Loverboy (The Company #2) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,83

something you’re good at. You have an exciting job and adventurous taste in pie. Happiness is a different thing altogether. It’s slowing down long enough to let someone else get near you. Think about it.”

At that, Ginny turns around and retreats down the stairs to her and Aaron’s part of the apartment.

It’s a busy morning behind the counter. They all are. Teagan and I sling a lot of coffee and breakfast pastries. The tip jar is rocking, and the donuts are all sold by the time the line dies down.

“Can I step out for a break?” I ask Teagan, who’s watching a makeup tutorial on Instagram, like a good Millennial.

“Sure,” she grunts.

So I pour myself a cup of tea and head for the back. When I reach the kitchen, I pause at the door.

Posy has her phone pressed to her ear. She's ordering flour in fifty-pound bags. “What's the price for almond flour?” With her free hand, she’s weaving the lattice of a beautiful cherry pie.

Just watching her, I feel a jolt of wonder. How is she real? With her quick hands and her bright eyes and that luscious pink mouth arguing with the bakery supply company. She tilts her head, taking a fractional second to admire her work. But then she sees something that isn’t perfect, and reaches down again to fix it.

That's Posy. She only holds still when she's asleep. The satisfaction of her warm, spent body in my arms all night is something I’ve grown to cherish.

She turns her chin, catching me smiling at her. And she returns the smile. I feel something warm and unfamiliar pass between us, and it lands in the center of my chest with a happy thud.

And yet Ginny thinks I’m a bad influence. What the heck does she know, anyway?

I pass Jerry, who’s whistling as he washes a baking tray, and carry my tea out the back door.

There stands Saroya, bent over at the waist, her hand reaching for something that’s just out of my line of sight. I step out a little further, letting the door bang shut behind me, and Saroya straightens up quickly. “Oh hi,” she says a little breathlessly.

“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice less than polite. I step off the stoop and turn around, so I can see whatever’s captured her interest.

“There’s a broken window,” she says, plunging a hand into her pocket. “It looks trashy. You should tell Posy to have it fixed.”

Sure enough, there’s a broken pane in a small window that’s nearly at the level of the sidewalk. The whole thing is maybe twelve inches high, and two feet across, and sectioned into four glass squares. “What’s down there, do you think?”

Saroya shrugs. “A cellar? How would I know. But it looks like crap. These old buildings always need something. I keep telling Spalding he should sell and find someplace a little easier to maintain.”

“A nice condo, maybe,” I suggest. Saroya is the luxury condo type. I’d bet cash money that she wants a doorman with white gloves and gold buttons. And I’m happy to make the suggestion, because it would be easier on Posy if they moved to a different neighborhood.

“Exactly,” she says, beaming. “I mean, history is neat, but not if you have to do the maintenance yourself.”

“Uh huh.” I take a careful sip of my scalding tea. “I’ll tell Posy about the window.” Although the broken pane isn’t a security risk. Only a pigeon could fit through there.

“Thanks, Gunnar.” She swishes off down the alley. “See you later for coffee!” She turns toward the street and disappears.

What is your game, lady? The question lingers in my mind. But I haven’t found anything else incriminating about her. She doesn’t have a fat bank account making overseas wire transfers, or a sudden change of identity. At least not that we can find.

And Max and I are pretty devious.

Speaking of Max, he’s had it. This mission was his idea, and now I’m worried that it may be his undoing. All week long, my colleagues have rotated through the coffee bar line, a new one every couple of hours. They ask me for ridiculously complex lattes (like an extra hot half-decaf caramel latte with an extra shot), and then they take a seat in the back corner, watching the customers come and go.

We’re watching the whole street, too. But we’ve got nothing. The Plumber continues to post missives right under our noses. And Max is about to lose his mind. “We’re missing