Loverboy

by Bowen, Sarina

  She’s like the nicer, chick version of me. And she’s sneaking looks at me over the rim of her glass.

  I feel my pulse accelerate. Is tonight the night it finally happens? And why not? We’re two adults with no obligations. Why shouldn’t we?

  Posy catches me watching her, and looks away, her cheeks burning.

  “What are you thinking so hard about over there?” I press. Say it, I beg. Ask me to come home with you.

  I wonder if she has the nerve.

  11

  Posy

  Gunnar waits for my answer, watching me with hungry eyes. I take another sip of tart, fruity goodness and feel a rare looseness in my limbs, as if I’m limber enough to mold myself into the kind of woman who knows how to handle this moment. The possibility of Gunnar and me in bed stretched itself out around us.

  He’s waiting for me to say something. Except that I’ve forgotten the question, let alone the answer. He gives me a smile, like he can read my thoughts. And then he lets me off the hook by glancing up at the TV screen to check the score. “Tell me,” he says. “Where did you go just now?”

  “Nowhere,” I say quickly, chickening out. I take another deep gulp of my drink. I haven’t had quite enough alcohol to nonchalantly ask Gunnar to come home with me tonight. I want to, though. Really. A lot. He’s just the right kind of playboy to get me out of my rut. It won’t mean anything to him. He won’t have any expectations.

  And neither will I, of course. We have nothing in common.

  Although lately I find myself appreciating Gunnar for much more than his very fine ass. Who could resist a guy who comes to work on time every day, and makes fabulous coffee for eight hours without complaint?

  The old Gunnar would have teased me mercilessly and hidden the sugar cubes when he went on break. The new Gunnar keeps his head down and saves my overworked butt during every shift.

  Sure, he still flirts mercilessly with the customers. But nobody is perfect. And I’m just jealous. I’d rather have those pale eyes trained on me.

  They were, too, only a moment ago. But I blew it already. He was waiting for me to give him the green light, and I chickened out.

  That’s a theme with me.

  Earlier, I’d spotted him even before he came into the bar. I watched him get out of that cab and then check the time. I saw him look toward the pub, weighing his choices.

  My heart had thumped along with only one word. Please.

  Fine—not my heart. It was other parts of me who were doing all the begging. Silently, of course. Speaking up seems impossible right now. What if he laughs in my face? Or—this might even be worse—what if he says yes? And then we get naked and I can’t satisfy him?

  You’re not very adventurous, Spalding said. You’re not very good in bed.

  My ex is the only person I’ve ever been naked with. And thanks to him, I’m afraid to try again with someone else. If another man tells me I’m no fun, I don’t know how I’d come back from that.

  On the other hand, if I don’t get out of this rut, then Spalding wins. Maybe I sound melodramatic, but I don’t want to die before I experience terrific sex.

  It’s really no surprise that my drink disappears quickly.

  “Look, you don’t have to tell me what’s on your mind,” Gunnar muses, and I realize I've been silent for some time. “But something has you deep in thought.”

  “Rhubarb,” I blurt. “It’s, uh, something I’ve used in springtime pies. But, um, I wonder if I could do better than strawberry rhubarb—that's been done, you know?”

  His smile widens. “Is that an occupational hazard? You can't eat or drink anything without reconfiguring it in your mind?”

  “Yep.” I wave at the bartender. “Another round of these if you wouldn't mind.”

  “Are you trying to get me drunk?” Gunnar asks. “Please say yes.”

  My pulse picks up, because it’s hard to miss the innuendo there. But I dodge the question, because I’ve never been brave. “As if two cocktails and a beer would put you under my spell.”

  “Oh, I'm easy,” Gunnar says, giving me an intentionally sleazy wink. “Besides, your pies have already made me slow and agreeable. That key lime and Thai basil pie was amazing. That stuff is dangerous.”

  “You like my key lime and Thai basil?” I ask, hearing pleasure in my own voice. It never gets old when people tell you how much they like the product. “And I guess it figures that you’d be one of those.”

  “One of what?”

  “You have an adventurous palate.” I prop an elbow on the bar and try to explain. “People fall into two distinct groups. There’re the ones who always order the weird flavors. And the Dutch apple pie crew, who always stick to the basics. They don’t cross over. It’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately.”

  Thanks to Spalding. He basically accused me of being a Dutch apple pie in bed. The whole reason I’m reading my sister’s romance novels is to try to learn what the other flavors are like.

  “Huh,” Gunnar says. “So, you can just guess which other pies I’ve tried?”

  “Sure, I can. Did you try the pine nut and salted honey?”

  “Oh, hell yes.”

  My smile grows wide. “How about the matcha green tea tart?”

  “Well,” he shakes his head, “I gotta say I haven't quite gone there yet. But I did enjoy the vinegar date pie.”

  “Ah! And the ginger mango cream, right?” I press.

  “Yeah. Does that make me predictable?”

  “A little bit,” I say, enjoying myself immensely. “Have you started doing that thing where you try to guess each customer’s guilty pleasure?”

  He laughs. “Get out of my head. It's my new favorite game.”

  “How's your accuracy?”

  “Pretty bad. I started off trying to use clothing as a clue. I expected somebody wearing a navy blue suit and boring shoes to order the apple crumble. But that theory bombed. And then I tried to assume that people in workout clothes wouldn’t pick something sugary. But they totally do.”

  “You have to look deep inside their souls,” I tease. “If you look at the shell of a person, you'll never get their pie order right. In fact, you have to look at their auras.”

  He snorts. “What color is my aura?”

  “Indigo, like tattoo ink. But with a streak of red because you’re contrary.”

  He narrows his eyes. “You’re just fucking with me now.”

  “Maybe I am.”

  “Okay, lady. But I have an issue with something you said earlier.”

  “What?”

  “Guilty pleasures.” He lays a hand over my wrist. “I don’t believe in those. I don’t think pleasure should make you feel guilty.”

  “Oh.” He’s barely touching me, but goosebumps run up my arm anyway. Now would be a great time to make a joke and diffuse all the tension I’m suddenly feeling. But I feel too tongue-tied to pull it off.

  Gunnar removes his hand, which is a disappointment. But the next thing he says stuns me back into goosebump territory. “You know, I always had it bad for you.”

  “You … what?” I ask stupidly.

  “Back when we were tending bar, I had a big crush on you. And sometimes I thought you were on the same page. I usually have good instincts about these things. But not that time. You ended up with Mr. Pretty Boy Preppy instead.”

  My heart is thumping wildly now, and I take a sip of my cocktail to steady my nerves. The truth is that I don’t really trust this little revelation. We used to annoy each other, for one thing. But maybe that didn’t matter to Gunnar’s libido. He was a horny college boy. He probably had it bad for all the girls.

  Still. “What if I’m the one who has terrible instincts? Did you ever think of that? And did you miss the part where I divorced Mr. Preppy?”

  “Mmm,” he says thoughtfully. “I suppose that might explain a few things.”

  “You’re the one who left, anyway.”

  His eyes narrow. “Do you really think i
f I’d stuck around, things would have turned out differently? I spent three months giving you the fuck-me eyes, Paxton. But you didn’t take me up on it.”

  Oh mother of God. His gaze is turning hot, and I think it might incinerate me. And then I remember why we never hooked up in the first place. “You were more than I could handle. At nineteen,” I add hastily. As if anything has really changed. I’m not a blushing virgin anymore, but Gunnar still makes me feel outmatched.

  “Excuses, excuses.” He clicks his tongue. “I think a girl who can put together a bacon, cherry, and onion tart knows how to take a walk on the wild side. You give yourself away with the sexy cooking.”

  “Seriously?” This strikes me as so ridiculous that I accidentally snort when I laugh. “Pie-making is something that grandmas do. Not a week goes by without a customer asking—‘Oh, you’re Posy? I was picturing someone elderly.’”

  Gunnar grins, and his eyes crinkle at the edges. “Those are the Dutch apple eaters, I bet. Us adventurous types are able to taste the truth. Tell me this—what’s the strangest, sexiest pie you make?”

  “The Spicy Mexican Dark Chocolate Tart,” I say without hesitation. “I use three different chili peppers.”

  “What?” He makes an exaggerated movement, pretending to fall off his bar stool. “Chili peppers and dark chocolate?” His eyes get a happy glaze to them. Honestly, he looks a little turned on by this idea.

  “Well, yeah. I love it, but it's not for everyone.” And now I've found my opening. “I made some tarts the other day, because Ginny likes them. There’s one in my refrigerator at home. It’s yours if you want to try it.”

  “Right now?” he says slowly.

  Gulp. “Sure. Why not?”

  * * *

  I’ve never seen a guy pay a check so fast. Gunnar has us out of there about five seconds later, after dropping some cash on the bar and sliding off his stool. “Let’s go then.”

  That’s how I find myself walking down Spring Street shoulder to shoulder with Gunnar.

  And I’m not ready. Are we really doing this? Have I misread the situation? Maybe Gunnar really just likes dark chocolate and chili peppers. If I’m not careful, I could make a big fool of myself.

  “You’re doing it again,” he says as we stop for the traffic light at Wooster Street.

  “Doing what?”

  “Thinking too hard. That's how you spoil your own fun.”

  “It is?”

  “Absolutely. It's the same thing I tried to teach you about bartending back in the day—sometimes you just have to trust your instincts instead of measuring everything to the quarter ounce.”

  “That does sound familiar.” It used to drive Gunnar crazy when the bar was four deep with thirsty people and I’d be meticulously measuring each drink’s ingredients.

  He’d tried to teach me to mix a drink by feel. But I was too timid to tip the gin bottle over the ice and just let it fly. I knew I’d end up with different proportions in every glass. “That wasn’t my fault, though,” I say as we watch the taxis stream past us. “I wasn’t even legal to drink. I'd never tasted ninety percent of those cocktails.”

  “And yet you wanted to manage the bar.” Gunnar chuckles.

  “My family’s bar,” I argue, the familiar irritation rising up inside me. My great-grandfather had stood behind that very bar pouring drinks. Paxton’s was my legacy. “I had your recipe book to help me.”

  “Yes, you did,” he says with a smile. “But sometimes in life you have to go off recipe.”

  “I can do that,” I protest. “Sometimes.”

  “Uh huh,” he says. “Then show me. Go off recipe right now.”

  His smile is teasing me, and I’m not sure that I like it. “I don't even know what you mean.”

  “Here, let me give you a demonstration.” Then the jerk leans in and kisses me without warning. As if kissing at a street corner was a perfectly ordinary thing to do.

  But I’m not prepared for the multisensory assault known as a kiss from Gunnar Scott. Soft lips glide over mine, before firming into a slow press. The scrape of stubble gives me goosebumps. And the tilt of his head makes me sigh.

  Fifteen years have passed, but my body lights up, anyway. Nothing has changed at all between us. He's still the overconfident playboy who’s busily deepening our kiss with an expert’s attention to pressure and pleasure. And I'm still the confused but hopeful girl who doesn’t quite know how to handle a sudden wave of yearning right here on a SoHo street corner.

  Raising a hand to his shirt, I try to steady myself against the erotic assault on my central nervous system. But that only makes things worse, because my palm meets the steely heat of his chest. I can’t help but lean in, asking for more. He tastes like gin and naughty thoughts.

  Then his hand clasps the center of my back, reeling me in. And now I'm completely over my head, unable to process two miracles at the same time: his tongue sliding into my mouth, and his hard body pressed against mine.

  He leans in, moving faster now, turning the kiss into a seductive dance. I lose track of the car horns and the people walking past us to the next bar. I’m so completely in the moment that I forget to hold onto my sister's book. It drops to the sidewalk with a loud smack.

  The mood is broken. I jerk backwards, blinking from the sudden shock of headlights in the intersection, as well as my own confusion.

  Gunnar chuckles. He leans down to snatch the book off the sidewalk. Still frozen in place, I don’t take it from his hand. I’m reeling with the terrible knowledge that Gunnar's street corner kiss was one of the top two sexual experiences of my life.

  And the other one? His kiss fifteen years ago.

  “Come on, Paxton,” he says, slipping a hand into mine. “Let’s get you home. I’ve got big plans for you.”

  Wowzers. I don’t know how many cycles the traffic light went through while I was lip-locked to Gunnar. But now it invites us to cross.

  With my palm pressed to Gunnar’s we cross the street. I'm afraid to speak, because whatever I find to say will sound like begging. Because I need more of those kisses. I need everything. I’m not nineteen anymore. There’s no reason for me to hold back.

  Except nerves, of course. If Gunnar Scott looks me in the eye and tells me I’m no fun in bed, I’ll die of embarrassment.

  “Still thinking too hard, Paxton,” he says. “What did we just talk about?”

  “You don’t know that,” I sputter. But I am so busted. “It could be anything. It could be seventeen ways to remove your clothing. With my teeth.”

  “I rest my case,” he says, stroking my palm with one naughty thumb. “That sounds overly complicated. I only need one or two ways to rip off your clothes. Three at most,” he says.

  “At most?” I echo weakly. Because now I’m picturing Gunnar’s hands on my body. And I like that picture. A lot.

  “And I probably won’t use my teeth, because I’m not a patient man tonight.” He turns his head to let his eyes wander down my body. I feel his gaze like a physical touch.

  “Impatient. Got it,” I babble. I’ve never had the kind of hasty sex that requires hurling clothing in all directions. That sounds exciting, plus it will leave less time for me to feel self-conscious.

  We stop at one more street corner. My building is already in view across the way. “So, just to be clear, I’m coming upstairs for a really sinful—” he smiles at me “—dessert?”

  Gulp. “I see what you did there.”

  “Well?” His eyes darken, and his thumb takes another slow sweep of my palm. Shivers climb up my arm and zing everywhere inside me. “What’s it going to be?”

  Pie and then dirty, dirty sex! my hormones shout.

  I would have said this aloud, or some version of it. But I don’t get a chance. Because the next thing I hear is the unmistakable sound of a plate glass window breaking.

  12

  Gunnar

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the shimmer of the pie shop window as it crashes violent
ly toward the ground.

  “Shit.” I clasp Posy’s hand in mine and tug her diagonally across the street at a brisk clip. En route, I try to work out what just happened. The front door of the pie shop is still shut, with the store’s metal security gate still lowered into place. I can see the padlock shining from here.

  So whoever broke the window did so from inside the building.

  Abruptly I change course, heading for the narrow alleyway that runs between two neighboring buildings on this block.

  “Stay here,” I bark. Then I drop Posy’s hand and run down the alley toward the back.

  Posy—who never did listen to me—lets out a squeak of protest. And as I run, I can hear her following me. But there’s no time to argue the point. Even before I reach the back of the building, someone streaks past me on foot. I step on the gas and give it my all, arriving in the alley seconds later.

  But there's nobody in sight. A quick scan of the brick façades around me reveals a multitude of escape options. The guy could have escaped over any number of fences and fire escapes. I look at each one in turn, trying to spot him. But no luck. “Fuck,” I curse as Posy arrives beside me. I grab her hand, because she's obviously not that good at listening to my instructions, and I tow her toward the back door of the pie shop. Sure enough, it's standing open, the door swinging gently on its hinges.

  “Is someone still inside?” she gasps.

  “Stay here. Call 911. Don't come in, no matter what.”

  Her eyes wide, she takes a step back. Then she pulls out her phone.

  I wait until I’m sure she’s dialing, and then I hop up onto the back stoop where Jerry likes to sit and read his comics. Then I press on, stepping carefully into the kitchen.

  It's a mess. Someone has trashed the place. There are mixing bowls on the floor, and an overturned sack of flour near the reach-in refrigerator.

  There’s nobody here, though. So I move through the kitchen, which echoes with the quality of silence that makes me pretty sure I'm alone. Posy’s tiny office has been trashed as well. The computer is lying on the floor, the screen broken. A file drawer has been ripped from its cabinet and tossed onto the ground.