Loverboy (The Company #2) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,38

this little revelation. We used to annoy each other, for one thing. But maybe that didn’t matter to Gunnar’s libido. He was a horny college boy. He probably had it bad for all the girls.

Still. “What if I’m the one who has terrible instincts? Did you ever think of that? And did you miss the part where I divorced Mr. Preppy?”

“Mmm,” he says thoughtfully. “I suppose that might explain a few things.”

“You’re the one who left, anyway.”

His eyes narrow. “Do you really think if I’d stuck around, things would have turned out differently? I spent three months giving you the fuck-me eyes, Paxton. But you didn’t take me up on it.”

Oh mother of God. His gaze is turning hot, and I think it might incinerate me. And then I remember why we never hooked up in the first place. “You were more than I could handle. At nineteen,” I add hastily. As if anything has really changed. I’m not a blushing virgin anymore, but Gunnar still makes me feel outmatched.

“Excuses, excuses.” He clicks his tongue. “I think a girl who can put together a bacon, cherry, and onion tart knows how to take a walk on the wild side. You give yourself away with the sexy cooking.”

“Seriously?” This strikes me as so ridiculous that I accidentally snort when I laugh. “Pie-making is something that grandmas do. Not a week goes by without a customer asking—‘Oh, you’re Posy? I was picturing someone elderly.’”

Gunnar grins, and his eyes crinkle at the edges. “Those are the Dutch apple eaters, I bet. Us adventurous types are able to taste the truth. Tell me this—what’s the strangest, sexiest pie you make?”

“The Spicy Mexican Dark Chocolate Tart,” I say without hesitation. “I use three different chili peppers.”

“What?” He makes an exaggerated movement, pretending to fall off his bar stool. “Chili peppers and dark chocolate?” His eyes get a happy glaze to them. Honestly, he looks a little turned on by this idea.

“Well, yeah. I love it, but it's not for everyone.” And now I've found my opening. “I made some tarts the other day, because Ginny likes them. There’s one in my refrigerator at home. It’s yours if you want to try it.”

“Right now?” he says slowly.

Gulp. “Sure. Why not?”

I’ve never seen a guy pay a check so fast. Gunnar has us out of there about five seconds later, after dropping some cash on the bar and sliding off his stool. “Let’s go then.”

That’s how I find myself walking down Spring Street shoulder to shoulder with Gunnar.

And I’m not ready. Are we really doing this? Have I misread the situation? Maybe Gunnar really just likes dark chocolate and chili peppers. If I’m not careful, I could make a big fool of myself.

“You’re doing it again,” he says as we stop for the traffic light at Wooster Street.

“Doing what?”

“Thinking too hard. That's how you spoil your own fun.”

“It is?”

“Absolutely. It's the same thing I tried to teach you about bartending back in the day—sometimes you just have to trust your instincts instead of measuring everything to the quarter ounce.”

“That does sound familiar.” It used to drive Gunnar crazy when the bar was four deep with thirsty people and I’d be meticulously measuring each drink’s ingredients.

He’d tried to teach me to mix a drink by feel. But I was too timid to tip the gin bottle over the ice and just let it fly. I knew I’d end up with different proportions in every glass. “That wasn’t my fault, though,” I say as we watch the taxis stream past us. “I wasn’t even legal to drink. I'd never tasted ninety percent of those cocktails.”

“And yet you wanted to manage the bar.” Gunnar chuckles.

“My family’s bar,” I argue, the familiar irritation rising up inside me. My great-grandfather had stood behind that very bar pouring drinks. Paxton’s was my legacy. “I had your recipe book to help me.”

“Yes, you did,” he says with a smile. “But sometimes in life you have to go off recipe.”

“I can do that,” I protest. “Sometimes.”

“Uh huh,” he says. “Then show me. Go off recipe right now.”

His smile is teasing me, and I’m not sure that I like it. “I don't even know what you mean.”

“Here, let me give you a demonstration.” Then the jerk leans in and kisses me without warning. As if kissing at a street corner was a perfectly ordinary thing to do.

But I’m not prepared for the multisensory assault known as a kiss from Gunnar Scott. Soft lips glide over mine,