Loverboy (The Company #2) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,41

heels.

So it wasn’t either one of them that I just chased in the alley. Still. “What are you two doing here right now?” I bark.

Spalding’s head snaps in my direction, and his eyes narrow. “Who wants to know? Posy—what the hell? Who is he?” Spalding demands with a sneer. “And what happened to your window?”

“Back off. I’ll ask the questions,” I rumble, forgetting that I’m supposed to be the barista in this situation. “Where are you coming from right now?”

“The opera,” Spalding sniffs. “Not that it’s any of your business. Posy—we’ve got to call the police. Did you ever install those security cameras I told you about? This could have all been prevented if you had better security.”

Her eyes widen with dismay. “Fuck you, Spalding. Like you give a damn what happens to me.”

“Of course I do!” He looks surprised that she’d even say such a thing. He reaches out and grabs the metal lattice that’s supposed to protect Posy’s window from harm. Then he shakes it. “How’d the window break with this thing in the way?”

Without even thinking I reach over and grab his arm, removing it forcefully from the grate. “Stop it, dumbass. Is there any reason you’d want to tamper with a crime scene before the police arrive?”

“What—?” he sputters. “Unhand me! Are the police even on their way?”

“Yes, and so are you,” I say, shooing the ex away with a hopeful gesture. “Move along now. We’ve got this under control.”

“Doesn’t look like it,” Spalding barks.

“Really?” I take a step toward him, and my body language is a hundred percent menacing. “The lady doesn’t want your help. Leave now. Before I remove you myself.”

“Come on, honey,” Saroya says, her eyes as wide as saucers. “Let’s go upstairs. The hot barista is clearly deranged.”

They actually back away slowly, as if I’m a grenade that might suddenly blow. Then Spalding pulls a set of keys out of his pocket and opens the door to the building right next door to Posy’s. I watch, stunned, as they go inside together.

When I spin around again, Posy is holding her head in her hands and surveying the damage.

“Posy, sweetheart,” I say as gently as possible. “Does your ex-husband live right next door?” This changes everything. My head is suddenly more full of conspiracy theories than Max’s. Spalding could be using Posy’s WiFi all day long in the privacy of his own apartment.

Exes are always trouble. Every investigator knows this on a gut level.

“Yes,” she says, her voice dull. “Right next door. Although I might see less of them now that you’ve scared them away. Thanks for that.”

“My pleasure. Who puts sugar-free peppermint in their coffee, anyway? It’s so obvious there’s something wrong with her.”

Posy gives me a weak smile just as a police cruiser pulls up and parks in front of a hydrant. “Oh man,” a uniformed officer says, climbing out. “That looks bad. Are you the business owner?” he asks me.

I put two hands on Posy’s shoulders. “This is the boss,” I tell him. “I’m just the barista.”

“Sorry for your troubles, miss.”

“Thank you,” Posy says. “What would you like to see first?”

For the next ninety minutes the cops look around and take Posy’s report. When she finally sees the full extent of her trashed interior, her eyes get shiny and red.

Oh, man. I gotta catch whoever did this, just to make that fucker pay. I must be going soft. I’m not usually the kind of guy who’s moved by tears.

Turning away, I step carefully toward the far wall of the cafe, noting that the ceramic cow and my tiny camera are still right where I left them.

It was so dark in here, though. The footage is probably going to be useless. Still, it’s worth a shot.

“Hey,” I say to Posy, as soon as the patrolman walks away from her. “I have some friends who own a security company. Can I call them for you? They’ll come over and board up that window first thing in the morning. You can’t wait too long. If we have rain, it’s going to blow right in through that security grate and mess up these wooden floors.”

“Well …” Posy kicks at a shard of glass with her shoe. “Only if they’re not too expensive.”

“Yeah, uh, pretty reasonable.” In truth, many of The Company’s clients pay us a million a year. But Posy will be getting the Gunnar Scott discount.

I pull out my phone and connect to our main dispatch number. “Go ahead, Gunnar,” an agent barks