Loverboy (The Company #2) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,51
manly that his shaving soap must be seventy-five percent testosterone. “Everything okay here last night?”
“Yes, just fine,” I reply in a voice that’s hoarse from both silence and sexual tension.
That’s the other problem I’ve had since the night of the break-in. My feelings about Gunnar have gone from irritation and attraction to gratitude and full-on lust. My body will never forget those kisses I got before we were interrupted. And my stupid little heart will never forget the way that Gunnar took care to keep me and my shop safe that night.
But these feelings are apparently one-sided. Gunnar doesn’t spare me more than a glance as he heads for the apron rack, tying a fresh one around his waist. Then he washes his hands at the sink. “Need a coffee before the hoards descend?”
“That would be wonderful, thank you,” I say in a voice that’s too breathy. I clear my throat and try again. “By the way, I still haven’t gotten a bill for the new window and the grate.”
“Oh, I’m sure you will,” he says. “Companies like to get paid.” He dries his hands on a paper towel before disappearing toward the cafe. And I catch myself staring at his backside as he walks through the door, wondering how it would feel to lie beneath that strong body.
Given the choice, I would like to thank Gunnar for all he’s done for me. And my preferred method of thanking him would be to invite him upstairs, strip off his Posy's Pie Shop T-shirt, and lick him everywhere.
Every time we're in the same room—six days a week—I feel lit up and hungry inside. Every time he catches my eye, I feel a tingle. Every time I hear him laughing with Teagan behind the counter, I ache. Those kisses he gave me last Friday night were magic. And I'm still feeling their lingering effects.
So potent is my attraction to Gunnar that I'm almost willing to break through the ever-present fear of rejection and do something about it. Almost. The trouble is that I do not live alone. Nights without Ginny and Aaron are about as rare as a lunar eclipse. So I couldn't invite Gunnar over without feeling super awkward about it.
Ginny disagrees, of course. "Better get on that," Ginny whispers occasionally in the pie shop kitchen. "Before a customer asks him out first. Or Teagan.“
“Teagan has a live-in boyfriend,” I always snap in reply.
Still. Every time Ginny mentions him, my eyes take an involuntary journey toward the counter, where Gunnar is inevitably lifting a twenty-five-pound bag of coffee with his Hercules arms to refill the grinder. Or making someone laugh.
My yearning feels bottomless, and I don't know how to handle it. I’ve never had much experience with lust. I met Spalding at nineteen, so I never learned to navigate a single girl’s hookup.
And at thirty-four I don't know how to remake myself as a sexy, confident lady about town. These days, my version of sexy attire is taking off my hairnet and putting on a clean T-shirt.
I could get dolled up and make the first move, maybe by inviting Gunnar out for dinner somewhere. In the unlikely event that he said yes, I'd have to drop hints all evening about how many people there are at my house, until Gunnar finally says, "Let's go back to my place."
Honestly, that all sounds trickier than the three-layer pumpkin, chocolate and cinnamon pie with a braided crust I made once. And that's why ten days have slipped by without me doing anything about my raging attraction to Gunnar.
Besides, Gunnar may have forgotten about me. He hasn’t kissed me again, maybe because I’m just too much trouble. But I think he still wants to. Yesterday I could swear his eyes were pinned to my backside while I loaded fresh pastries into the breakfast case. And when I awkwardly lifted my apron over my head at lunchtime, his gaze took in every curve of my chest. Twice.
Yet he hasn't uttered a word about our lost night together. He hasn't suggested a rematch, or even caught me in a compromising position against the walk-in refrigerator door for a stolen kiss.
These are my thoughts as Gunnar reappears ten minutes later holding steaming cups for both of us. I watch the muscles in his arm flex as he hands mine over.
“Thank you,” I squeak, hoping that he can’t read minds. “What’s in your mug, anyway?” I blurt out. My curiosity about him knows no boundaries.