Oh my goodness, cry my hormones. We were not prepared for this reunion!
I look down at myself. Smudgy apron. Check. Flour on my T-shirt. Check. Old jeans and ragged sneakers. Check and check.
That just figures, because Gunnar Scott is that guy—the one who taught me how forceful desire can feel. The first man who ever turned me into the human embodiment of a hormone rush just by entering a room.
But we were rivals. We spent an entire summer trying to outdo each other at Paxton’s Bar and Bistro. We both wanted a job that was rightfully mine. But my asshole father made me compete for it anyway.
Once upon a time, my dad inherited Paxton’s from his father, who inherited it from his father. I wanted so badly to prove that I could continue the family tradition. I busted my ass that summer, trying to impress my father and earn that promotion.
But Gunnar Scott was a fierce competitor. He even used flattery as a distraction technique. It worked, too. I lost my head whenever he turned those cool green eyes on me. All he had to do was say, “Nice job with the lemon wedges,” and I’d melt like butter. I lived for watching him move around the bar with casual confidence, mixing drinks and chatting up the regulars. Or when he sliced limes, and the muscles bulged in his forearms …
Yeah, it never took much to distract me. And maybe nothing has changed, because Gunnar’s startling presence has gummed up my brain. Instead of behaving like a confident business owner, I’m just staring at him like a stunned rabbit.
“Posy,” he says in a rich voice that sounds way too familiar. “Nice to see you again.”
I gulp. Nice is a strange choice of words. We were never very nice to each other. I covered up my raging crush with a chilly demeanor. Or I tried to, anyway. And he was the overconfident macho man who assumed he knew everything there was to know about bartending. Naturally, I argued with everything he said.
And whenever he changed tactics—to flirting with me instead of defeating me—it always turned me into a blabbering idiot. “Are you here for pie?” I blurt suddenly.
Oh dear! My hormones pipe up again. We’re thirty-four years old, and it’s still happening.
“No, I’m not, although I hear the pie is excellent.” His smile is silky. It’s the smile that used to get the women sitting at the bar to throw down bigger tips. I used to think of it as his loverboy smile. “I’m here for the barista job.” He puts a folder on the counter. “I filled out your application.”
Holy cannoli. “What? No way. You couldn’t possibly be a barista.” The man was a straight-A student at Columbia. And he was ruthless. I would have assumed he was running a company. Or a small country.
“What are you saying?” His smile fades fast. “Are you questioning my career choice? Is there something wrong with working as a barista?”
“No. No. Nope,” I say quickly, as self-preservation kicks in. There’s no need to offend the rest of my staff. But it just doesn’t add up. Gunnar had big plans for himself. He put himself through college, double majoring in political science and applied math.
I don’t know why I remember his majors, damn it. It’s not like I care.
“Do you have a job opening or not?” he asks, frowning.
“She totally has an opening!” Teagan says loudly. She’s leaning against the counter, like a plant bending toward the sun. “She needs it bad.”
Gunnar’s loverboy smile returns. Of course it does—now that he has an audience.
And I have the unhelpful urge to smack Teagan. Women always lose their minds for Gunnar. At least until they get to know him. Then they can’t decide whether to kiss him or choke him.
Or maybe that’s just me. “Do you have, uh, references?” I ask, still trying to get my head around this strange turn of events.
“Sure. I’ve got one.” He flips the folder open to his application, where he’s listed Joe’s Cafe, which is apparently in Venice Beach, California. “Joe is waiting for your call,” Gunnar says. “I told him I was applying for jobs on the East Coast.”
“You’ve moved back here?” I ask, stupidly. Because of course he is. I need to get a grip on the hormone rush that this maddening man always gives me. You’d think I’d have grown out of it. But nope! The hormones of a divorced, lonely woman are apparently easy