Loverboy (The Company #2) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,47

brand new cameras hidden around the cafe. They’re top-of-the-line devices, and so well camouflaged that nobody will ever find them. Nothing that happens in this space will go undetected by the team at The Company headquarters.

I feel terribly guilty about this, even though Posy’s shop is now safer than Fort Knox. She wouldn’t appreciate the deception. Hopefully it will be over soon, and she’ll never have to know.

On the bright side, she appreciates the cleanup job I’ve supervised. As soon as her eyes sweep the room, taking everything in, she squeals with happiness. “Oh my god! Gunnar! This is amazing. I can’t believe how much better it looks in here. I’m terrified to see the bill. Truly terrified. But I’m still super impressed.” She turns slowly in a circle, her mouth open. “My god—I can reopen tomorrow. Even if the insurance company stiffs me, at least I won’t be closed more than a day.”

“They won’t,” I say quickly. “I took pictures before they fixed the window.”

At that, Posy smiles. And it’s not just a little smile, it takes over her whole face. And I feel that smile everywhere, because I put it there. As soon as I get the chance, I’m going to make her smile again, for entirely different reasons.

I still want my night with her. How many times can a guy get interrupted? You know that saying—the third time’s a charm? It better be true.

“You guys,” she says, clapping her hands together. “I can’t offer you pie, because it was all ruined. But does anyone want a coffee drink? And the cookies in the fridge will still be good.”

“Oh hell yes,” says Duff, who’s masquerading as a handyman today. He’s wearing a zip-up jumpsuit and everything. “Who’s the barista around here, anyway?”

Fucking Duff.

“Well, it’s this guy,” Posy says, jerking a thumb toward me. “But he’s done enough already. I’ll make you a drink. What do you like?” She walks over and flips on Lola.

“Anything you’re making,” Duff says, then he follows her over to the counter and leans against it, admiring Posy. And I have the strangest urge to punch him. It’s weird, because I’m not the jealous kind.

Huh. I must just be exhausted after that long night on Posy’s sofa. I laid awake for hours, trying to decide whether Posy’s break-in was related to Max’s case.

And now Max is blowing up my texts, wanting to discuss it with me.

I need a nap, I tell him. Let’s talk this afternoon.

2pm, he fires back. The Harkness Club.

Ugh. Fine, I reply. See you at 2.

The damn club has a dress code. So after my nap and a shower, I put on a nice shirt and head uptown to the richly paneled game room at the club, where Max is an honorary member.

Carl Bayer—Max’s dad—attended Harkness College, and joined the club upon graduation. When he started up his private security firm in the nineties, the club immediately employed his services.

Max and I went to Columbia, though, not Harkness. We should be ineligible for club membership. But then, five years ago, Max and I uncovered an embezzlement scheme at the club. Upon recovering a hundred thousand dollars of mishandled funds, the club offered us both free memberships for life. “We’re better off with you two permanently on the premises,” the president had said with a chuckle.

I declined, because I can’t stand stuffy rich people. But Max accepted. And once in a while I find myself sliding into a leather wing backed chair in front of Max. “Did you order lunch?” I ask him. “Because I’m totally putting a bowl of that lobster bisque on your tab.”

“Order two,” he says, unfazed. “And the duck confit salad.”

I flag down one of the obsequious middle-aged waiters, who’s wearing a tuxedo at one o’clock on a Saturday afternoon. Poor guy. The reason I worked my ass off in college was so I wouldn’t end up serving drinks to rich assholes my whole life. I place my order, adding, “We’d like a basket of those warm cheddar crackers, please.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Good call on the warm cheddar crackers,” Max says, sinking back into his chair.

“They’re the best thing about the Harkness Club,” I say grumpily.

Max ignores the dig and opens up one of the club’s beautifully inlaid wooden backgammon boards. “Let’s have a little game before the food arrives.”

“I knew you’d find a way to make me pay for lunch.” Max always wins at backgammon, and I can’t resist betting against him. Just one time I’d like to clean