Loverboy (The Company #2) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,55

your pencil dick of an ex meet, anyway?”

Posy snorts before clamping a hand over her mouth. “She’s a wellness coach.”

“You mentioned that, I think. And he was in the market for wellness?”

“Our health insurance company sent her after Spalding’s health scare.”

“Oh.” I turn that over in my mind and come up blank. “Something happened to him?”

“Well …” She frowns. “Eighteen months ago he had a panic attack. But he thought it was his heart. And then he didn’t go to work afterwards, just in case. My husband’s company sent her to shoehorn him out of his convalescence.”

“Okay?” I wait for more.

She shrugs. “The more I talk about it, the weirder it sounds. Spalding had some kind of midlife crisis. I don’t know if he’s really that easily frightened, or if he just relished the attention and the time off. If I’d known then what I know now, I would have walked away from him sooner. Instead, I spent a lot of time worrying about him while he was busy meditating with his future child bride.” She rolls her eyes. “I should have hired a P.I. to figure out if he was cheating on me. I should have fought harder to keep my net worth out of the red. But I hate confrontation almost as much as I hate liars. So here we are.”

Three women walk through the door of the pie shop, interrupting this revealing little conversation. And when I turn to greet them, Posy disappears.

But later that night, I take another hard look at Saroya. Her wellness website was registered a year and a half ago, which means that she would have turned up on Spalding’s doorstep almost the moment she opened for business.

That’s weird, right?

I write an email to Max and his hacker minions, asking them to take a look at her bank accounts. And what they find is that Saroya was cashing checks last year from a restaurant—the Coconut Grill on Third Avenue. But not from any corporations.

And earlier today, I demonstrated that Saroya had prior knowledge of Posy’s family. Her mother worked for Mr. Paxton long enough for all the waiters to be a little afraid of her.

By the time I shut off my computer at the late hour of ten-thirty, I have more questions than answers. What the hell is Saroya after? And what does it have to do with the Paxtons?

I don’t have the first clue. But she’s the only pie shop insider who’s getting more interesting instead of less.

What’s your game, Saroya D? And where is it headed?

17

Posy

The low repair bill still troubles me. But I write out a check anyway and tuck it into my purse.

I sure hope my father’s connection to the restaurant industry didn’t have anything to do with the low total. Gunnar doesn’t understand how important it is to me to succeed without the influence of Peter Paxton III. My dad is toxic. He taught me to doubt myself.

And I’m still good at it. A whole week passes before I gather the courage to invite Gunnar out to dinner. I choose Friday for this moment of bravery, because Saturday is Gunnar’s day off. If I go down in flames, I’ll have thirty-six hours to avoid him before we come face to face again.

Thirty-six hours won’t be nearly enough, will it? Maybe this is a terrible idea.

I worry about it all day. But suddenly it's closing time, and Gunnar has already counted the drawer, cleaned the bar, and is tipping all the chairs upside down onto the tables.

I'm about to lose my chance.

Meanwhile, I fuss with the flavored syrups, taking inventory of every flavor. But I’m so nervous that I count the coconut syrup three times. And then I overfill the raspberry syrup until it leaks all over my hand when I try to replace the pump.

"Shit," I whisper, just as Gunnar also says something from directly behind me. "What?" I yelp, whirling around, startled. And then I collide with his hard chest.

Gunnar looks down at the front of his Posy's Pie Shop T-shirt, where raspberry syrup is smeared in a glossy, dripping blob.

Now I’m mortified. "Omigod, I'm sorry. What were you saying, anyway?"

“I said, careful, I'm right behind you.” He lifts his pale green eyes to mine and shakes his head. “At least it's quitting time.”

“You can’t leave like that. Come back to my office a second,” I urge, pointing with sticky hands toward the back. “I’ll grab you a fresh T-shirt for the walk home.” I flip on