“Hey, Ben,” Zara said cheerfully, greeting me on Thursday morning when I reached the register at the Bean.
“Hey.” I smiled, trying to look calm, even though my nerves were in overdrive when it came to surprising Murphy.
“Haven’t seen you in a few days,” she said. “Been hiding?”
“Nope. Was at the hospital late yesterday, making some extra notes in charts and prepping a few things. I’m off for the next couple of days. It’s my partner’s turn to work a little extra after taking off this summer.”
“Nice. Must explain the jeans and flannel . . . and lack of scrubs.”
As she said this, Murphy looked up from the bar and gave me the once-over. Raising an eyebrow her way, I wondered if she liked my look. Or just me?
With her hair pulled back into a low bun and hardly any makeup, she looked natural and fresh, ready for me to mess it all up in bed. I imagined her hair a mess, strands falling out of her bun as we rolled between the sheets.
“Americano?” Zara asked, bringing me out of my dirty thoughts.
I nodded, swallowing the lump of desire in my throat.
After I handed over my Bean Yeti and paid, I made my way down the counter toward the end and watched Murphy finish making a to-go drink. I was admiring her natural beauty and how far she’d come behind the bar when she finally took my mug and added a shot of espresso. As she filled it with hot water, the door to the Bean banged open.
In unison, every person inside the café looked up.
This was quiet little Colebury. No one banged doors or made grand entrances here. Yet, here we were witnessing something like that, as an older woman with perfectly styled hair, decked out in a Burberry trench coat and a pair of sky-high heels, waved her hand in the air while calling out, “Murphy! Look who’s here.”
A tall, elegantly dressed man trailed behind her, recognizable from his photos splashed all over the news during his scandal. This was Marshall Landon, the disgraced politician and Murphy’s father, which meant the woman was Murphy’s mother, Lyssa Landon, the society matron.
Shocked, I turned toward Murphy, who had a look of horror on her face. For a second, I was pissed because my surprise was getting ruined, but then all my caveman tendencies to protect and care for her kicked in. Tendencies I didn’t even know I had, by the way.
“Murphy!” The decked-out woman screeched her name again while waving her hand like Miss America.
Zara made her way down the bar and spoke softly to Murphy, probably encouraging her to take a break. Smelling drama, Roderick appeared from the back, his apron smeared with streaks of whatever he was baking, and assumed a position by the register like he belonged there. All we were missing were Audrey and Hunnie to waltz in here with their outspoken selves, and this would be like one of those ridiculous reality shows.
Murphy blindly handed me my Americano as she made her way out from behind the bar, not making eye contact with me or anyone else, so I didn’t know if that meant she wanted me to go or stay.
“Mom,” she choked out.
“Darling,” the woman said, all crocodile smiles. “Isn’t this a cute little place you found to work in? It’s a perfect hideout for you to reinvent your image, don’t you think?”
I wasn’t sure if Mrs. Landon was addressing the last part to her husband or to Murphy.
Ignoring her mom, Murphy addressed the man. “Hi, Dad.”
“Hello,” he said, his response curt.
“We flew in to surprise you for your birthday,” Mrs. Landon said, “and to talk about when you’re coming back. Dad is being awarded a lifetime achievement award from the cultural trust.”
“I’m sorry,” Roderick said, moving closer to insert himself in the conversation. “It’s only ten o’clock in the morning. How did you fly in so early? We’re hours from the airport, and it’s always a connecting flight.”
“Roddy, not now,” Murphy said, waving him off.
“We flew private, darling,” Murphy’s mom whisper-shouted as Roderick walked away, disgruntled but continuing to eavesdrop like the rest of us.
Murphy’s hands fluttered uselessly as she tried to compose herself. “Mom, Dad, this is a surprise. Truly. And not necessary.”
I’d never met her parents because Murphy always traveled to school by private town car. If she saw her parents, it was when she went home to fill out their family’s pictures at an event they had to attend. In fact, I recalled Murphy’s parents not attending her graduation because they were on a grand tour of Europe.
“Of course it is. It’s your birthday,” Mrs. Landon said, “and it’s been over six months since you’ve gone. Time’s up, darling. It’s time to come home.”
Blinking wildly, Murphy stammered, “I—I’m not sure.”
“And you are?” Her mom abruptly turned to me, her lip curled in distaste as she took in my jeans, hiking boots, and flannel shirt, along with the scruff on my face and my hair in desperate need of a cut.
Although it was obvious she’d decided I was nothing but a country bumpkin, I offered my hand and said politely, “Ben Rooney. Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
“Very nice to meet you too, but we’re trying to talk with our daughter. Honey,” she said to Murphy, “I thought you said you were doing marketing. Then why are you wearing an apron and back behind that counter?” She waved her hand toward a scowling Zara.
“Ben and I are seeing each other,” Murphy said, not bothering to explain her employment status.
“I came to wish your daughter a happy birthday in person and surprise her with dinner at the High Hill Inn.” I spoke as if they knew the place and would be impressed. In a flash, I was once again the scholarship kid at Pressman, desperately trying to impress everyone around me in the hope I’d make it big one day.
“Oh, that’s where we’re staying. I heard it’s lovely,” Mrs. Murphy said, disregarding the rest
