The Comfort of Favorite Things (A Hope Springs Novel) by Alison Kent Page B

get her temper and her impulses under control or she was going to hurt someone, and she knew too much about hurt to ever want to subject another person to anything like what she’d gone through.
    Moving to the new rack with the specialized bins for dry goods, Becca flipped through the legal pad of notes she and Ellie had made for the labeling of the flours. Closer to the door into the shop now, she frowned, hearing Dakota talking to another man. Probably related to the build-out. It was well underway, even if it seemed to her Keller Construction was moving at a snail’s pace.
    Then again, what did she know about what it took to turn an empty storefront into an espresso bar? As long as she had a nice counter to work behind, one tall enough and wide enough to keep the public on their side and out of her space, she was fine with whatever Thea decided on.
    Except Thea hadn’t been the only one involved in the decisions. Like with everything that came from living in the house on Dragon Fire Hill, the workings of Bread and Bean had been brought to the table, though Becca thought Thea, as owner, was taking the democratic process of their shared living arrangements too far. Or maybe it wasn’t democratic. Maybe it was socialist.
    Becca didn’t know squat about government, even after spending four years in service. She hadn’t had time to learn. She’d been too busy fighting off unwanted advances—without much success—to do more than see to the shine of her shoes and her made bed.
    She also thought Thea was spending more money on parts of Bread and Bean than was necessary. Take the flour bins, for example. Ellie would be just as well served with Rubbermaid totes. They were water- and bug-proof, right? That had been the draw of the custom storage unit. Keeping the flours from losing their nutritional value, or some such spiel.
    Sounded like a bunch of bunk to her, Becca mused, then frowned as the voices in the shop grew louder and more distinct.
    “You can make the manpower happen? If Tennessee needs it?”
    That had been Dakota, obviously back at the coffee machine since she also heard the squeak of the table and the whoosh of the pot being pumped.
    “Not a problem. Though it might be if you don’t let the owner in on it.”
    That man, she didn’t know, though he seemed familiar enough with Dakota and rather bossy. Curious, Becca crept closer to the swinging doors.
    “Yeah. That thought already crossed my mind,” Dakota said.
    “Had to mention it,” said the second man. “It’s what I do.”
    What? Becca rolled her eyes. Tell other people their business?
    “I know, and I will. Depending on what I decide.” Dakota’s phone rang then. “I’ll take this out front. It’s Tennessee. Be right back.”
    The front door opened and closed as Dakota walked out. Becca stayed where she was, realizing too late the lack of noise coming from her side of the door, when she’d been making all sorts of racket before, was going to give her away. That and her breathing. And it didn’t take long for it to happen.
    “You make it a habit to eavesdrop on private conversations?”
    Crap. She hung her head, shook it, then turned and pushed open the door and walked into the shop where the bossy man stood in brown deck shoes, his hands in the pockets of his khaki pants. He wore a navy sport coat, the sides flared out behind his elbows. His shirt was white, his tie loosely knotted and patterned in blue and tan.
    “I wasn’t eavesdropping.” Though, of course, she had been. “I work here. I have every right to be here.”
    “Never said you didn’t.”
    It was then that she realized he was Hispanic. His voice hadn’t given him away, but his black hair and complexion and the set of his intensely dark eyes did. He was also too gorgeous for words, his lashes long, his dimples deep, his crow’s-feet made by very big birds. They extended from his temples to his cheekbones, and gave him the look of someone intent on having fun.
    But he