Reubens hot and cold clo.., p.1
Reuben's Hot and Cold (Clover Hill Romance Book 9), page 1
Copyright © 2023 by M. Arbon
First Thirteen Flowers Press ebook edition 2023
ISBN: 978-1-989089-21-7
All rights reserved. Aside from brief quotations for media coverage and reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means without the author’s prior written permission.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover copyright 2023 by Laura Skye Kilaen and J.R. Hart. Cover photograph by Vadymvdrobot.
contents
About this book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Acknowledgments
more by M. Arbon
About the Author
about this book
The unlikely attraction between business owners Reuben and Van reminds them that work isn’t everything. If only they could find the time to put their new understanding into practice…
Reuben Dragovich, owner of a premium coffee shop and accidental ice cream empire, should have known better than to bring a promotion idea to the Clover Hill Chamber of Commerce. For his sins, he gets roped into doing something about it. The assignment: an information-gathering day trip with pub proprietor Van, a gregarious bundle of excessive ear piercings and cheer.
Van Parsons enjoys pulling pints and giving tarot readings in The Mysterious, his pub and museum of supernatural oddities. Reuben’s got a taciturn appeal, but no way is he Van’s kind of casual hookup material. Anyway, Van has his hands full keeping his slightly chaotic staff in line and his pub afloat.
To the astonishment of both men, their afternoon together turns out to be more fun than they’ve had in a long time. Interest turns into attraction, then dating. Or a relationship. Or whatever it is that they’re doing.
But physical chemistry is no match for the busy tourist season, when to-do lists overflow and there’s always one more damn thing to do right the hell now. As they juggle their other responsibilities, the initial connection between Reuben and Van is in danger of wilting from lack of attention. Can Reuben and Van find space to fit into each other’s lives, or will their spring fling melt away like a scoop of single-source Venezuelan cacao ice cream in the summer heat?
one
Reuben liked to handle the business side of the coffee shop before his staff arrived, sitting at one of the steel-and-wood-block tables against the long, white-tiled wall. It was tranquil to work alone in the quiet space, steam from his second cup of coffee of the day curling upwards into a sunbeam. Occasionally he even indulged in a pineapple or red bean bun that he’d picked up at Wong’s on his daily morning walk. The paperwork—even if it was digital these days—was never-ending, and it was a best practice to keep on top of it. If he did it here, he didn’t feel as though he were bringing business home, even if home was literally a flight of stairs away.
Someone rapped on one of the panes of the glass garage door that separated the shop from the patio outside. It wouldn’t be warm enough for a few weeks yet to keep it open, and even on steamy summer days Reuben didn’t roll it up unless the place was open for business. It was astonishing how many people couldn’t read a business hours sign, Reuben thought, looking up in pique.
Una McGillicuddy peered into the shop through the tunnel of her cupped hands. Her eyes alit on Reuben, and she waved with frantic delight, as though they had spotted one another through a gap in a crowd.
Reuben checked the time. Just after eight. Was something on fire? He got up and unlocked the front door. “Why are you here early?”
Una bounced on the balls of her feet. “I had this dream about this secret goblin restaurant under Lovegrass Lake and I woke up totally inspired!”
“You don’t start until nine.” Reuben began to close the door.
“Oh hey, it’s fine, you don’t have to pay me for the hour. I just want to see if basil works better with lemon or lime.”
Reuben shook his head at the one hundred and ten pounds of sparklers in a pink chef’s jacket that he’d recently hired to make ice cream. “Never work for free, Una.”
Una gave a frustrated little growl through her teeth, like a puppy not wanting to share a toy. “But I’m forgetting what it tasted like.”
Just as well. Nobody needed basil in their ice cream. “Come back in fifty-four minutes.”
Una hitched up the straps of her Darth Kitty backpack. “You’re a very strange boss.”
“Mm-hm.” Reuben relocked the door and went back to his laptop.
The key to a successful business wasn’t in making more money, or even in controlling your costs. It was knowing what your goals were. Reuben’s goals included not running the kind of shop where employees worked unpaid overtime, even if it was flattering that someone wanted to do so of their own volition.
Of course, his goals had also included bringing exquisite coffee prepared flawlessly to the masses. He would have regretted that first affogato, except that the masses apparently wanted high-butterfat ice cream made from local organic ingredients more than they wanted perfectly balanced black coffee. Several thousand dollars a week more, in fact. Reuben was still sometimes bemused at the turn his business had taken, but he tried not to dwell on it, because the idea of profiting handsomely as a result of pure chance gave him a headache.
Not that the coffee side of the business didn’t have its adherents. Today, like most days, he had a reliable stream of customers as soon as he opened at nine: regulars who came in for the only nel drip in town, people fortifying themselves before a grocery run or a browse through Four Leaf Plants next door, new parents looking for some badly needed caffeine closer than Main Street. Reuben was kept grinding and pouring until the pre-lunch lull, when he took the opportunity to have a seat and down the blueberry and kale smoothie he’d brought with him.
He stood up as a customer came in. Instead of going to the counter, though, the man trotted over and planted himself in the chair opposite Reuben. “Hi! It looks like I came at the right time. Got a minute?”
His wide face and strawberry blond hair gave him the air of a choirboy, the impression intriguingly marred by the two glinting rings through his right eyebrow and columns of silver up and down the curves of his ears. What was his name? Van, Reuben’s mind supplied. Van Parsons from The Mysterious, Clover Hill’s ode to kitsch and microbrewing.
“I do. What for?”
Van took a small notebook from somewhere inside his battered leather bomber jacket. “I thought we could schedule the road trip for the tourist passport. How’s next Tuesday for you?”
This time, Reuben’s mind supplied nothing useful. He pursed his lips. “The road trip for the what?”
Van reached into the other side of his jacket and came out with a full-colour brochure, which he slid across the table to Reuben. North Fairview County Trail of Tastes, it proclaimed over a collage of chocolate truffles, amber beer, and glossy red jam oozing off a wooden spoon.
Right. Reuben had procured the brochure during a trip up to Baymill to check out that new roastery, and brought it to a Clover Hill Chamber of Commerce meeting in some inexplicable moment of weakness. He’d long since put it out of his mind. “That was almost a year ago.”
“Yeah. Nobody had time to look into it during the summer, so I figured we could scope it out now,” Van said.
“It’s already April.” It was utter fantasy to think that something like this could be whipped together before the tourist season started in earnest.
“Sure, but we can get a jump on it for next year.”
“All I did was make a suggestion,” Reuben said, with the distinct sensation of being on thin ice.
Van leaned against the back of his chair with an air of amusement. “It was your suggestion. That puts you on the committee. Look, I don’t make the rules.”
He had Reuben there. “Who else is on the committee?”
“Everyone sitting at this table.”
Reuben must have sighed audibly, because Van leaned forward. “C’mon, Reuben, it’s a good idea. A bunch of businesses have already said they’re interested. And it’ll be a great way to attract customers to those of us who aren’t on Main Street. I just want a second opinion on how it works in practice.”
Reuben opened the brochure. The centre was a map, surrounded by ads for participating businesses and what the the purchase of a passport granted at each one: a packet of loose tea, a little stack of shortbread in cellophane, some complicated coffee concoction topped with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles. “Do we have this season’s brochure?”
“No, I figured we could pick one up en route, if it’s a going thing this year.”
Reuben folded the brochure back up and tapped the edge on the table thoughtfully. “If it wasn’t a successful venture, that would be useful to know.”
The shop door opened and Mr. O’Leary, one of Reuben’s regulars, came in. Reuben excused himself from the tab
“Tuesday might work for me,” he said, coming back to the table. His former full-time barista, Laverne, now had a one-year-old at home and was working a half shift on evenings and close, but she might be willing to switch with him for a day. “But I’m only available for the research aspect of the project. I can’t commit to anything further than that.”
“No problem. We’ve got another committee writing a grant proposal to the town to hire a writer and a graphic designer. We just need to compile the raw data.”
A thrilled squeak came from the doorway that led to the storeroom-slash-office and the small addition that housed the ice cream makers and freezers. Reuben turned to see Una. “I’ll get another spoon!” she called, and disappeared back through the door.
“Do you want me to drive?” Van asked.
“I’ll drive,” Reuben said firmly.
“Cool. I’ll navigate.” He made an entry in his notebook with the stub of a pencil. The pages were printed with a grid, filled with block letters interspersed with dots and asterisks and double underlines.
“I don’t know if it’s quite right,” Una explained, crossing the shop with her hands cupped around a bowl. “Tell me what you think.”
Reuben took a spoon and looked dubiously at the large glob of shamrock-green ice cream in the bowl, soft from the machine.
The other spoon held aloft, Van gazed pensively into the air. “Is that basil I taste?”
“Yes.” Una clapped her hands together. “Too much? Not enough?”
He twisted his mouth thoughtfully. “I’d up the lemon, but I’m a fan of lemon.”
Reuben scooped a little of the ice cream onto the edge of his spoon. “Did we have lemon and basil on hand?” He knew the answer.
“No,” Una said, “but I got some across the street at Holly’s. It’s okay, I didn’t put it on our account.”
Reuben fixed her with a stern look. “Don’t pay for your employer’s expenses, Una. Put the receipt on my desk, and I’ll reimburse you. Are the regular flavours made?”
“Vanilla’s made and chilling, boss. Chocolate and strawberry are in the big machines now. I used the little one for this batch. I just couldn’t get it out of my head, you know?”
Van took a second spoonful. “Yeah, I’d order this.”
The front door opened again. Successfully having avoided putting herb-based dessert into his mouth, Reuben abandoned his spoon and stood up. “I should get back to work. I’ll call you to confirm about Tuesday.”
“Excellent.” Van smiled. The sun twinkled off the arc of his earrings, scattering sparks of light. “It’ll be fun.”
Fun was not something that came Reuben’s way often, and in any case, he preferred to have a clear delineation between that and work. Still, when one was mired in all the day-to-day minutiae of running a business, it was beneficial to have a reason to look up at the horizon once in a while.
two
It didn’t surprise Van a single bit that Reuben Dragovich drove the kind of expensive car known for its reliability rather than its flashy design. It purred to the curb one minute after ten o’clock on Tuesday morning. Van, who’d been waiting in one of the decrepit wicker chairs that had been on the porch when he’d moved into his apartment four years ago, brushed off his denimed butt before daring to slide into the pristine leather embrace of the passenger seat.
“Good morning.” Reuben waited for Van to fasten his seatbelt before he pulled back into the street.
“Morning.” Van blinked behind his sunglasses and suppressed a yawn; he generally didn’t get home before two a.m. “Where are we heading first?”
“You’re the one with the map. What do you suggest?”
By the time Van had smoothed the brochure out on his knees and gotten his bearings, Reuben was halfway to the highway anyway. “There isn’t a suggested route, but we might as well hit Firhaven first. Then we can go up to Maple Heights, and circle around back to Horton on the way back.”
“What’s in Firhaven?”
Van pushed his sunglasses up to squint at the map. “A deli. And a chocolate place, I think? Oh, it’s the Bean and Kettle, I’ve been there before. Wow, they could have made these fonts bigger. I guess there was a lot to fit in.”
“Does every participating business sell food?”
“Yeah, but there’s nothing to say that we have to do it that way…. Oh, and there’s a coffee shop, thank god.”
Without taking his eyes off the road, Reuben pointed a thumb backwards. “There’s a thermos in the back seat, if you’re desperate.”
“You brought coffee? Man, I knew I chose the right guy.” Van twisted to look behind him. In the centre of the seat was an insulated bag, held in place with a seatbelt threaded through its handles. “And a cooler in case we score some local goodies? Right on.” He pulled the thermos out of its loop on the side of the bag. It was striped in lime green and coral to match the bag, which stood out like a handful of spilled jelly beans against the black upholstery.
“There are mugs in the pocket,” Reuben said. “And a dishtowel.”
The mugs were light but thick metal. “Are these designed for outer space?”
“They’re insulated camping mugs,” Reuben said, as if that was the kind of thing people just carried around in their cars. “I don’t like lukewarm coffee.”
Van spread the dishtowel on his lap so as not to sully the pristine car with stray droplets. “You want me to pour you a cup?”
“No, I’ll wait until we stop.”
Van carefully poured himself half a mug. The aroma of coffee filled the air, rich and slightly sweet, as though Reuben had given the brew a shot of the caramel sauce he offered at the ice cream counter. “Any chance you have cream and sugar?”
“Give it a try as-is.” Reuben must have seen Van’s hesitation out of the corner of his eye. “It’s like salting your food without tasting it first. Just see what it’s like on its own before you go doctoring it.”
Between his years on the road and his subsequent decade-plus working bars, Van had developed a two-cream-two-sugars habit and a medicinal attitude towards caffeine in all its forms. But it seemed rude to ignore Reuben’s suggestion after the guy had gone to the trouble of supplying the coffee in the first place. Van inhaled the fragrant steam and took an exploratory sip.
The coffee was only slightly bitter. Not watery. Kind of…fruity?
He took another sip and let it sit in his mouth for a few moments. Sure, he could see why someone would want to drink this black. Still, he missed the way cream mellowed out coffee’s sharp edge.
“That’s a lot better coffee than I usually drink,” he said, “but I’m still going to go with the doctoring. Sorry.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to evangelize at you.” Though to be honest, Reuben looked as though he really wanted to. “There’s sugar in the side pocket, and cream in the cooler.”
Without taking off his seatbelt, Van managed to reach back far enough to undo the zipper of the cooler and fish around for the small, stainless steel bottle of cream amongst lumpy silicon bags and glass jars.
“There’s some other stuff in the cooler. Did you forget to unload your groceries?” Van asked, holding the mug between his thighs as he lightened and sweetened his coffee.
