The barista emerges from the counter and hands Beau his coffee. He accepts it with a murmured, “Thanks.”

The barista, Simone, continues to stand there. “You’re Rhys Rochester’s brother?” It’s not exactly a friendly question, but there’s no avarice in her voice.

It strikes me that I’m not the only outsider here.

Beau was born on these shores, but he didn’t stick around. He made his fortune on the West Coast. It was his brother who stayed here, his brother who would have been known by the barista, his brother who died an ignoble death after working with a dirty cop.

We are more than outsiders in this small Maine town. We’re infamous.

Headlines splashed when a former detective was charged with Rhys Rochester’s murder.

For his part, Beau has been stoic.

He doesn’t want to talk about the fact that his brother abused his wife or the fact that he helped steal drugs and property as a dirty cop. He doesn’t want to talk about it, but it eats at him.

“That’s me,” Beau says, his expression grim.

I tense, waiting for the barista to say something sharp or condemning. Instead, she gives a friendly smile. “Tell Paige I said hi. And that I have a cookie with sprinkles waiting for her whenever she drops by again.”

Beau nods.

The barista disappears, and then I’m left with a man I love and a paper stack of possibility.

He picks up one of the papers and reads aloud. “Reflect on a time when you faced an unexpected challenge. How did you deal with it and what did you learn from the experience?” He reads my answer quietly and then sets the paper down. “Hell.”

My cheeks flush, “I didn’t think you were going to read that.”

“You couldn’t have written about the time you showed up for your job rain-logged and exhausted, and I pushed a kitten at you? ‘Keep it alive,’ I said. ‘Consider this your interview.’”

I worry my nail into the edge of the desk where the glue has started to separate. “It was intense,” I say, “but not really unexpected. I was getting paid a lot for this nanny job. It was always going to be hard.”

“Jane.”

I sigh and close my eyes. The money is incredible. He didn’t just pay me my one-year salary. He insists on showering me with money, with gifts.

He even wanted to hire this super expensive college coach because apparently that’s a thing rich people can do. The person would manage my applications, including all the deadlines and the recommendations. They would also do deep edits of all of my essays.

I refused. The money is hard enough to take without additional help.

“Money doesn’t mean anything,” Beau says.

“That’s what people with money say.”

The money was an unexpected challenge.