Loverboy (The Company #2) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,13
I have been apart for a year now. My father refers to my divorce as my "greatest failure." As if my life were a string of them. I graduated magna cum laude from Columbia University! I was a VP at a Fortune 500 company!
None of that matters to him. He sees me as a divorcée and a failed banker. It was actually daddy’s red-faced sermon over my divorce that served as a final wakeup call. Instead of comforting me, he told me I’d thrown away the only good man who’d ever bother with me.
That was the day that I finally saw our father-daughter relationship clearly, and it was a real wakeup call. I’d spent my entire life trying to impress men who were not worth the trouble.
So I started to make some changes. I mostly cut my father out of my life. If it weren’t for Aaron and Ginny, I’d never show my face in his home again.
That wasn’t my only act of bravery, either. I also quit my dull job, cutting out another thing in my life that made me feel small. Then I opened my pie shop on the ground floor of this building—the one asset I retained after my divorce. The second and third floors were already rented out when I inherited the building. The vacant apartment—spanning the fourth and fifth floors with two big bedrooms and a roof terrace—I kept for me, my sister, and her child.
We’re a strange little family of three. Ginny is an artist and a yoga instructor. She also works in my pie shop when Aaron is at school.
As for me, I rarely leave the corner of Prince and Mercer Streets. I get up too early, work too much, and see too little of the sky. But I make all my own choices. And I make excellent pies.
“THE END!” Aaron shouts. Then he slams the book closed.
“That was great. One more?” I ask.
“Nope.” He flings the book onto the coffee table. “Maybe I could have five minutes on your phone for reading super well.”
“No way,” my sister says, jumping out of her kitchen chair. “Head down those stairs, mister. It’s bedtime.”
Aaron slides off the couch without arguing. But then he says, "That's a big glass of wine, Aunt Posy."
Ginny snickers. "It is, isn't it?"
"Spell big," I demand of my nephew.
“B-I-G,” he rattles off. “’Night.”
"’Night, kiddo." I peck him on the cheek as he heads off toward the circular staircase that leads down to the lower floor of our quirky pad.
While my sister is putting her son to bed, I make a nice dent in what is admittedly a very large glass of wine.
Ginny reappears as I’m taking a particularly big gulp. I’ve practically got my entire head in the glass when she plops down beside me. “Rough day?”
“You could say that.”
“We've got to get you some more help.”
“Well, what if I told you a guy came in today to apply for the barista job?”
“Really?” She lets out a whispered shriek. If we sound like we’re having too much fun, Aaron will climb the stairs and demand to know what’s going on. “That's great!”
“Yes and no. I’m not sure he’ll work out. In the first place, I suspect he’s a terrible barista.”
“Uh oh. Can’t you train him? Are you going to give him a try?” My sister’s eyes are full of hope. She’s given me as many hours in the kitchen as she can. But I need to hire at least two more people, and we both know it.
“I’ll give him one shift to sink or swim.” I shrug, like it’s not that interesting to me. But I’m a liar. “I knew this guy in college. He was a good bartender, but that doesn't mean he can make an espresso that's up to my standards.”
“Well, they are very high standards.”
“For a reason.” I squeak. But I have a reputation for being very particular. I’m a little sensitive about it.
“Who is he, anyway? Do I know him?”
“I doubt it. He worked at Paxton's that same summer I started on staff.”
“Wait.” Ginny holds up a hand. “You mean Gunnar?”
“Do you know him?” My voice cracks for no good reason.
“Never met the guy. But back then you could never shut up about him.”
“What? That’s not true.” I feel a flush creep up my neck.
“Like hell it isn’t. You had a lot to say about Gunnar.”
“None of it good,” I argue. “He was a huge, arrogant pain in my ass. He drove me crazy. Every time I’d