Loverboy

by Bowen, Sarina

  But my heart doesn't really drop until I step through into the cafe area. There's glass everywhere. Not only is the front window broken, so is the display case. There are shards of glass in the pristine pies that were waiting for their chance in the refrigerator case. Only the antique cash register is unscathed. It’s solid steel, though. Hard to manhandle.

  The drawer is still shut, too. Posy makes a bank deposit every night, so there probably wasn't much in the register, anyway. But this is still a disaster. I feel sick just looking at the mess.

  “Gunnar?” she squeaks from somewhere behind me. I quickly retrace my steps and go back outside. When I step into view, she gives me a quick look of relief. “I didn't hear from you and—"

  “Hey, it's fine, I’m fine. But there's no easy way to put this, someone has trashed your place.”

  “Is it bad?” she asks in a quiet voice.

  There's no point in trying to sugarcoat it. “It's bad.”

  “Oh,” she says quietly. Her hands come together, clasped in worry. “I don't, uh, this has never happened to me before. What did they want? What could be missing?”

  “I really don’t know.” Breaking and entering a restaurant after hours isn’t very practical. Thieves look for things like computer equipment and technology. They only care about cash value. The pie shop doesn’t have anything like that. “I honestly have no idea what they wanted. Your cash register seems intact. But the front window has been trashed, and the display case is broken.”

  She flinches. “The police are on their way. They said to meet them out front.” She moves to join me on the stoop and cut through the store.

  “Let's walk around outside,” I suggest. “The police will want to get a look before we touch anything.” Besides, I really don’t want her to see this devastation. Not that I can help it. Whether I delay her or not, Posy is going to be horrified by the full extent of the damage. And nothing I can say will make it better.

  But Posy takes the hand that I offer, allowing me to lead her around toward the front of the building. I’d hoped to see a cruiser approaching already.

  But instead I see Posy’s ex-husband—Spalding—and his new girlfriend. They’re both standing on the sidewalk, staring at the glass all over the sidewalk. Isn’t it strange that they’d turn up right now? Spalding wears an impeccable tuxedo, though, and shiny shoes. Saroya wears a ballgown and heels.

  So it wasn’t either one of them that I just chased in the alley. Still. “What are you two doing here right now?” I bark.

  Spalding’s head snaps in my direction, and his eyes narrow. “Who wants to know? Posy—what the hell? Who is he?” Spalding demands with a sneer. “And what happened to your window?”

  “Back off. I’ll ask the questions,” I rumble, forgetting that I’m supposed to be the barista in this situation. “Where are you coming from right now?”

  “The opera,” Spalding sniffs. “Not that it’s any of your business. Posy—we’ve got to call the police. Did you ever install those security cameras I told you about? This could have all been prevented if you had better security.”

  Her eyes widen with dismay. “Fuck you, Spalding. Like you give a damn what happens to me.”

  “Of course I do!” He looks surprised that she’d even say such a thing. He reaches out and grabs the metal lattice that’s supposed to protect Posy’s window from harm. Then he shakes it. “How’d the window break with this thing in the way?”

  Without even thinking I reach over and grab his arm, removing it forcefully from the grate. “Stop it, dumbass. Is there any reason you’d want to tamper with a crime scene before the police arrive?”

  “What—?” he sputters. “Unhand me! Are the police even on their way?”

  “Yes, and so are you,” I say, shooing the ex away with a hopeful gesture. “Move along now. We’ve got this under control.”

  “Doesn’t look like it,” Spalding barks.

  “Really?” I take a step toward him, and my body language is a hundred percent menacing. “The lady doesn’t want your help. Leave now. Before I remove you myself.”

  “Come on, honey,” Saroya says, her eyes as wide as saucers. “Let’s go upstairs. The hot barista is clearly deranged.”

  They actually back away slowly, as if I’m a grenade that might suddenly blow. Then Spalding pulls a set of keys out of his pocket and opens the door to the building right next door to Posy’s. I watch, stunned, as they go inside together.

  When I spin around again, Posy is holding her head in her hands and surveying the damage.

  “Posy, sweetheart,” I say as gently as possible. “Does your ex-husband live right next door?” This changes everything. My head is suddenly more full of conspiracy theories than Max’s. Spalding could be using Posy’s WiFi all day long in the privacy of his own apartment.

  Exes are always trouble. Every investigator knows this on a gut level.

  “Yes,” she says, her voice dull. “Right next door. Although I might see less of them now that you’ve scared them away. Thanks for that.”

  “My pleasure. Who puts sugar-free peppermint in their coffee, anyway? It’s so obvious there’s something wrong with her.”

  Posy gives me a weak smile just as a police cruiser pulls up and parks in front of a hydrant. “Oh man,” a uniformed officer says, climbing out. “That looks bad. Are you the business owner?” he asks me.

  I put two hands on Posy’s shoulders. “This is the boss,” I tell him. “I’m just the barista.”

  “Sorry for your troubles, miss.”

  “Thank you,” Posy says. “What would you like to see first?”

  * * *

  For the next ninety minutes the cops look around and take Posy’s report. When she finally sees the full extent of her trashed interior, her eyes get shiny and red.

  Oh, man. I gotta catch whoever did this, just to make that fucker pay. I must be going soft. I’m not usually the kind of guy who’s moved by tears.

  Turning away, I step carefully toward the far wall of the cafe, noting that the ceramic cow and my tiny camera are still right where I left them.

  It was so dark in here, though. The footage is probably going to be useless. Still, it’s worth a shot.

  “Hey,” I say to Posy, as soon as the patrolman walks away from her. “I have some friends who own a security company. Can I call them for you? They’ll come over and board up that window first thing in the morning. You can’t wait too long. If we have rain, it’s going to blow right in through that security grate and mess up these wooden floors.”

  “Well …” Posy kicks at a shard of glass with her shoe. “Only if they’re not too expensive.”

  “Yeah, uh, pretty reasonable.” In truth, many of The Company’s clients pay us a million a year. But Posy will be getting the Gunnar Scott discount.

  I pull out my phone and connect to our main dispatch number. “Go ahead, Gunnar,” an agent barks into my ear.

  If this were an emergency, I’d reply with my location and my backup needs. But it isn’t, so I stay in character. “Good evening. We’ve had a bit of trouble at a storefront on Mercer and Prince. I was hoping you could help us board up a plate glass window that’s just been shattered. Of course there’s some urgency to it.”

  “Interesting,” the agent says into my ear. “Okay, sure. I’ll find someone to get down there. Tonight?”

  “Tomorrow morning would be optimal,” I say in my super polite voice. “The security grate will keep people out until then.”

  “If you say so, dude. What time?”

  “How does eight o’clock sound?” I ask Posy.

  She shrugs listlessly. It’s probably just dawning on her that she can’t open tomorrow. Her customers will start turning up at seven a.m. to find a storefront straight out of a war zone.

  If this were my business, I’d be making that sad face, too.

  13

  Posy

  It takes eighty-seven years for the police to poke around my ruined shop. And all my str
ength to keep from crumpling onto a cafe chair and sobbing. It’s not just the money, either. Although I’m terrified to know what it will cost to fix the window, the display case, and to buy a new computer. But those are just things. Objects are replaceable. I know this.

  Even so, I feel violated. Who would vandalize my shop and break glass into my lemon meringue? Who has such animosity toward me that they could do this? It makes no sense. As I told the cops, the most valuable thing in the place is Lola. And she’s too heavy to steal.

  Nothing makes any sense. I feel shaky and lost.

  And then a sudden, loud bang makes me startle.

  “Sorry!” a cop calls from the back. “Knocked a broom over!”

  And now I’m shaking. My nerves are shot.

  “We’re finished here, miss,” Officer Tomkins says at long last. “The police report will be filed by noon tomorrow, and you can forward that to your insurance company. If you think of anything of value that was taken, you’ll be sure to give us a call by ten a.m.?”

  “Yes,” I say dully. “Thank you.”

  Gunnar is standing by the metal security grate, examining the dent that was made when the vandal’s brick flew through the glass and then stretched it. “This gate may not retract properly unless it’s repaired,” he says.

  I can’t even think about that right now. I’m too heartsick to process another problem. “Can I deal with it tomorrow?”

  He turns to study me. “Of course you can. I’ll ask my security guy to take a look at it when he shows up with the boards.”

  “Thank you,” I say again. And then I yawn.

  “Lock up, then,” Gunnar says, beckoning me toward the door. “You look like you’re about to topple over.”

  “I’ll be okay,” I say grumpily.

  “I don’t know, Paxton,” he crosses his arms across his impeccable chest. “You jumped about a foot when that broom toppled over.”

  “Anyone would!” I stomp toward the door. Even though I’ve already swept the floor, tiny shards of glass still crunch underfoot, and it just makes me want to howl. I’ve poured every waking hour into this place for the last ten months.

  “Come on.” Gunnar gives me a sad smile and holds the door open for me.

  Grumpy, I turn my back on him and lock up. As if locking up even matters. The damage is already done.

  “Is your sister home?” Gunnar asks as I turn and switch keys, fumbling now for the one that will open the adjacent door—the one that leads to the upstairs apartments.

  “No,” I say, my voice hollow. “She's out tonight, which is why I was going to—” invite you over. I’m too embarrassed to finish the sentence. It seems impossible that Gunnar kissed me on the street corner just a couple of hours ago.

  I can't believe I expected a fantasy tonight. Instead, I got a disaster.

  Gunnar has been nothing but helpful and generous, though. But it’s just like fifteen years ago, when I was flailing behind the bar as he quietly solved all the problems and cleaned up the messes. I used to hate how incompetent Gunnar made me feel at my own family's place of business.

  I’m a hot mess once again.

  Gunnar clicks his tongue, the way you'd soothe an irritated horse. “Go upstairs, Posy. Get some sleep. Everything will seem less bleak in the morning.”

  “Will it?” I can only pray that he's right. The lock clicks, and I swing my front door open. Since the pie shop occupies most of the ground floor, the narrow vestibule holds only our mailboxes, the basement door, and a flight of dimly lit stairs stretching upward toward the second floor.

  It's perfectly quiet here; I don't hear footsteps or voices. But the familiar staircase still intimidates me. Somewhere nearby, there's a stranger who wants to do me harm. As I glance up into the stillness, it occurs to me to wonder if he’s lurking somewhere nearby. Maybe he climbed the fire escape to wait for me alone in my darkened apartment.

  Turning slowly around again, I find Gunnar right there where I left him. It’s late, and he probably wants to get home. But he’s watching me patiently.

  “I still owe you a slice of chocolate pie,” I blurt out. “I mean—that was kind of a ruse before. But, um, I still have the pie even if the night is kind of wrecked …” I 'm rambling like a lunatic. But the truth is that I'd rather appear even helpless and unstable than go upstairs alone right now.

  “Are you offering me a piece of dark chocolate pie?” Gunnar asks, lifting his too-handsome chin. “Then I accept. Any chance you'd have a glass of milk to go with it? When it’s late, I like a glass of milk.”

  “Yes,” I say quickly. “No problem.”

  “Perfect. Shall we?” He walks right past me and starts up the stairs with a confident step.

  Feeling a little ridiculous, I close the door and follow him. “The main entrance to my apartment is all the way up on five,” I say as his long legs eat up the stairs. “But there's also a door on four. My place has two levels.”

  “Okay,” he says calmly, marching up the stairs. “Why don't we stop on four, and I'll take a peek inside?”

  I feel a wave of pure relief.

  * * *

  Gunnar checks every room thoroughly—first Ginny and Aaron’s space, and then upstairs, too.

  Having Gunnar step into my bedroom should have been exciting. But here we are, with him checking my closet for intruders while I wring my hands.

  “Hey now,” he says. “There’s nobody here. Except for these guys.” He points at a stack of my sister’s books on my bedside table.

  My cheeks heat as he lifts the first one and studies the cover. There’s nothing embarrassing about reading romance novels. Unless you’re me, and you’re binging on them to try to learn to be a more passionate lover.

  “I really don’t see the resemblance between me and this guy,” Gunnar says, tossing the book on the bed.

  “Oh.” I glance down and realize that the model on the cover is the same one as on the book I’d been reading in the bar. “I didn’t notice that they were the same. The, uh, hockey padding threw me off.”

  “This modeling gig must pay well, right? Maybe I should try it out for extra cash. I know a guy who used to play hockey. He could lend me the gear.” Gunnar picks up the next book, and then the next one. He’s trying to distract me from the night’s horrors. “These guys are all different. Except this one—” he tosses a book on the bed “—is the hockey player’s brother.”

  “What?” I pick it up and squint at the shirtless model. “I don’t see the resemblance. They don’t even have the same hair color. Besides, it would be unusual for a hockey player to have a rock star for a brother.”

  Gunnar snorts. “I’m really good with faces. Bet you five bucks they’re related.”

  “How will we know?”

  Gunnar reaches over and flips on my bedside lamp. Then he sits down on the edge of the bed like he owns the place. “It probably says so in here.” He flips a few pages and stops on the copyright notice. “Cover model Alex Olsen. And this one …” He lifts the other book and does the same thing. “Blaine Olsen!” He lets out a whoop of victory. “Read it and weep, honey.” He hands me the book.

  “I’ll be damned,” I say, checking to make sure he’s not putting me on. “I guess I owe you five bucks.”

  “And a slice of chocolate pie.” Gunnar gets up off my bed and trots toward the kitchen. “With milk,” he says over his shoulder.

  I follow him to the kitchen, as if it were completely normal to have midnight snacks with my barista after a two-hour chat with the cops. “Whipped cream on top, or no?”

  “No sane man ever says no to whipped cream,” he says. “Bring it on.”

  If I weren’t so exhausted, I would think he was hitting on me again. I cut him a decadent slice and squirt some whipped cream on top. Then I pour him a tall glass of milk and sit him down on the sofa to eat it.

  “I’m winning at life,” he says, cutting a large bite with the fork. “Why don’t you get ready for bed while I eat this? I can wait
on your sofa until your sister gets home.”

  “That won’t be for hours,” I tell him. “You can go. I, uh, already ruined your evening. And tomorrow is your day off.”

  As soon as I say this, I realize that there’s no way I can open the shop in the morning. To my embarrassment, hot tears begin to fill my eyes.

  “Oh boy,” Gunnar says, diving for a napkin and handing it to me. “None of that, now.”

  “I’m just so mad,” I grind out. “Someone has it in for me. What did I ever do to them?” I blot my tears furiously.

  Gunner sets down his fork, looking worried. “I really don’t know, Posy. The break-in is weird. But there’s nothing more you can do about it tonight.”

  “I know,” I gulp. “And I’ll be fine.”

  Still, I think he’s afraid to leave me alone. After I put on my PJs, and he washes his plate in the sink, he shuts out the lights in the kitchen and living room. I expect him to leave, but that’s not what happens. Instead, he sits down on one end of the L-shaped couch. “I’ll sit a while, unless you’d rather I go,” he says. “You seem nervous.”

  “That’s kind of you,” I say, feeling awkward. Although he’s right. I can’t just toddle off to bed, though. So I sit down on the other end of the sectional. It ought to be weird sitting alone with Gunnar in the dark. But it’s the least weird thing that’s happened tonight.

  “I can’t believe your ex and his new piece live next door,” Gunnar says eventually. “How did that happen?”

  “He owns that building now,” I yawn. “The judge gave it to him in my divorce.”

  “A whole building?” Gunnar sputters.

  “Well, not outright. He has a mortgage. But Spalding put me through business school about ten years ago.”

  “Still. Ouch. What kind of man takes his wife’s property in a divorce?”