Loverboy (The Company #2) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,52

from it. “I don’t do well on caffeine.”

“There’s always decaf coffee,” I point out. “Do you even drink coffee?”

He shrugs mysteriously. “Pleading the fifth amendment, here.”

“Like it matters,” I tease. “Your tip jar is always overflowing. I know you’re a good barista, even if you’re secretly a fraud.”

I could swear that something flickers past his eyes when I say this. But it’s gone a half-second later. “You can be good at making something without enjoying it yourself. I’m sure you prefer some pies over others.”

“Not true!” I cry. “I love all my babies equally. Every slice is a delight to the senses.”

“I’ll bet,” he says slowly, his gaze making a slow trip down my body. “You need anything more from me before I open up?”

Yes! Ravish me. “Just take these quiches for the front case, thanks.” I hand him the tray and hold back another hungry sigh. I can honestly say that I’ve never felt this kind of overwhelming attraction before in my life. But it’s worse than that. I like Gunnar Scott. I like his company as much as I like the way he fills out his jeans. And when he sticks a fork into a pie I’ve made, and then moans, I want to sit on his lap and feed him bite after bite.

But not today. There’s work to do. I’m forced to put aside my libido and bake the heck out of a dozen different recipes. I barely catch a breath until the afternoon, when the mailman arrives at the back door.

The stack of mail includes a bill from a company that uses a skeleton key as its logo. But this is weird—there's no name listed. It's an invoice for one plate glass widow, installed, plus a new security grate with electronic controls, installed. I brace myself to look at the total owed.

It says $507.52.

Wait, what? I read the whole page again. But there's no mention of a payment plan, or another bill forthcoming. Just the total, barely five hundred bucks.

For a moment I'm giddy. But then I realize it would be immoral to simply pay this and pretend that someone in their billing department hasn’t misplaced a decimal point.

“Gunnar,” I say, walking abruptly into the cafe. “I have a problem.”

"Do you now?" he asks, looking up from the jug of milk he's frothing. He moves it slowly in a circular motion under the frothing arm, and I feel myself getting a little hot just watching the slow, grinding motion.

Jesus, Posy. Get a grip. My cheeks turn pink. “There's something wrong with my bill from your friends at the security company.”

He looks up. “Really? What’s the matter?”

“It’s too low. By a lot.” I hold up the page to show him.

He squints at the number. “Eh. I told them you had a long history in the restaurant business. Maybe they know your dad or something.”

“But that’s not right,” I sputter. “My father has nothing to do with this place. He’s never even been inside.”

Gunnar doesn’t even flinch. He’s busy pouring milk onto a latte, the foam forming the shape of a cat’s face. “Here you go, Lina,” he says to a customer. “The kitty of the day has one floppy ear.”

“You’re so talented,” the customer gushes. “Thank you, Gunnar!” She shoves a five-dollar bill into the tip jar.

“Aw, shucks,” he says. “You have a nice day, now.” He waves as she walks away, then eventually turns to where I’m standing here, fuming. “Chill, Posy. So they gave you a price break, maybe. It’s nothing to get upset about. This is exactly why I don’t drink caffeine. It makes people ragey. Is it time for my lunch break yet?” He pats his impeccable abs. “A growing boy needs to eat.”

“No,” I say, agitated. “I need another thirty minutes before I can cover for you.”

“All right. Don’t be a stranger.” He gives me a maddeningly sexy smile.

I spin around and storm back into the kitchen, my body pinging with hormones and confusion. Who are Gunnar’s friends, anyway, that they could practically give me a new window? “Who does that?” I ask my empty kitchen, because Ginny is outside on her phone, and Jerry has snuck off to read comics.

The only answer I get is the ding of the oven timer. So I get back to work.

16

Gunnar

You do a woman a favor, and she only gets agitated. Ah well. I tried.

There’s a short break between customers, so I wipe down the counter, hoping Posy won’t make too big a deal over