The Love Hater: Chapter 5

One day of getting my own coffee becomes three. Turns out Arabella’s Mom’s foot wasn’t a small matter, but gangrene brought on by her diabetes. I’ve given her leave for a couple of weeks and hired a temp to fill in as my PA.

The new PA is fine—a young woman from an agency who’s slipped seamlessly into the role. It’s not Arabella’s absence at work that’s the problem. It’s the extra help she gave me with Molly. Sitting with her during meetings when I had to bring her in. Picking her up from my father’s. Taking her home on nights when work ran late, despite my best efforts to leave on time.

Between myself, my father, and Sinclair, we’ve managed over the past two years. Molly came into all of our lives like a thunderbolt, giving us something positive to focus on after losing my mother and brother. I was adamant I didn’t want her going to daycare or a babysitter. I wanted family and friends to be the ones to care for her until she can start pre-k at age four. The idea of her being someplace unfamiliar brings back unwelcome memories of crying boxes discarded in hallways.

“Daddy sad.”

“Daddy’s not sad, Sweetheart,” I tell Molly as I open the door to the coffee place and carry her inside.

She studies me as we join the line, her little face serious as she pouts.

“How can I be sad when my best friend is a lion?” I ask.

“Roar!” she shrieks, loud enough to draw amused glances from two women in line. Their eyes take in her rosy round cheeks in her fluffy lion onesie, before moving to me in my suit. They both smile as one of them not-so-subtly checks my left hand for a wedding ring.

I tighten my hold on Molly, my lips flattening. My father would chuckle if he were here. Tell me I’ll have to loosen the reins as she gets older. I know he’s right. He had three kids, and saw us all through scraped knees, fevers, and a broken arm when my brother tried to build a makeshift zipline in our apartment with an old rope and a coat hanger. And at age fifty, he’s about to do it all again with Halliday.

But Molly’s my world.

She’s the one thing keeping me sane. The one thing that makes me get up in the morning after losing him. I loved my mother. And that’s a loss I feel every day. But with him it was different… he was my brother. The other half of me.

The day he died it felt like a part of me went with him. I didn’t know how I’d survive without him. I didn’t think I could. Until the moment I opened my door to a crying baby and a handwritten note that set my life on a new course.

“Babyccino and a Latte. Double shot,” I say to the woman behind the counter.

“Latte, double shot, for Sullivan,” she repeats, remembering me from the previous two days, and writing my name on the cup in thick black ink. “And a babyccino…” She winks at Molly, “…for the lion.”

Molly dazzles her with one of her smiles she gives out too freely to strangers, and I ignore the bite of protectiveness that comes along with seeing it.

We move to the end of the counter to wait. My phone rings in my pocket and I keep a firm hold of Molly as I pull it out and answer.

“I’ll call you back,” I bark at one of the senior operations team before he can speak. I’ll be in my office in ten minutes and able to talk about whatever it is he needs to in private.

I put my phone away and grab a lid for my coffee as it’s placed down, taking in the plain white foam on top of it.

“Where’s my⁠—?”

“Your what?”

I glance up at the barista, but it’s the same woman who took my order, not the usual redhead with the tight uniform.

She looks at me expectantly.

“Never mind,” I grumble, shoving the lid on.

“I’m so sorry!”

The out of breath remark makes me look up. There she is. Red hair. Same unmistakable uniform that looks even smaller than it did yesterday, if that’s possible. Her heaving breaths make her breasts appear in real danger of bursting through the buttons.

“What happened?” The other woman turns her back on me, giving the redhead her full attention as she scrabbles to tie an apron around her waist.

“Shaving cut,” she mumbles in a low whisper.

“Everything okay?”

The extra layer of concern in the other woman’s voice makes me frown. Since when did a shaving cut provide an acceptable reason for being late?

“Yeah,” the redhead replies, seeming a little shaken. “I got the bleeding to stop, it’s all good.”

“All right. As long as you’re okay?” The other woman squeezes her arm in a show of understanding, making my frown deepen. I’d put one of my staff on a final warning if they tried to sell that shit to me.

I look more closely at the redhead as she picks up a milk jug and sets it underneath a frother. Her too-tight skirt falls to just above her knees. Her lower legs are bare, no sign of a Band-Aid. Exactly which part of herself was she shaving?

I run my tongue over my lower lip as she pours the milk into a miniature takeaway cup and then holds a stencil over the top of it and shakes on some cocoa.

“Babyccino for Lion?” she chimes in a cheery voice.

“Me!” Molly pipes up in my arms.

The redhead looks at her, tilting her head to one side and pressing her lips together.

“Hmm. Are you sure? You look far too friendly to be a lion to me.”

“Roar!” Molly cries again, louder than the first time.

The redhead’s eyes pop wide. “Wow! Please accept my humble apologies. That’s one impressive roar you’ve got there, Miss Lion. Very mighty indeed.”

Molly giggles in my arms as the woman slides the small cup across the counter to me with a smile. “Here you go.”

“Daddy!” Molly exclaims, pointing at the foam on her drink before I can put a lid on it. “A Bunny.”

The redhead grins at her. “Do you like her? She looks like my old pet, Bumper.”

“Shouldn’t that have been Thumper?” I ask without thinking, studying the brown ears.

“No. She only had one eye and was always hopping into things.”

I take in the redhead properly for the first time. Her light blue eyes are bright as she smiles at me, making her nose wrinkle a little and shifting the freckles around that are on her cheeks.

“She lived until she was thirteen,” she adds, like the information is of great significance.

“… Right,” I say.

My phone rings again. I pull it out and see the same name as earlier.

“What is it?” I snap, putting it to my ear.

“Sorry, it couldn’t wait. I know you’d want to hear this straight away.”

“Hear what?” I bark.

“One of the team got their hands on Fabienne’s new designs.”

My grip tightens on the phone. Fabienne is a jewelry brand with elevated opinions of themselves. No competition to Beaufort Diamonds, although they wish that weren’t the case. The quality of their pieces is not a scratch on ours. But whenever we release a new line, they predictably push the boundaries on what they can get away with, by ripping off our designs with some gawdy low quality alternative. It takes the shine off our new launches, which are of outstanding quality. It’s like getting a cab and the driver proudly showing off a Canal Street Patek Philippe timepiece on his wrist, telling you it’s identical to yours, which set you back a quarter mill, but his only cost him ninety bucks.

Absolutely no comparison.

“Send them to me. And get Legal on it,” I hiss, grinding my teeth as my phone chimes in my ear, indicating a new email.

“Already done. These are the boldest ones yet.”

“Great,” I mutter, biting back the alternative word I’d use if Molly weren’t in my arms.

I end the call and walk to a small unoccupied table near the counter, depositing Molly into a chair.

“Let’s have your drink here, Sweetheart. Daddy needs to look at something for work.”

The tension in my neck’s only going to get worse if I wait until we’re back in my office to look at whatever fresh shit they’re trying to pull.

Molly nods at me, swinging her legs in the chair.

I move back to the counter, grab our drinks, and return to her. She beams at the cocoa bunny as I take a seat and pull up the email.

Motherfuckers.

I suck in a sharp breath. The first design is blatantly a rip-off of our new Asscher cut diamond choker. And it only gets worse. They’ve even attempted a shitty copy of our new engagement ring setting. One I designed myself.

“Sweetheart, Daddy needs to make some private calls when I get into the office, okay?”

Molly’s used to being in the office with me when I’m working. But whenever I need to make a call where the overuse of the word ‘Fuck’ and threats to shove things up the CEO of Fabienne’s ass will take place, Molly stays with Arabella.

“Remember, Arabella isn’t around today, so another of Daddy’s work colleagues will keep you company.”

“Den-Va?” Molly asks hopefully.

“No. He’s with Auntie Sinclair today.”

Sinclair’s doing a runway show. And my father and Halliday have an ob-gyn appointment this morning. I wrack my brains. I only ever leave her with Arabella at my office. But one of the senior leadership team is recently back from maternity leave. Molly will be okay with her if they use the room opposite my office. All the walls are glass, so I’ll be able to see her the entire time.

“Clare will keep you company. She’s just had a baby. She’ll have pictures she can show you.”

“No. Me stay with Daddy.” Molly scowls at me. Despite her adoration of babies and her baby dollies, the kid’s smart. She knows when she’s being handled.

I look back at the email and pinch the bridge of my nose, holding back a curse.

“Did you want these while you’re here? We keep a few stashed under the counter.”

I jerk my head up, and the redhead falters at my grimace. I force the blood boiling in my veins to cool down so I don’t appear like I’m about to murder someone.

She holds a stack of coloring sheets and crayons out to me.

“For Miss Lion,” she says, glancing at Molly who’s poking at the foam on her drink with her finger.

“Thanks.”

She places them on the table. “No problem. I like to keep things here for the kids.”

Molly beams at her, clearly won over by some dust resembling an animal. “Awabella not here today,” she announces.

“Oh, that’s right. I hope her mom is doing okay,” the redhead replies. She smiles at Molly, then glances at me before returning behind the counter.

I stare at her as she fixes a drink with a dreamy look on her face. I bet she’s humming to herself again.

I go to my call list and bring up Arabella’s number.

“Hi. How’s your mom doing?” I force myself to ask, despite wanting to get straight to the reason I’m really calling.

“Oh, well… she’s trying to keep her spirits up… and she says thank you for the flowers,” Arabella tells me. “But she’s not so good. It’s hard to tell if the meds are working. She’s scared she’ll lose her foot.”

“Give her all of the team’s regards,” I say.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Don’t worry about that, just be with her. Listen, I needed to ask you… You said your friend’s niece works at the coffee place next door?”

“Oh, she does. Such a lovely girl.”

“The kindergarten teacher?”

“That’s right. She’s working there while she interviews for jobs. Kids love her. She’s a sweet girl. Beautiful too. Men are always giving her their number.”

My eyes drop over the redhead’s curves as she serves a guy at the counter. He grins at her and drops a business card into the tip jar, along with a bill.

“So I could trust her with Molly?”

“Oh God, yes. She’s a gem. And HR already checked her out. She helped serve at some Beaufort events in LA before she and her boyfriend moved to the city.”

Not as good as a full security check Denver could do, but it’ll suffice for now. And she’ll have had extra vetting if she’s a teacher.

“I see. Thank you.”

I sit and fire off some strongly worded emails to legal, informing them to be ready for an imminent conference call, while Molly finishes her drink and colors in a picture of a bunny eating a carrot.

“You ready, Sweetheart?” I ask after she proudly holds it up for my inspection and I take my time to study it, telling her it’s the best colored-in rabbit I’ve ever seen.

“I want Den-va.” She pouts as she takes my hand and slides off her chair.

“Denver’s busy today. You’ll have fun with Clare. Daddy won’t be long, and then you can play in my office.”

She stops walking and I ready myself for negotiations. Last time Molly dug her heels in, it cost me a day at the zoo and a custom-made princess carriage bed just to get her onboard. And she still won’t sleep in it every night.

“Molly,” I say as I turn.

But she’s not stopped to be stubborn. She’s stopped to beam at the redhead behind the counter who’s fixing another drink.

Molly thrusts her picture up in the air proudly.

“That’s beautiful. Did you do that yourself, or did your daddy help you?”

The redhead’s light blue eyes flick from the purple scribble that’s spilling over the lines of the drawing, to mine, then back to Molly as she gives her a bright smile.

“Me.” Molly grins.

“Good job.”

My daughter glows under her praise, and images flash into my head of all the redhead’s kindergarten pupils looking at her like this. She has something about her that kids must pick up on. Some people are born naturally good with kids. The rest of us have to learn when we become parents.

“For you,” Molly declares, brandishing the paper higher.

“Molly, the lady’s busy,” I say.

“Not too busy to admire this masterpiece,” the redhead says, looking at Molly and ignoring me, as she wipes her hands on her apron, leaving brown smudges behind.

She steps closer and takes the picture from Molly, holding it between both hands as she studies it. The same guy who slipped his number in the tip jar earlier hovers at the counter even though he’s already got a drink in his hand. His eyes drop to the redhead’s cleavage as she leans over to talk to Molly. He sees me watching and raises his brows like we’re bros sharing some harmless eye candy.

I glower at him until he looks away, clearing his throat and pulling on his collar.

“Are you sure I can keep this? It’s very good.”

Molly nods at her.

“Thank you. I’ll hang it right up over here where people can see how pretty it is.” She comes out from behind the counter and walks to a small noticeboard on the wall where there are posters about a book club, a charity of the month the coffee house is donating to, and some thank you cards that have small essays written inside. “There,” she announces, pinning the picture in the center, then standing back with her hands on her hips to admire it.

The douche at the counter takes the opportunity to check out her ass.

“You waiting on something?” I snap in his direction, unable to help myself.

“Did I fix you the wrong thing? Americano with a shot of caramel syrup, wasn’t it?” The redhead’s eyes widen, and she looks like she’s actually worried about disappointing the jerk.

“No, it tastes perfect, Tate. Yours always do.” He flashes an overly toothy smile at her. “I was actually…” He glances at me, looking me up and down—a microsecond scan trying to decipher the level of competition I pose. His eyes flick to Molly and his shoulders relax like he’s got nothing to worry about.

My teeth grind, and I rub my thumb over Molly’s tiny hand inside mine.

“… I was thinking we could grab a coffee together when you finish your shift. There’s a place I know a block from here that makes a great cup.”

I snort and he flashes me a scowl before turning back to Tate.

“A great coffee?” She frowns.

The burning urge to storm back to my office and vent about Fabienne to Legal is momentarily paused as I watch the loser who thinks asking out a woman surrounded by coffee all day—with the added brilliance of telling her he knows a place that makes a great one, while holding the very drink she just made him—is too epic a fuck-up not to witness.

This is exactly the sort of shit my brother would have eaten up hearing about when he was alive.

“What time do you finish?” the guy continues, unaware he’s on a sinking ship.

“She’s here until lunch, but she’s on a thirty-minute break starting now,” the other barista pipes up from where she’s just walked out from a back room. She gives Tate an encouraging smile like she’s doing her a favor.

“Great,” Douchebag says. “Shall we leave?”

“He wants to take me to a place he knows that makes great coffee around the corner,” Tate tells her colleague.

“Great coffee?” The other woman recoils, her face screwing up as she shoots the guy a look that could freeze Hell. I glance down at Molly who’s watching the whole exchange.

“I like it here, Daddy,” she says, tugging on my hand and gazing at me with innocent eyes.

“I know you do, Sweetheart.”

I glow with smug pride as I throw the guy a look that says, ‘my almost three-year-old is smarter than you, jackass’.

“I meant bagels. The place makes great bagels.” The guy backtracks furiously.

Tate looks at him the way I imagine someone looking at an injured dog would. Pity laced with a desperate need to say or do something to make them feel better before she speaks.

“Well, I⁠—”

“She’s spending her break with my daughter,” I say. “They’ve got coloring to do.”

“Yay!” Molly squeals, vibrating with excitement in her furry lion onesie next to me.

“Coloring?” This time, it’s the douchebag snorting.

His smirk dies as I level him with a stare.

“That’s right, I forgot. Have her back in thirty,” the other barista chimes in with a giant grin.

Tate stumbles forward like she’s been shoved, then shoots a warning look at her friend.

“We go now?” Molly questions.

Tate’s mouth opens but nothing comes out as my daughter slips her hand inside hers and beams.

“Yes, we can go now, Sweetheart,” I tell her as my gaze meets shocked, light blue eyes.