Loverboy (The Company #2) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,11

practically wrench my arm off getting it in there.

This is Max’s fault, I remind myself. It’s a mismatch of skills. I could put together an entire room full of weaponry without so much as a hiccup. But I don’t know shit about coffee. I’m going to write that up in my letter of resignation, probably.

To Max. Not Posy.

When I flip the switch on the espresso machine, the first thing I see are coffee grounds dribbling over the side. That can’t be good. But luckily, coffee follows. Maybe nobody will notice.

And now the chocolate has changed the volume measurement, so I can’t tell how much is two ounces. So I flip it off at will, and then swirl the contents of the cup and flex my pecs at the same time.

The woman across the counter lets out a little sigh of happiness. There’s more than one way to please a customer. I take the opportunity to flex my biceps when I take the milk out of the fridge. And then—while the milk frother thingie makes a horrible squealing noise—I address my customer. “That scarf really brings out your eyes.”

“This old thing?” she says with a toss of her hair.

When I shut off the frother, Posy is making a gagging sound. The milk in the jug is peppered by giant bubbles instead of smooth foam, unfortunately. But I pour it over the coffee in two blobs. I don’t even try to make a design. It looks like ... Huh. It looks like a butt. Go figure.

Even so, I pass it to the customer with a big smile. “Enjoy!”

“Thank you so much,” she says, pushing a bill into the tip jar.

“You have a nice day! Who’s next?”

Another woman steps forward. She’s really interesting looking, too, with dark hair and giant brown eyes that look familiar to me. She’s wearing an artistic kimono-style top and about a million bracelets on her smooth wrists. “Posy, hello! How are you?”

“Great, thanks,” Posy says in an uncharacteristic clipped voice. “What can Gunnar pour for you? The usual?”

“Not exactly,” she says with a broad smile. “I’d like a decaf latte, half two percent, half skim, sugar-free peppermint, iced, no foam. I’m off caffeine for a while. And a ginger cookie, please.”

Oh man. I’m trying to play back that order in my head when I see the blood drain from Posy’s face.

Huh. She must know that I’m about to fuck this up. “Could you repeat that, please?”

“Of course!” Her smile grows even wider. “I’d like—”

“I got it,” Posy snarls. Then she puts her hands on my ribcage and actually steers me out of the way. “Ginger cookie,” she says between clenched teeth.

“Well, okay.” I fetch a plate with a single cookie on it, then use the extra time to compliment our customer on her blouse. “That bright color really suits you. I love it.”

Posy’s smile is menacing as she makes the drink and then cashes out the woman, who thanks her and floats over to claim a table. “What the hell was that?” she hisses when they’re out of earshot. “It wasn’t that complicated an order. But you didn’t even wipe off the basket rim. Or purge the steam arm. And what was that milk design supposed to be? It looked like an ass.”

“Some people really like asses,” I hiss. “Especially mine. I was giving that woman something to remember me by. But I can up my game, Posy. I’m just a little rusty.”

“Rusty,” she spits, her blue eyes flashing. “What you are is clueless. Why are you even here?”

Irritation rips through me, and I want to tell Posy Paxton where she can put her attitude. It’s just coffee, for fuck’s sake. It doesn’t matter.

But then I remember what does matter. I scan the cafe, where at least two people have laptops open. Someone who has evidence of murder has been using this space to boast about killing people.

And I know what I have to do.

“Posy,” I say in a low voice. I force myself to meet her gaze. Her cheeks are flushed with anger, and her eyes are bright. “I need this job. It’s, uh …” Yup, this is going to hurt me. “I need it bad, okay? Can you give me a chance?”

Her expression softens. “Well, um, I don’t know. You aren’t a very good barista. I have a friend who owns a bar. Maybe he—”

Uh oh. “Please? It’s for my father. He’s recovering from surgery. I need work, and you need a barista. Let me brush