Loverboy (The Company #2) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,24

a shot of decaf—which is relegated to Siberia on the wall behind me—I catch a glimpse of Posy out of my peripheral vision. She’s in the kitchen, pressed against the wall just out of sight of the counter. Her eyes are closed, and she’s braced herself against the wall, as if she needs it for support.

Hmm. That’s interesting.

I make this woman’s complicated coffee beverage practically on autopilot. I’m really that good at this now. And just as I’m ringing her up, a guy in starched khaki pants and a white linen shirt strides in on shiny penny loafers. “Saroya,” he says, approaching the counter. “What’s taking so long?”

And I’ve seen this guy before. His face is familiar, and I’m searching my brain for a reason. His look could best be described as preppy newscaster. But I don’t think he’s actually a face from TV.

“I’ll just be another moment,” his wife says. “Don’t you want a latte, too? I was hoping to share our big news with Posy.”

At that, the man’s eyes dart toward the kitchen door. “I don’t see her. Maybe another time?”

His guilty look is the thing that jogs my memory. “Actually, Posy isn’t here at the moment,” I say to this man who used to sit at the bar just to flirt with her. What was his name—Skippy? Spiffy? I remember it was something pretentious. “She had an appointment in Midtown,” I add, because the look on Posy’s face a minute ago tells me that she wishes she really were several miles away.

“Hear that?” the guy says. “Let’s get going.”

“Thank you for the excellent coffee,” Saroya says with a flirty smile.

“Anytime.” I give her a panty-dropping smile in return, just to watch her preppy partner scowl. He’s eight or nine years older than she is, or I’m the mayor of New York.

As they leave, I glance at my watch. Could this shift last any longer? I clean off the frothing arm one more time.

This job is repetitive as hell. I’d better find that murderer quick.

The day is finally drawing to a close by the time Posy finally emerges from the back. And I do a little double take when I notice her red eyes and new makeup job. “Hey,” she says.

“Hey,” I echo, rinsing out the milk jug. “It’s closing time, right?” The last customer left a few minutes ago.

“Right.” She clears her throat. “Thank you, Gunn. For …” she makes a vague gesture with her hands toward the door. “If Spalding shows his face again, I’m generally not available.”

“Got it,” I agree. “Spalding. I’d forgotten your ex-boyfriend’s name.”

“Ex-husband,” she says ruefully.

“Oh. Sorry.” Yikes. “Was it, uh, a recent breakup?”

“Almost a year now,” she says, lifting her chin. “And I’m fine with it. But I don’t know why they have to keep coming in here.”

“Well, Posy. The coffee is top notch. And it just got a little better.” I pat myself on the chest.

She rolls her eyes. “I guess your ego hasn’t faded in the last fifteen years.”

“Nah. If anything, it’s gotten bigger. I mean—if you were me, wouldn’t you have a big ego?” I wave in the direction of my tight Posy’s Pie Shop T-shirt and give her a cheesy grin. It’s supposed to be a joke. After all, Posy thinks I’m a barely employed thirty-five year-old barista.

“Maybe I would,” she says, blushing.

Huh. I think Posy remembers our big kiss, too.

“Anyway, feel free to let the quality slip if he asks you for coffee. I don’t want him in my life.”

“It would be against the barista oath to pour an inferior shot,” I say sanctimoniously. “But I could be hopelessly rude. That’s not against code. And I could definitely spell his name wrong on the cup. I think Smallthing has a nice ring to it.”

“Omigod.” Posy lets out a bark of laughter. “I dare you.”

“Consider it done.” We’re smiling at each other, and I’m startled to realize that I’m flirting with Posy Paxton again. I guess old habits are hard to break. “I’m happy to offend the man with the shiniest penny loafers in Manhattan. Although we might lose his wife’s business. She’s worth a few hundred bucks of peppermint syrup alone.”

“I wish they’d both lose my address.” Posy’s smile fades. “You know who misses Spalding, though?”

“The Gucci store?” I try.

“My father,” Posy grumbles. “He’s a big fan. He says that losing Spalding was my greatest failure. As if there’s a long string of those to choose from. I graduated magna cum laude from Columbia, but all