I’d better order more than one extra-large T-shirt. And I’d better take a lot of cold showers.
“’Night Posy!” Gunnar gives me a wave and leaves by the front door. And somehow I manage not to check out his ass as he goes.
Nobody said running a business of my own would be easy. I was prepared for the long hours, and the constant flow of unanticipated expenses.
But I wasn’t prepared for Gunnar Scott. They didn’t teach this at business school. There was no coursework for how to handle that awkward moment when a man who gave you the best kiss of your life walks in to ask for a job.
Let’s jump him! my hormones shout.
I won’t do it, though. I’ll go upstairs and make a healthy dinner and go to sleep at nine like a loser.
And I will not dream of Gunnar Scott.
* * *
It works. Mostly. After a few days, having Gunnar around every morning starts to seem normal. He’s always on time, always wearing a tight T-shirt with a pie stretched across his tasty chest. Even the extra-large shirts prove snug on his biceps.
God, he’s handsome. And—it kills me to admit it—he’s a godsend. I stop darting into the cafe to check on him, because he doesn’t need my help. He has the price list memorized. He can make change before the register gives the total, and his espresso drinks are top notch. He’s polite, and the tip jar is stuffed with cash at the end of the day.
He’s wonderful, damn it. And that makes me crazy.
I’m not the only one who thinks so, either. Teagan loves him. When they work together, she spends less time staring at her phone, and more time staring at Gunnar.
Jerry’s a big fan, too. And Ginny. And my entire customer base. I could just rename this place Gunnar Scott’s Fan Club, With Coffee and Pie.
Furthermore, I never realized how small the area behind the counter is. When the shop gets busy and I come out of the kitchen to pitch in, I feel like I’m constantly rubbing up against him. He’ll reach over my head for a paper cup off the top of the stack, and I’m able to smell his spicy aftershave. Or I’ll reach past him for a clean saucer, and accidentally brush my boob against his arm.
“Sorry,” he says one afternoon when I take a half step backward only to find my ass pressed against his crotch.
“No worries,” I say in a voice as deep as Lauren Bacall’s, as my whole body heats in response. It’s been over a year since I touched a man and working so close to him is torture. But I try to cover up my discomfort with a joke. “You know, fifteen years ago you would have turned that into a sexual invitation. I think you’re off your game.”
“Look,” he says, frothing a jug of milk with aplomb, while I try not to stare at his flexing arm muscles. “Believe it or not, I’ve actually matured since college. These days I know better than to sexually harass the boss.”
“I know,” I say quickly. “It’s just that I’m a little wiser than I was back then, too. I think about that summer and realize what an uptight little wreck I was. These days I’m less of a prude, and better at taking a joke.”
“A joke? Here’s the thing, Posy—every sleazy invitation I ever issued to you was a hundred percent sincere. They all still stand, by the way. I no longer proposition women at work, but if one propositions me, it’s on, baby.” He flips those killer green eyes up at me and gives me a quick smile before turning away to decorate someone’s latte with roses.
Several beats later I remember to close my mouth and put a customer’s spinach pasty into the oven for two minutes of warming. But my addled little brain is still stuck on Gunnar. Because unless I’m mistaken, he’s just issued me a coy invitation to take him to bed.
And I am shook. Did he really just say that?
Promise me you’ll think about it, my sister had begged me when I first told her about Gunnar’s employment.
For one blissfully long moment, I do. I allow myself to consider asking him upstairs for a drink the next time Aaron and Ginny are out.
But just as quickly, I realize I won’t have the nerve. I can still hear my ex’s voice ringing in my head, telling me I’m not adventurous enough. Calling me a starfish. I’d die if Gunnar said the same thing.
Fifteen years ago, he kissed me, and I knew he was more than I could handle. And now? It’s still true.
The oven timer dings, ending my reverie. And I get back to work.
* * *
It’s not easy to stop thinking about Gunnar, though, especially since other people seem hell bent on noticing him, too. My sister suddenly has more patience for helping out with the morning counter shift than she used to.
“Lord, he’s hot,” she says to me in the kitchen on one such morning. “If you’re not going to take him to bed, I might.”
“Ginny!” I squeak. “Lower your voice.”
“He can’t hear us, he’s flirting with a customer.” My sister stacks the last of the ham and cheese tarts onto a serving tray and sighs. “He has beautiful thighs.”
“What?” I haven’t dwelt on his legs. Not yet, anyway. I can’t stop watching his hands. His back. That ass …
“Those thighs. The way they stretch his jeans to the max? It’s a good thing he wears a half apron or I’d spend my shifts admiring his package.”
“Take a cold shower,” I grumble. “We can’t boink the employees.”
“Just a quickie?” she whines. “It’s been a long time for me. But at least my dry spell is about to end.”
“It is?”
“I’m going on a date tonight,” she winks and hefts the tray, heading for the dining room. “Aaron is with his grandparents and I have plans. Don’t wait up.”
“Got it,” I say lightly. Both my sister and my five-year-old nephew have better social lives than I do. Aaron’s father is in prison, but the man’s parents drive in from Connecticut to pick up their grandson every two weeks for an overnight visit.
It’s only me who’ll be at home on the couch on a Friday night, then. Yay.
“The mail is coming!” Jerry says, clapping his hands with glee. “Can I get it, Posy?”
“Of course. Be my guest.”
Jerry drops a bowl into the sink with a deafening clatter and bangs open the screen door to greet the mail carrier. “Hi Brenda! Do you have anything for us?”
I wish I had half as much enthusiasm for life as he has. Where can I get some?
A moment later Jerry comes bounding back into the kitchen. “Two envelopes. One of them I had to sign for! Brenda said to sign my name even though it’s for you.”
“Thank you. Well done,” I say even as my stomach drops. The only documents I’ve ever had to sign for were divorce papers.
And sure enough, there’s a dreadful logo on this particular envelope, from the Office of Workers Compensation. Open immediately, it reads. Legal filing inside.
Please, Goddess, let this be a routine filing, I pray as I slit open the envelope.
But the goddess has not heard my prayer. The papers inside constitute an accident report for one Louis Perkins. It actually takes me a beat to remember that this name belongs to a kitchen assistant I’d hired before last month. He worked four shifts and then disappeared without calling to actually quit.
Employees ghost you all the time in restaurant work. But the papers I’m holding are certainly not business as usual. According to his filing, Louis Perkins burned himself removing a ginger and rhubarb pie from my oven.
That’s plausible. I burn myself a couple times a week, easy. But according to his statement, Mr. Perkins fainted onto the tile floor, bumping his skull on the worktable and sustaining a head injury that prevents him from working anywhere for the foreseeable future.
The following page is a lengthy hospital bill, including a two-thousand-dollar trip via an ambulance to the E.R.
“No way,” I breathe.
“What’s the matter?” Ginny is back in the kitchen and reaching for the apple crumb pie.
“Look at this,” I say, panic in my voice. “Is there any way this actua
lly happened?”
“Take a breath, Posy,” she says, steering me toward a stool. “Let me see. I remember this guy. Griped all week long before he took off.” My sister frowns as she flips through the pages. “Motherfucker. This is a load of absolute crap.”
“Is it? What if he fell down and didn’t say anything?”
“No way.” Ginny snorts. “All he did was complain! Endlessly. We rolled our eyes for a solid week. You were already looking around for a replacement before he even disappeared.”
It’s true. Louis Perkins hadn’t liked the early start of our day, the timing of his lunch break, or the temperature of the kitchen. He was a pain in my ass. To think he’d suffered a grave injury—requiring an ambulance, no less—without my noticing? It was crazy. But here was his sworn statement, claiming he required a long-term payout.
Hot tears filled my eyes. “This is going to double my workers comp insurance!”
“No it won’t, because you’ll fight it,” Ginny says fiercely. “He’s just a dumbass who’s looking for a free lunch.”
“Okay,” I say, swiping at my tears. “Like I need another thing to worry about.”
“Put it out of your mind right now,” Ginny insists. “Let’s just get through the lunch rush.”
“Right. Okay.”
“Hey—Ginny?” Gunnar’s low voice wafts into the kitchen, and then his handsome face appears. “Got that apple bourbon pie? I need four slices already.”
“I’ll be right there!” my sister calls, waving him off. When he disappears, she leans in and gives me a quick one-armed hug. “Don’t worry. If you feel stressed, just think of Gunnar’s voice saying apple bourbon.” She makes a small noise of satisfaction. “I think I got pregnant just watching him stack those twenty-five-pound bags of coffee this morning.”
“Omigod, stop.” I’d been just as impressed, of course. It’s just that I won’t admit it aloud. “Go already.”
“I will. But promise me you’ll do something fun tonight instead of brooding about this.”
“Promise,” I grunt. Then I get up and start making another batch of pie crust.
9
Gunnar
It’s Friday night, and I’m deep in the basement beneath The Company headquarters. We have a sparring ring down here.
The crowd tonight includes me, Max, and a handful of our agents. In spite of the protective gear I’m wearing, I have several new bruises and I’m sweating like a horse at the Kentucky Derby.
But I’ve missed these Friday evening sparring sessions. While I enjoy my work on the West Coast, it rarely affords me the opportunity to sweep Max’s feet out from underneath him and drop him on his ass.
“Well played,” Max says from the mats. Then he gets to his feet.
“Point to Gunnar, obviously. Max really should’ve seen that coming,” says Scout, our lead investigator. It’s her turn to referee.
Max scowls, and we circle each other again. To say that we’re a competitive bunch would be a massive understatement. But Max seems distracted tonight, and I’ve just taken advantage.
I don’t get any more points off him, though, before the timer goes off.
“My turn!” she sings out. “I’m fighting Max. Duff can referee.”
“Back-to-back matches?” Duff asks, taking the stopwatch from Scout. “Shouldn’t Max get a rest?”
“I don’t need a rest,” Max says tartly. Scout is barely five foot two. She’s also a woman. And Max is slightly more competitive than Genghis Khan.
“What shall we play for?” Scout asks, pulling on her head gear. “How about this—if I win, I can choose what we order for dinner.”
“You’ll pick Indian again,” Max grumbles.
“Then don’t lose and you can have whatever you want.” Scout checks her gloves, and they face each other at the center of the mat, waiting for Duff’s signal. When he tells them to begin, they bow to one another gracefully.
But that’s the last civilized moment between them. A few seconds later, Max has already made his first attack. But Scout is fast. She’s ten inches shorter, with far less reach. But she’s got impeccable instincts and the ability to dart like a hornet away from his first kick.
And his second. And his third.
He circles her to try again, and no one can look away. Every matchup is fun to watch, but Max versus Scout is fascinating. They look impossibly mismatched. It’s a lie, though.
At least Max is no longer distracted. He knows he can’t afford to let down his guard.
Scout dances and weaves. She pretends to lunge for him, but it’s a trick. The moment he moves to block, she flits away. Circling. Waiting. Trying his patience.
I understand Max’s frustration. It’s like trying to swat a fly. It’s right there, and it’s smaller than you are. This ought to be easy.
Spoiler: it’s not. Max tries a spirited kick which almost connects with Scout’s shoulder. But she executes a gorgeous spinning jump-kick, which lifts her high into the air, putting her bare foot right into Max’s face.
The crowd lets out a gasp of appreciation as Max’s head snaps backward. His arms shoot out to the sides as he hops awkwardly backward, struggling to stay upright.
It doesn’t work. He tumbles onto the mat with a thump and an “oof.”
“Knockout!” Duff says gleefully. “Sorry boss.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Max says, leaping to his feet. “Best out of three?”
But Scout has already peeled off her protective gear. “Spicy chicken it is!”
Max takes off his headset and sighs. “Good on you. That was the fastest loss I’ve ever sustained.”
“I can probably top that next time.” She gives him a blinding smile. “You want that lamb dish that you always order?”
“Sure.” He flips open his wallet and pulls out a c-note. “Get whatever Gunnar and Pieter want, too. I need to chat with all of you.”
“Will do.” Scout reaches into the V-neck of her T-shirt and slips the money into her bra. “Chicken Tikka, Gunn? I’ll text Pieter. Meet you upstairs in forty-five?” She leaves the ring looking very pleased with herself.
Max watches her walk away, and then he shakes his head. “Gunn, let's get a beer upstairs before dinner.”
“I was going to grab a shower.” I gesture toward the locker rooms.
“Use mine. There’s something I need to show you.”
I grab my gym bag and follow Max to the elevator banks. He puts his hand on the scanner and his private elevator opens up. Then he flips open his messenger bag, extracts a copy of the Post and hands it to me.
The front-page story is hard to miss. Brutal Downtown Murder Appears Linked to Overseas Crimes. “Oh, shit. Right here in New York. You think this is …?”
“Keep reading.”
It only takes me a minute to skim the article. The deceased was a thirty-six year-old computer security expert. His brother sent police to his house when he failed to answer his phone for several days. Officers found his body in his garden-level apartment.
The deceased was clutching a red ribbon.
“Could be a copycat,” I grunt. “This red ribbon business is awfully melodramatic.”
“But very splashy,” Max insists as the elevator doors part into his apartment. “Our perp doesn't want his clues to be missed. He's on a mission.”
“With what goal, though?”
“Intimidating anyone who gets close to the hardware hackers.”
“Do you know what the dead guy was working on?” I ask.
Max shakes his head.
“But if this murder is linked, your informant should be bragging about it already, right? Did anyone post—”
Max takes the newspaper from me and tosses it onto an antique sideboard against the wall. He drops his bag there, too. “At eleven-sixteen today, a post went up from The Plumber. It was made from the pie shop.”
My skin begins to tingle. “Right under my nose? Really? What's on my body cam at eleven-sixteen?”
“Well …” Max lets out a sigh. “The camera shows the hand pie you were eating on your break. Looked like ham and cheese.”
“Fuck!” I’m so frustrated that I punch the air. “I was in—”
“The back alley. I saw.”
“Damn it! Max, I only took fifteen minutes. How could he possibly have picked that time slot?” I drop my gym bag onto Max’s thick Persian carpet in disgust.
“Probably just a coincidence,” Max says. “If the perp was trying to avoid you, he would have used someone else’s WiFi.”
“Hundreds of coffees,” I moan. “I’ve made so many lattes that I dream about it at night. And this asshole comes in on my break?”
Max shrugs. “It’s rough luck, Gunn. But we’ll get him.”
“What is he saying, anyway? About the murder?”
“He said that the deceased had a black and white cat who was also poisoned at the scene.”
“And …?” I ask.
“I verified it already. My guy at the precinct confirmed the cat’s death. But it wasn’t in any of the reporting.”
“What does The Plumber want, anyway?” I ask Max. “Murderers don’t brag about it on the internet. Not the smart ones. This guy is clever enough to pull off a string of unsolved murders. But too dumb not to leave a trail around New York?”
“Two possibilities.” Max strokes his chin. “Maybe it’s a distraction. One of his goons might be dropping these clues in New York, while he hides somewhere else. But I still think it’s an associate of his. Someone who doesn’t want to be involved anymore, and is trying to expose him.”
“Awfully risky,” I grunt.
“Yeah, but so is palling around with a ruthless criminal. I think the bossman is here in New York, and he’s ordering these hits to send a disturbing message. And it’s working, right? Hackers are pissing themselves all over the place, wondering if they’re next.”
“Sure. Fine.”
“… So there’s someone on his team who wants out. Maybe the team is large enough that he can post these tidbits without the boss guessing the mole.”
Loverboy Page 8
