Loverboy (The Company #2) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,30

certainly not business as usual. According to his filing, Louis Perkins burned himself removing a ginger and rhubarb pie from my oven.

That’s plausible. I burn myself a couple times a week, easy. But according to his statement, Mr. Perkins fainted onto the tile floor, bumping his skull on the worktable and sustaining a head injury that prevents him from working anywhere for the foreseeable future.

The following page is a lengthy hospital bill, including a two-thousand-dollar trip via an ambulance to the E.R.

“No way,” I breathe.

“What’s the matter?” Ginny is back in the kitchen and reaching for the apple crumb pie.

“Look at this,” I say, panic in my voice. “Is there any way this actually happened?”

“Take a breath, Posy,” she says, steering me toward a stool. “Let me see. I remember this guy. Griped all week long before he took off.” My sister frowns as she flips through the pages. “Motherfucker. This is a load of absolute crap.”

“Is it? What if he fell down and didn’t say anything?”

“No way.” Ginny snorts. “All he did was complain! Endlessly. We rolled our eyes for a solid week. You were already looking around for a replacement before he even disappeared.”

It’s true. Louis Perkins hadn’t liked the early start of our day, the timing of his lunch break, or the temperature of the kitchen. He was a pain in my ass. To think he’d suffered a grave injury—requiring an ambulance, no less—without my noticing? It was crazy. But here was his sworn statement, claiming he required a long-term payout.

Hot tears filled my eyes. “This is going to double my workers comp insurance!”

“No it won’t, because you’ll fight it,” Ginny says fiercely. “He’s just a dumbass who’s looking for a free lunch.”

“Okay,” I say, swiping at my tears. “Like I need another thing to worry about.”

“Put it out of your mind right now,” Ginny insists. “Let’s just get through the lunch rush.”

“Right. Okay.”

“Hey—Ginny?” Gunnar’s low voice wafts into the kitchen, and then his handsome face appears. “Got that apple bourbon pie? I need four slices already.”

“I’ll be right there!” my sister calls, waving him off. When he disappears, she leans in and gives me a quick one-armed hug. “Don’t worry. If you feel stressed, just think of Gunnar’s voice saying apple bourbon.” She makes a small noise of satisfaction. “I think I got pregnant just watching him stack those twenty-five-pound bags of coffee this morning.”

“Omigod, stop.” I’d been just as impressed, of course. It’s just that I won’t admit it aloud. “Go already.”

“I will. But promise me you’ll do something fun tonight instead of brooding about this.”

“Promise,” I grunt. Then I get up and start making another batch of pie crust.

9

Gunnar

It’s Friday night, and I’m deep in the basement beneath The Company headquarters. We have a sparring ring down here.

The crowd tonight includes me, Max, and a handful of our agents. In spite of the protective gear I’m wearing, I have several new bruises and I’m sweating like a horse at the Kentucky Derby.

But I’ve missed these Friday evening sparring sessions. While I enjoy my work on the West Coast, it rarely affords me the opportunity to sweep Max’s feet out from underneath him and drop him on his ass.

“Well played,” Max says from the mats. Then he gets to his feet.

“Point to Gunnar, obviously. Max really should’ve seen that coming,” says Scout, our lead investigator. It’s her turn to referee.

Max scowls, and we circle each other again. To say that we’re a competitive bunch would be a massive understatement. But Max seems distracted tonight, and I’ve just taken advantage.

I don’t get any more points off him, though, before the timer goes off.

“My turn!” she sings out. “I’m fighting Max. Duff can referee.”

“Back-to-back matches?” Duff asks, taking the stopwatch from Scout. “Shouldn’t Max get a rest?”

“I don’t need a rest,” Max says tartly. Scout is barely five foot two. She’s also a woman. And Max is slightly more competitive than Genghis Khan.

“What shall we play for?” Scout asks, pulling on her head gear. “How about this—if I win, I can choose what we order for dinner.”

“You’ll pick Indian again,” Max grumbles.

“Then don’t lose and you can have whatever you want.” Scout checks her gloves, and they face each other at the center of the mat, waiting for Duff’s signal. When he tells them to begin, they bow to one another gracefully.

But that’s the last civilized moment between them. A few seconds later, Max has already made his first attack. But Scout is fast. She’s ten inches