Friendzoned Read online

  Friendzoned

  The World of True North

  Rachel Blaufeld

  Copyright © 2021 by Rachel Blaufeld

  All rights reserved.

  This book was inspired by the True North Series written by Sarina Bowen. It is an original work that is published by Heart Eyes Press LLC.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is dedicated to all the hard-working baristas out there, making sure we reach our daily caffeine intake, preparing skinny-one-pump-this and two-pump-that espresso drinks with smiles on their faces. Thank you.

  Contents

  1. Murphy

  2. Murphy

  3. Ben

  4. Murphy

  5. Ben

  6. Murphy

  7. Ben

  8. Murphy

  9. Murphy

  10. Ben

  11. Murphy

  12. Ben

  13. Ben

  14. Murphy

  15. Ben

  16. Murphy

  17. Murphy

  18. Murphy

  19. Ben

  20. Murphy

  21. Murphy

  22. Ben

  23. Ben

  24. Murphy

  25. Ben

  26. Murphy

  27. Ben

  28. Murphy

  29. Ben

  30. Ben

  31. Murphy

  32. Murphy

  33. Ben

  34. EPILOGUE

  You Will Also Enjoy…

  Acknowledgments

  1

  Murphy

  “Excuse me, but I wanted an iced nonfat latte with one sweetener. This is . . . well, it’s not that. It’s sweeter than anything I’ve ever had. Either way, this isn’t what I ordered and I’m in a hurry. . . so, here.”

  Taking a deep breath, I tried to suppress an eye roll as a twenty-something, fairly skinny, long-lashed woman waved the coffee I’d just prepared for her in my face. It was no surprise to see she was wearing a pair of cutoff jean shorts and cutesy hiking boots, her curled brown hair splayed perfectly over the collar of her red-and-navy flannel shirt. It was the exact outfit I could imagine myself wearing if I were on the other side of the counter, living my best life in Vermont rather than slinging coffees for tips.

  At that moment, I didn’t have time to wonder about what-ifs as she shouted at me over the noise of the steamer.

  Blowing a frizzy strand of my own tangled red hair out of my eye, I said evenly, “That’s what I made. An iced latte with sweetener. Skinny, of course.”

  Needing to fill the next order, I grabbed the next mug on the counter—a reusable dark blue Yeti, heavy as a brick, one of those fancy yet crunchy stainless-steel ones.

  No surprise. We’re in Vermont, Murphy. A sticker marked americano, extra hot was stuck to its side, and I rolled my eyes for the second time in mere seconds. What’s wrong with one of our paper cups if you recycle it later?

  “No, this has two sweeteners,” Little Miss Perfect Nature Lover said, narrowing her eyes. “I can tell the difference. By the way, no need to roll your eyes at me.”

  Isn’t everyone in Vermont supposed to be nice?

  “That’s not what I meant. I mean, I’m not,” I said as my coworker Roderick hurried behind me, carrying a tray of fresh-baked scones for the pastry display case.

  Resisting the urge to snatch a sugary calorie-laden pastry for myself, I tried to catch my breath. Lowering my voice to a whisper, I said, “What I mean is . . . the eye rolling wasn’t for you.” Unable to calm my nerves, I fluttered my hand in front of my face. It was an odd thing to do, and I had no clue why I did it. With Roderick finally gone, I said, “I was thinking about something I had to do later. Here, give me your drink.”

  I tried to cover my tracks, hoping that one of my bosses, Zara Rossi, was too busy at the register to hear what was going on. I liked Zara, and I didn’t want to jeopardize this job or her good feelings toward me. She and her business partner, Audrey Shipley, had taken a chance on hiring me with no barista experience.

  Little Miss Perfect raised a brow at me. “Well, maybe a little less energy on what you have to do later and more focusing on my drink. How about that?”

  Who was this chick? And where did she think she was? Back in Manhattan, I’d expect this type of behavior—sadly, from my old friends or perhaps even myself—but this was the friendly Upper Valley of Vermont.

  Reaching across the counter with my coffee-stained hand, I said, “I’ll remake it.”

  Back when I’d visited the Busy Bean as a customer, I never acted this way. I’d been taught to always smile like a pretty socialite when meeting new people, to be polite and demure like a woman should be. Most importantly, I was expected to never, ever let my emotions get the best of me. Even when my world had been falling apart, I’d flashed my pearly whites and forged ahead, despite everyone’s best efforts to disparage me.

  After a while, the effort to keep up the facade was too much—even for me.

  The thing is, I’d been a little sassy in my former life, but I would have never handed the cup over like this girl did. I would have complained to the manager before buying myself a new drink, but the money didn’t used to mean much to me.

  Taking the plastic cup from Little Miss Perfect Nature Lover, who obviously wasn’t concerned with the environment like the Yeti drinker downstream, I blew the same errant out-of-control strand of hair out of my face. I’d thought my two weeks of training with Kirk were hard, but manning the coffee bar by myself was a lot harder than I’d imagined. In the meantime, he was probably having a grand time in Costa Rica, while I was sweating it out in front of the mammoth espresso machine.

  Without a lot of time to dwell on it, I was mentally going through the steps to make an iced nonfat latte when Zara called my name from across the counter.

  “Murphy? Do you have the Americano? We have a doc who needs to get back to patients. I don’t mean to rush you, but hurry this one order.” Her dark hair in a glossy ponytail, tamed and in way more control than my own, drew my attention. I really needed to start putting myself together better for this job.

  Looking up for a second, I took in the scene at the Bean. For four o’clock in the afternoon, it was packed. All the tables were filled with smiling, happy-go-lucky Vermonters and tourists. If this were New York, orders would have been shouted over noisy patrons barking for someone or anyone to hurry up. And no doctor would grab coffee on their own in the city. Here in idyllic Colebury, there was a short line at the register, and a guy walking toward the end of the bar.

  “Shit.” I snatched my hand away from the steamer, blinking back tears to see a small blister forming. Looking up again, I checked to make sure I wasn’t seeing things.

  Nope.

  It wasn’t just any guy. Standing before me was Ben Rooney, although a more filled-out (if that were possible), and obviously more mature and grown-up version of the Ben I knew. It had been close to—I counted in my head—fourteen years since I saw him last, but I’d recognize him anywhere. His jet-black hair was still a wild mess, but the dusty scruff along his jaw and the tiniest crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes were new and way, way sexy.

  Still, I’d know the guy I’d crushed on for four years anywhere. I’d only recently realized that he’d liked me too back then, but it wouldn’t have mattered. My parents would have never allowed it.

  Who am I kidding? I didn’t allow it either.

  Anyway, I swooned over the small creases that appeared as Ben smiled back at Little Miss Perfect.

  Quickly pouring n
onfat milk over the contents of a yellow packet sprinkled at the bottom of a new plastic cup full of ice, I poured in two espresso shots and pushed the drink across the counter. “Here you go. A brand-spanking-new iced latte.”

  “Well, the first one wasn’t what I wanted, so you can’t say that.” She cocked her head to the side, mocking me.

  I’d never felt smaller, and somewhere deep in my gut, hoped I’d never made anyone feel that way. But I couldn’t bother to argue with her because now I’d gone and foolishly made eye contact with Ben.

  The last time I saw him was after a graduation party. It had been one of those fancy catered events with purple-and-gold tablecloths representing our school colors, and hired help in tuxedos running to and fro. Exactly the type of party that always sent up Ben’s hackles. He used to moan and groan about having to attend them when we studied in my room, sitting on the floor with our thighs almost touching and our backs against the side of my bed. I’d kept my friendship with Ben hidden behind closed doors because he wasn’t part of my family’s social circle, and I was never quite sure whether he minded or not.

  At that final party, I was eighteen and he was nineteen, both of us bright-eyed about the future in front of us. Ben had been ready to leave for Harvard to play football, and I hadn’t kept up with where he went from there. Truthfully, it later became clear to me what a bitch I’d been, hiding our friendship. He was the only real person I knew back then. As much as it pained me to think of how selfish I’d been when it came to Ben Rooney, that was the old me, and now I was trying to be different.

  I am different.

  Being thirty-two years old was a world apart from being eighteen, and I was desperately trying to be nicer, kinder, softer. Basically, more in touch with the real world around me rather than the fake high-society world I’d been raised in.

  As Ben stood in front of me wearing rumpled scrubs, looking like he needed a few hours of sleep (yet still amazing), I swallowed a bitter cocktail of regret at how my life was currently in the toilet. Ben and I were nothing but missed connections. I hadn’t followed his career, and we weren’t Facebook friends like the rest of the phonies I knew from prep school. But it was good to see he’d obviously shed his poor-boy image.

  Then there was me, the fallen socialite. I stood behind the counter, gaping at him like a fish, wearing a pinstriped apron over my white Busy Bean T-shirt, my hair pulled up in a bad excuse for a ponytail. And to top it all off, I was pretty sure my eye makeup was smeared like crazy.

  “Murphy?” His brow furrowed as he said my name with confusion, and perhaps a touch of disdain.

  Forcing my mind out of its current tailspin, I looked up. “Hi,” I said, raising my recently burned hand in a slight wave.

  “Do you have my Americano?” His voice was stern and gravelly, which contradicted with the smile on his face. He was trying to be all business—I’d give him an A for effort. Pointing toward the stainless mug, Ben dismissed my wave and greeting, but at least he’d let the pretty Vermonter go her own way.

  “Oh yes, I’ll get it now. I didn’t realize it was for you. Or that you live here . . . I mean, it makes sense. You’re from here.” Despite telling myself to just shut up, Murphy, I kept rambling. “But I always thought you’d stay in the city after college.”

  He’d been so kind and thoughtful back then, and always a little too willing to accept the crumbs I gave him.

  Ben was a scholarship kid at Pressman Prep outside Boston, a semi-local kid from Vermont who had been given a chance at greatness. A few students were plucked every year from neighboring middle-class communities and dropped into the elite New England preparatory school. Of course, the scholarship kids never quite fit in, but achieving something greater was more their end game rather than being part of the in-crowd.

  Wow, Ben Rooney. He’d been a lost puppy when he arrived at Pressman, and I’d used him while at the same time being mesmerized with him. He was so self-assured and smart, cocky in a non-arrogant way.

  I’d talked Ben into helping me with biology and calculus, all the while not-so-secretly crushing on him. He never really responded to my crush, so I left prep school feeling like a fool. Only recently did I understand that he’d liked me back then, but pride kept him from acting on his feelings.

  In those days, I’d been nice, befriending him in private. But outside of that, we were from two different worlds and not meant to associate. Ben had tried to hide his hurt and disappointment, but his feelings were pretty transparent. Except, I thought he liked me like a friend.

  The final blow to our non-relationship was when he took me to the prom. Bradley Burnett had dumped me two weeks before the dance, and I was desperate, so Ben had been nice enough to pick up the slack.

  Across the counter from me, Ben cleared his throat once, then again, yanking me out of my walk down memory lane.

  “Murph—look, it’s nice running into you. And yeah, I live nearby. I work at the hospital over in Montpelier and have an office in town. In fact, I have to get to the office to see a few patients right now. That doesn’t mean I don’t wish I had time for your theories on why I didn’t stay in the city. I certainly have my own as to why you’re slumming it in a coffee shop in the middle of nowhere. But, really, I have to get back to the hospital.”

  “Sure. Sorry, it was just so nice to see you.”

  My head felt congested like when spring allergies first come on. A dull ache throbbed in my forehead and ears, the kind of ache that lingered. I wondered why Ben was here in Colebury—at least a half hour from Montpelier—while his blue eyes urgently bore into me, trying to tell me something telepathically. Maybe he simply wanted me to leave him alone.

  “Um, my Americano?”

  My cheeks burst into flames. “Right. I’m on it.”

  Forcing myself to look down at the counter, I made the drink. At least this wasn’t an order I could mess up. My thoughts, typically a jumbled mess of espresso drink recipes, was now swirling with memories of Ben then compared to the reality of Ben now . . . this new version of him.

  When I handed him the reusable mug, he tightened the cap and said, “Thanks. You didn’t try to poison me, did you?”

  Swallowing my pride, I shook my head. “Of course not. I would never. Plus, Zara wouldn’t be too happy with that. She’s a good one,” I said, the last part a whisper. She’d given me a chance, after all.

  “At one time, you did try.” He raised a brow, alluding to the badly spiked punch at Burnett’s after-prom party.

  I’d felt compelled to go to that stupid party, determined to show my ex what a good time I was having with Ben. Except, poor Ben got sick and spent the evening puking, and I was at a loss about what to do with him. I’d never been very good at putting anyone else first. After all, I’d never had to.

  Ben took a long sip of his coffee, mesmerizing me with the bob of his Adam’s apple. He cleared his throat, drawing my attention away from his corded neck. “Not bad.”

  Take that, Little Miss Perfect.

  “Wow. Murphy Landon. In the Busy Bean. On the opposite side of the counter than I bet you’re used to being, huh? Tell you the truth, I’d never thought I’d see the day. You doing this,” he waved his hand at the counter, “right here in Vermont.”

  He stared at me with equal parts fascination and contempt, probably because I let him get rip-roaring drunk and make a fool of himself way back when.

  “It’s an honest job,” I said, “and I happen to need it. Anyway, I thought you were in a hurry, but now you have time to make fun of me?”

  I frowned at him, feeling the need to defend myself when I didn’t owe Ben a single thing. After all, I’d come to believe that he hadn’t always been honest with me. Not to mention, Ben was just as guilty about lumping me into stereotypes as I had done with him. Right?

  “Oh, I’m sure you need this gig. Like you needed good grades in high school, as if you weren’t going to get into the Ivy League from Pressman. Aw, sorry.”

  He ran his free
hand through his hair. It happened to be his left, and I made the mistake of noting he wasn’t wearing a wedding band.

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” he said. “This is such a shock, seeing you here, and I’m not handling it well. You look good, Murph. Nice to see you. Honestly. I mean it,” he said, holding a hand up as if he were swearing to it.

  Mugs were piling up down the counter for me to fill with drinks, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Ben. He thinks I look good? What does “good” mean?

  “Good seeing you too,” I said. “Looks like you’re doing well.”

  Ignoring my comment and obvious assumption of his status, he said, “I just have to know one thing. Have you had some of the real maple syrup yet? You always were fascinated with it in school.” His lips tipped up into a smile and he chuckled, and he might have sort of winked.

  Is he being playful now?

  Either way, I couldn’t stop the genuine smile spreading across my face. “From your family’s farm, actually. I saw a big table of it at the farmers’ market when I first got here.”

  I stopped for a second and tried to think how long it had been, then I remembered fleeing from New York before the semester ended. I’d left my boss in a tizzy, but my sanity was more important at the time.

  “It was back at the beginning of April,” I said slowly. “I bought a jug, and I still have most of it. A teenage boy was running the table, and he must’ve thought I was crazy, staring at the bottle like a magic genie was going to pop out. A tidal wave of memories hit me when I saw it, and I thought back to when you gave me a bottle just like it as a Christmas present.”