him if he wanted to drink coffee, he would make the time, or the lawsuit would drive her out of business. The threat seemed to make a difference; he'd apologized and taken Sam's card—again. Maybe a miracle would happen and he would follow through.

As orders came in, she called them out to Ryan. Erin wrote them down, but she knew he'd heard and was pulling them now. That was another big difference between Ryan and Tiffany—half the time, Tiff forgot who ordered what, even with a list.

"I see it's true." Old Mrs. Cust was standing at the counter, her tiny body ramrod straight, a permanent scowl firmly engraved beneath her silver helmet-hair and framed by her huge pearl necklace.

Erin sighed internally and crossed to the counter. Ryan was busy enough with Izzy. She'd take on the entitled matriarch. "What's that, Mrs. Cust?"

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