Loverboy (The Company #2) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,85
lunch rush when a brand-new disaster strikes.
“Posy?” Teagan says, sticking her head into the kitchen. “The health department is here for an inspection.”
“Okay,” I say calmly, but my hands begin to sweat. I glance around the kitchen, hoping they haven’t caught me with anything out of the refrigerator.
My eye lands on an open carton of eggs just as the inspector appears in the doorway, a white coat on, and a clipboard in his hand. “Eggs,” he says in the voice of an automaton, writing it down quickly, and I feel my heart drop. “To prevent contamination, they must be refrigerated to forty-five degrees.”
“But they need to be at room temperature to whip up properly,” I argue. “And I’m going to use them all.”
“Doesn’t matter,” the robot says. “The code makes no distinction. Please correct the deficiency.”
Biting my tongue, I close the carton and carry the eggs to the reach-in refrigerator. I know better than to argue. But if he’d come just twenty minutes later, all those eggs would be doing laps around the mixer. I’m making meringue today.
This is just a spot of bad luck. I’ll lose a few points for the eggs. My last health department inspection was an A-, because there’s always some little thing that isn’t perfect. But you can’t have two little things, because then your grade starts slipping. Or—God forbid—three.
So I start praying to St. Gourmet, the patron saint of restauranteurs that the inspector won’t find anything else to complain about.
St. Gourmet isn’t listening, apparently. Just when I think the inspector is finished, he asks to see the cellar.
“We aren’t storing anything down there,” I tell him. “It’s not convenient enough.”
“But it’s on your form as a designated storage area,” he says in a flat voice. “I am required to look.”
Oh, for heaven’s sake. “Okay. Let’s go.”
I lead the man out of the pie shop’s front door, and then into my own front door. I unlock the door to the basement, and I descend the stairs carefully. Then I pull the string that illuminates the ugly space with a single bulb. “See? There’s nothing down here but mechanicals.” There’s a giant boiler that heats two buildings at once, and a double electrical box.
“Oh dear,” the inspector says, crossing the space.
“Oh dear what?” I demand.
The man points, and I see two dead rats on the floor, near the cellar wall. “Evidence of vermin,” the inspector says, checking a box on his clipboard. “And, furthermore, easy access for vermin.” He points his pen at the one little window out on the alley.
And there’s a hole in one pane. I’m so screwed.
“But we’re not using this space!” I squeak. “There’s nothing to contaminate!”
It doesn’t matter, though. Two minutes later he’s gone, leaving me with twenty-eight points against Posy’s Pie Shop, which will translate to a C grade.
I’m so screwed.
Back in the kitchen, I feel chastened. I’m great with details, and I’ve always studied to get an A. The poor inspection feels like a personal failure.
I make two of the world’s most beautiful meringue pies, each one with a crust that won’t be soggy, a filling that will hit the tongue with a bright burst of sweetened acidity, and a fluffy cloud of toasted meringue on top. But it’s a hollow victory. I need someone to give me a hug. Someone who knows I’m better than a C-grade human.
I need Gunnar, damn it. Where is that guy? Teagan tells me he stepped out to run an errand.
Finally—when it’s almost closing time—I hear his voice in the cafe. And something lifts inside me. I forget all about the stupid inspection, and I wonder whether he’d like to go out for a sushi dinner tonight.
I wash my hands and check the mirror, just to be sure I don’t have blobs of lemon curd on my apron. And then I step out to greet him.
Gunnar has his back to me, just like the first time I saw him in my shop. This time, though, I’m more intimately familiar with the muscular butt in those jeans. And the strength and passion in those hands that he’s using to tape a new sign to the front door.
“Hey, Gunn,” I say, leaning against the doorframe. “What’s with the new sign?”
“Posy.” He turns around abruptly. “I didn’t see you there.” His handsome face is sheepish.
Uh oh, my subconscious says.
I step closer so I can read the sign. Barista needed immediately. Signing bonus offered.