Loverboy (The Company #2) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,19

I had to mix each cocktail with the care of a chemist in the laboratory. One ounce of this, a half ounce of that.

Meanwhile, Gunnar would be just down the bar, pouring liquors I couldn’t even pronounce with a flick of his strong wrist.

He made four times as many drinks as I did the first night. I was sweaty and demoralized by two a.m. But Gunnar was sipping a beer and facing the bills in the cash pouch with the finesse of a Las Vegas dealer. “Hey new girl,” he’d said between tasks. “You need some help getting up to speed?”

“I’ll get there,” I’d said defensively.

“Never said you wouldn’t.” I watched his T-shirt flex over his strong chest. “If you’re down, you can come over to my place and I’ll give you some …” His eyes did a slow tour of my breasts. “… special tutoring.”

With a gulp, I’d turned away. “If tutoring is code for sex, then no thank you.”

Gunnar had only laughed. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” He’d reached up to grab a thin book off the shelf over the register. “Better take this then, and study it.”

I’d taken his copy of Mixology and thanked him curtly. By studying that book, I became a more confident bartender. That’s when my father hatched his scheme to dangle a promotion in front of both of us at the same time. So Gunnar and I became fierce competitors.

It was so typical of me to fall for my father’s scheme. I wanted Daddy’s approval so badly that I’d rather go to war with the hot guy in the tight T-shirt than go home to bed with him.

What a waste. I might have had a night of fun with someone who could have taught me to mix a gin fizz and a bloody Mary while naked.

But nope. My misplaced sense of duty and pride forbade me to have fun, or even ask for help.

I close my eyes and picture Gunnar behind my eyelids. He’s aged well, damn him. Same scruffy blond hair and hot body. Same loverboy smile. What are the odds that he’ll invite me over again? Pretty bad, I’m guessing. If he really needs the barista job, he won’t proposition his boss.

Ah well. If he figures out how to make coffee before Monday, I can still watch his muscles flex while he does it.

It will have to be enough.

6

Gunnar

The next morning I wake up in my SoHo loft. Even before I open my eyes, I hear the sounds of the city. A taxi’s beep, and the cooing of a mourning dove on a nearby window ledge. These are the sounds of my childhood, which I spent in a much cheaper neighborhood in Queens.

I don’t miss New York. Now that my mother has passed, there’s nothing here for me.

Nonetheless, I own a kickass apartment. A few years ago, I bought this place on Sullivan Street as an investment. It’s everything I coveted when I was old enough to realize that the patrons of Paxton’s Bar and Bistro didn’t live in shitty little apartments like I had as a child. My bachelor pad has big windows that let in the sunlight; high ceilings that make each room feel enormous. There’s a killer kitchen with a row of leather-topped bar stools.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and get up to visit the fanciest bathroom I’ll ever own. It’s a goddamn temple of marble tile and stonework. There’s a Japanese soaking tub and heated towel bars. Maybe the heated toilet seat is a little over the top. But hey—this is my kingdom. I get to choose the throne.

After I’ve had a long drink of New York’s finest tap water and a good stretch, I throw some clothes into a backpack. Then I drink a liter of water, don some sweats and leave the building, buying a bagel at a food cart on the corner.

It’s a great bagel, too. I guess that’s one thing New York does right.

My sweet apartment doesn’t have a gym, but The Company does. It’s a twenty-minute jog to our corporate headquarters on 18th Street.

The agent behind the desk recognizes me right away. “Gunnar, welcome back to New York!” Her dark eyes light up, and her cheeks flush.

“Thanks, Trina. Great to see you again.” I hustle over to the elevator banks and take one downstairs to the gym.

It’s a spacious room, but only young Duff is there, doing reps on the squat rack. “Morning,” he says, dropping