Loverboy (The Company #2) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,20
the barbell onto the supports. “How’s your cushy assignment going?”
“It blows, but thanks for asking,” I mutter, adding plates to the leg press. I have to keep my body ready for action even if Max wants me standing around in a pie shop.
“Hey, I’m spending the week keeping screaming fourteen-year-old girls away from a boy band,” Duff says. “Trade you.”
I actually consider it. A horde of fourteen-year-old girls sounds easier to withstand than the critical eye of Posy Paxton. “Do you know how to make coffee drinks?”
“Not really. And more to the point, I’m not a surveillance guy.”
“So don’t tease me,” I grumble, catching one foot in my palm, and stretching out my quads. “I’m fragile right now.”
“You’re gonna bring us a pie, right? I’m partial to cherry and key lime.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” I grunt between reps. “I’ll be fired after my first shift.”
“Nah,” Duff says. “You hear that?”
“Hear what?” After my tenth rep, I rest the weights and listen. I hear the groan of the freight elevator. “So?”
“That’s your training equipment arriving.”
“Sorry?”
“Just wait until you go upstairs.”
Even though I’m curious, I don’t cheat my workout. It takes patience and effort to look this good and stay this fit. At thirty-six, I can’t afford to let my body slide.
Not until after I shower and dress do I step into the elevator for a ride to the sixth floor. That’s where our offices are—Max’s, Carl’s, and mine, although I rarely use it. There’s also a conference room and a kitchen. But the vast majority of the big space is given over to a our open-plan proofing ground, where we build and test new tools and gadgets.
When the elevator doors part, I see the usual work table. But it’s not covered with laser devices or spy gear. Instead, I see a bright red Italian espresso machine. The same model that Posy has in her pie shop. “What the …?”
Max paces toward me, hands in his pockets, face grim. “You’ve got twenty-two hours to nail this mission, Gunn. You can do this.”
“Dude. There’s got to be another way. How about I take up a position on the roof across the street—”
Max cuts me off with a slice of his hand through the air. Then he points at a guy wearing a plaid shirt and a beanie. The man is standing with his hands in a prayer position, and his eyes are closed. “Meet your trainer. He just flew in from Portland.”
“Portland … Maine?”
“Portland, Oregon,” Max corrects. “Hipster capital of the world. Rico won the 2018 Barista World Championship. Rico, your trainee is here.”
The man opens his eyes. “Moment. I’m meditating.” His eyes flutter closed, but he speaks anyway. “Coffee is a life force. I’m tapping into the soul of my dark master.”
“Oh brother.” I hope Max isn’t paying this guy too much.
“We’re on a deadline, my man,” Max says. “You’ve got twelve hours to turn this guy into a world class barista.”
His eyes fly open again and he drops his hands. “I’m just fucking with you. People have weird ideas about Portland.” He lifts a hand to the beanie and whips it off, revealing a buzz cut tight enough for the Marine Corps. “Okay. Let’s pull some motherfucking shots.”
“You’ll do nicely,” Max says. “Rico, this is Gunnar. He’s smart, and he’s good with his hands. He can build an explosive device out of household cleaners and ten dollars’ worth of hardware store items. He can hack into your phone, your car, and your bank accounts. But none of that matters now. Only the coffee. It’s life or death.”
“That’s laying it on a little thick,” I grumble.
“Coffee is life or death,” Rico says. “So get over here and let me see you pull your first shot.”
“One moment.” I drag Max aside, whether he likes it or not. “How much is this costing us?”
Max shrugs. “Just a charter flight, the machine rental, a hotel room, and his fee for one day. It could be worse.”
That’s easily fifteen grand. The flight alone could be ten. “You must really want to get to the bottom of this mystery that nobody has asked you to solve.”
“So what if I do?” He crosses his arms. “Your annual profit-sharing bonus is not in any danger, Gunn. It’s not like you to give me a hard time about this. This Posy chick must be a real ball-buster. Who knew Gunnar was afraid of a pastry chef?”
I growl, because Posy has got nothing to do with it.