Loverboy (The Company #2) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,22
he is to be back in New York. While supplies last, he’ll be pouring specialty coffee drinks for any employee. Come on upstairs and order your favorite. No order is too weird or too complicated!”
Rico snickers.
“Oh my fucking God,” I groan. “I was gonna grab a sandwich!” Even as the words leave my mouth, I can see five of my colleagues hustling toward the espresso machine, each hoping to be first in line. “Fuck.”
The stairwell door flies open, and eight more people rush towards me.
The first person in line is Shelby, Carl Bayer’s executive assistant. “Gunnar, can you really make me a skinny mocha with an extra shot?”
“Of course I can,” I promise, grabbing the portafilter and wiping it out carefully so that the drill sergeant of espresso doesn’t make me do push-ups in front of my peers. I hit the grinder button, shutting it off at the right time without even counting to three Mississippis.
I never wanted to make coffee. But fuck me, I’m good at it now.
“Gunnar! Can I have a tall latte?” The next person in line is Carl Bayer, Max’s father. He runs the personal security side of the business.
“Yessir. And I can make a poodle’s face in the goddamn foam.” That’s another thing Rico taught me. Let the design flow from your wrist, Gunnar. Tap! Flick! Get that jug closer to the cup!
“A poodle?” Carl barks. “Make mine a pit bull.”
“Yessir.”
Meanwhile, the world is burning down. There’s a murderer on the loose. Yet here I stand, learning to make pictures with foamy milk.
My stomach growls as I grind yet another shot. And when I look up, the line of Company employees waiting for coffee is so long that it snakes across the giant space, curling around past Max’s office door like a cat’s tail. I’m going to be here until Christmas.
“Don’t be shy!” Max tells the crowd. “Ask him for anything you can think of.”
My growl is drowned out by the sound of the espresso machine. There’s only one thing I’ve got going for me right now. A single bright spot on my dark horizon. And that’s the look I’ll see on Posy’s face tomorrow when I start my shift making perfect espresso drinks for her customers.
I’m going to flirt my ass off, too. With the women and the men. She hates it when I do that.
I snicker to myself as I clean off the frothing arm with a well-practiced flourish, and hand over another perfect coffee.
“Next!” I bellow, and the crowd cheers.
7
Gunnar
“Here you go,” I say to the woman at the counter. “A grande, single shot, two pumps caramel, one pump cherry, nonfat extra-hot latte.”
“Thank you.” The woman looks down at her cup, then looks back up at me with hearts in her eyes. “What a beautiful tulip! I don’t know if I can stand to drink it.”
“Aw, shucks. Your lovely blouse reminds me of tulips.” And after that ridiculous order? She’d better drink it. I might have to jump over the counter and pour it down her throat. “Enjoy it. Have a great day.” I say this loudly for Posy’s benefit. I can feel her hovering near the kitchen doorway, just waiting for me to fuck up.
Good luck, sweetheart. You’re looking at a guy who just made about fifty complicated espresso drinks without wrecking any of them.
And Posy can’t stand it. Ever since our very first customer this morning—I made some dude a perfect non-fat cappuccino with a peacock design in the foam, and complimented his eyebrow piercing—she’s been watching me with a mixture of amazement, annoyance, and lust.
Okay, that last thing is probably my imagination. But she’s practically vibrating with irritation. She was expecting to fire me, I think. But now she can’t.
Hell, it’s just like old times. After her dad put us in competition, I used to send her all the trickiest drink orders. Oh, you want a Rum Martinez? A kiwi daiquiri? That little lady down the bar will help you. Then I’d watch her covertly look it up. She used to carry around that old mixology book and consult it when she thought I wasn’t looking. Like a cheater who holds his crib sheet under the desk.
You have to get your kicks where you can. And I’d forgotten how much fun it is to challenge Posy. On slow nights, I’d quiz her mercilessly. There was nothing better than watching those devastating cheekbones flush with victory whenever she solved another problem.