I Like You a Latte {Completed}

6 | Receiving the Task

Beverly leaned back against the park bench with a happy sigh, eyeing her phone almost giddily. Pulled up on her phone was an app for her school, set to display the latest grade from her programming abstractions class. An A- stared back at her, and she'd never been more thrilled. 

Take that, Caleb! She released a whoop of excitement, doing a little victory dance in her seat.

"Good news?"

Beverly startled, looking up with wide eyes at a man in his early forties, wearing a suit and holding a leather briefcase.

"Sorry," her smile turned sheepish. "Yeah, good news indeed—I proved someone wrong and got a good grade in the process."

The man chuckled heartily. "Good. I apologize, I didn't mean to startle you; I just couldn't help but notice how excited you were, is all. I hope you get something to celebrate—getting good grades isn't easy, and I firmly endorse getting yourself some kind of reward."

The guy seemed nice enough, so Beverly nodded in agreement. "Absolutely! I plan on indulging at my favorite coffeehouse." The same coffeehouse she hadn't been to in five days because of all the time she'd put into the stupid group project.

Throwing her calculus textbook into her backpack and standing from the bench, she was stopped from saying goodbye when the man said, "Glad to hear it; I recommend Cynthia's, personally. Have a nice—"

"You go to Cynthia's Coffeehouse?" she blurted before she could stop herself.

It seemed she had caught the man off guard, this time. He blinked once, then nodded stiffly, his smile weak. "I did. I . . . I knew Cynthia well, you might say."

Ohhhhhh, I sense drama. And, although Beverly could normally care less about others' drama, she was innately curious about the godmother and godson team at Cynthia's Coffeehouse, and couldn't stop herself from getting further involved. "Oh, you were friends?"

The pained look in the man's eyes clearly told Beverly that they had not just been 'friends,' or—if nothing else—he hadn't wanted to be just 'friends.' "Something like that. We don't talk much anymore, I'm afraid."

"I'm sorry about that," she told him honestly, feeling his earnest remorse in the air. "If there's anything I can do . . ."

He waved her off, though not unkindly. "Thank you, but it's quite alright. If there's anything to be done, it should be done by me."

Beverly nodded thoughtfully. "I understand. What's your name, if you don't mind me asking?"

He tilted his head to the side, eyeing her carefully for several moments before confessing, "Francis." He fished something out of his pocket and handed it to her; it was a shiny business card, and she stared at him with shock after she read the information.

Silvertone Software Development

Francis R. Knott

Chief Executive Operator and Owner

"Holy Crap," Beverly muttered, before gasping and slapping a hand over her mouth. "I'm so sorry! But wow—you're Francis Knott, CEO of Silvertone? That's amazing!" Silvertone was one of their city's biggest claims to fame; it had been started by Francis Knott when the man had been in his early twenties and had grown to be one of the most well-know software companies in the nation.

Mr. Knott shook his head with amusement. "Thank you. May I ask your name?"

"Beverly." She stuck her hand out, and they shook. "Your company is truly exceptional; I'm hoping to examine some of the frameworks and applications you've published for my final paper in programming abstractions."

"Oh?" one of his eyebrows cocked up. "What are you studying?"

"Computer science."

"I'm impressed—it's a tricky profession, and those who go into it, like you, are very bright. I'd be happy to have you as a paid intern, if you're willing. Keep my card and give me a call whenever you'd like."

Beverly was silent for a whole minute. "Are you serious?" her voice was hushed, as if hoping to avoid breaking the dream she'd wandered into.

He chuckled. "Yes, Beverly, I'm serious."

"Holy fricking crap. Thank you so much, Mr. Knott. I really appreciate it." She shook his hand once more, her movements jerky with excitement.

He huffed another laugh under his breath, then waved kindly as he walked away.

"It's definitely time for some celebratory coffee," Beverly muttered to herself, her eyes trained on the business card clutched in her fingers.

***

When she stepped inside the coffeehouse fifteen minutes later, she was practically assaulted by Cynthia. "Oh, Miss Bev!" the woman cried with relief, her arms wrapped around Beverly's neck, "It's so nice to see you, Hon! Where've you been, eh?"

Laughing at the woman's antics, Beverly returned the embrace tightly. "I'm sorry I haven't been around—I had to finish up that project."

Cynthia pulled away, giving Beverly a forgiving smile. "I completely understand, but call us next time, if you could?" She leaned back in, murmuring conspiratorially, "Griffin's been a wreck."

It was pointless to try and hide anything from Cynthia, so Beverly didn't try to be subtle when she let her eyes sweep around the store searchingly, then asked, "Where is Griffin, anyway?" She didn't see the tall man anywhere, and he was normally always behind the counter.

"Ah, yes, my godson." Cynthia clicked her tongue in mock disapproval. "I gave him the day off, since he wasn't exactly in the best mood." The woman's eyes lit up then, and Beverly grew nervous before Cynthia even spoke.

"I know just the thing," Cynthia drug her to the counter, darting behind it to start on Beverly's mocha. "This," she announced a minute later, holding up a to-go cup, "is for you. And this," she held up another cup, "is for Griffin."

"I thought you said he wasn't here?" Beverly's brows furrowed with confusion, but she took the two cups nonetheless.

"He's not." Cynthia ducked behind the counter again, popping back up with a pen and paper. Scribbling something down, she slapped the note onto one of the cups in Beverly's grasp. "Here's the address to his apartment. He might have friends over, but something tells me he'll be all too glad to get rid of them in exchange for you."

Beverly wasn't sure how to feel about that; there wasn't much she could do, though, seeing as how quickly Cynthia ushered her out of the shop, hollering the words, "I better not see either one of you here later, unless you're together!"

Beverly's startled gaze drifted between the city streets and the coffeehouse warily, one thought drifting through her mind.

What on earth have I gotten myself into?

***

Poor Bev. May the Lord bless her and keep her . . . safe from Cynthia.