Loverboy (The Company #2) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,42

into my ear.

If this were an emergency, I’d reply with my location and my backup needs. But it isn’t, so I stay in character. “Good evening. We’ve had a bit of trouble at a storefront on Mercer and Prince. I was hoping you could help us board up a plate glass window that’s just been shattered. Of course there’s some urgency to it.”

“Interesting,” the agent says into my ear. “Okay, sure. I’ll find someone to get down there. Tonight?”

“Tomorrow morning would be optimal,” I say in my super polite voice. “The security grate will keep people out until then.”

“If you say so, dude. What time?”

“How does eight o’clock sound?” I ask Posy.

She shrugs listlessly. It’s probably just dawning on her that she can’t open tomorrow. Her customers will start turning up at seven a.m. to find a storefront straight out of a war zone.

If this were my business, I’d be making that sad face, too.

13

Posy

It takes eighty-seven years for the police to poke around my ruined shop. And all my strength to keep from crumpling onto a cafe chair and sobbing. It’s not just the money, either. Although I’m terrified to know what it will cost to fix the window, the display case, and to buy a new computer. But those are just things. Objects are replaceable. I know this.

Even so, I feel violated. Who would vandalize my shop and break glass into my lemon meringue? Who has such animosity toward me that they could do this? It makes no sense. As I told the cops, the most valuable thing in the place is Lola. And she’s too heavy to steal.

Nothing makes any sense. I feel shaky and lost.

And then a sudden, loud bang makes me startle.

“Sorry!” a cop calls from the back. “Knocked a broom over!”

And now I’m shaking. My nerves are shot.

“We’re finished here, miss,” Officer Tomkins says at long last. “The police report will be filed by noon tomorrow, and you can forward that to your insurance company. If you think of anything of value that was taken, you’ll be sure to give us a call by ten a.m.?”

“Yes,” I say dully. “Thank you.”

Gunnar is standing by the metal security grate, examining the dent that was made when the vandal’s brick flew through the glass and then stretched it. “This gate may not retract properly unless it’s repaired,” he says.

I can’t even think about that right now. I’m too heartsick to process another problem. “Can I deal with it tomorrow?”

He turns to study me. “Of course you can. I’ll ask my security guy to take a look at it when he shows up with the boards.”

“Thank you,” I say again. And then I yawn.

“Lock up, then,” Gunnar says, beckoning me toward the door. “You look like you’re about to topple over.”

“I’ll be okay,” I say grumpily.

“I don’t know, Paxton,” he crosses his arms across his impeccable chest. “You jumped about a foot when that broom toppled over.”

“Anyone would!” I stomp toward the door. Even though I’ve already swept the floor, tiny shards of glass still crunch underfoot, and it just makes me want to howl. I’ve poured every waking hour into this place for the last ten months.

“Come on.” Gunnar gives me a sad smile and holds the door open for me.

Grumpy, I turn my back on him and lock up. As if locking up even matters. The damage is already done.

“Is your sister home?” Gunnar asks as I turn and switch keys, fumbling now for the one that will open the adjacent door—the one that leads to the upstairs apartments.

“No,” I say, my voice hollow. “She's out tonight, which is why I was going to—” invite you over. I’m too embarrassed to finish the sentence. It seems impossible that Gunnar kissed me on the street corner just a couple of hours ago.

I can't believe I expected a fantasy tonight. Instead, I got a disaster.

Gunnar has been nothing but helpful and generous, though. But it’s just like fifteen years ago, when I was flailing behind the bar as he quietly solved all the problems and cleaned up the messes. I used to hate how incompetent Gunnar made me feel at my own family's place of business.

I’m a hot mess once again.

Gunnar clicks his tongue, the way you'd soothe an irritated horse. “Go upstairs, Posy. Get some sleep. Everything will seem less bleak in the morning.”

“Will it?” I can only pray that he's right. The lock clicks, and I swing my front door open. Since the pie shop