“His kind,” I grumble. “These buildings belonged to my great-grandparents—the ones who started Paxton’s. My grandmother was born in this apartment. And she taught me to make pies in that kitchen.” I point into my darkened kitchen. “She left Ginny and me the two buildings when she died five years ago. Ginny sold her share to me, in order to finish her degree. So I had to take out a loan. I didn’t want to sell any property. But then came my divorce. And I had to choose.”
“You let the other building go.”
“I did,” I confirm, staring up at my darkened ceiling. “All the memories are in this one, anyway. It’s fine.” But I’m really sick of talking about myself now. I’d rather pry information out of Gunnar. “Where did you go, anyway?” I ask suddenly.
“When? Tonight?”
“No.” I lift my feet onto the sofa and rest my head against a throw pillow. “Fifteen years ago, when you quit the bar before Labor Day?”
“Quit?” Gunnar sits up suddenly. “I never quit anything.”
“But you disappeared. Right after you—” kissed me. I clear my throat. “I got the bar manager’s job by default, because you weren’t there to kick my ass. Why did you go?”
For a long beat, he just stares at me. “Your father canned me, Posy. I assumed you knew that.”
“What?” I lift my head off the cushion and squint at him. “He told me you quit and left him high and dry.”
Gunnar flinches, like he’s been slapped. “Seriously? He said that?”
“Yes. He said that exactly.”
Another long moment ticks by, with Gunnar’s handsome mouth set into a grim line. Then he groans. “That is not what happened. Your father is a bigger asshole than I knew.”
“Why would he fire you, anyway? Even if he was trying to keep the manager’s job in the family, we were still shorthanded behind the bar.”
Gunnar gets up and does a slow circuit of the darkened room. “Do you remember what happened the last night I worked there?”
How could we forget? my hormones cry. That kiss was everything!
“I’m not sure what you mean.” I clear my throat.
Even in the dark, I can see Gunnar look down and smile. “Aw, you don’t remember the kiss? What a blow to my ego.”
“Oh, I remember,” I admit. Like it was yesterday. His hands in my hair. His hard body pressing against mine. I don’t actually remember how it started. We’d been arguing viciously, and the next minute we were kissing. It was glorious.
He stops by the window and looks outside, where the streetlights are shining down on Mercer Street. It’s never really dark in New York. “Well, when I came in for work the next day, he called me into his office. He said that you’d complained to him about me. That I’d been very inappropriate with you.”
“What?” I gasp. “I would never have said that.”
“But I was,” he says darkly. “He wasn’t wrong.”
“Oh, please. It’s not inappropriate if I—” Oh my. I’m going to have to finish that sentence. “—If I enjoyed it.”
He shrugs, as if it doesn’t matter. “Sometimes people aren’t sure what they want. I thought you might have changed your mind later.”
“Not hardly,” I say emphatically. “And I’m not the kind to go tattling to Daddy. He doesn’t listen when I talk anyway. God forbid I had an actual problem that needed solving.”
He’s still staring out the window, like Mercer Street at midnight is the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. “He made it your fault, too. What a turd.”
“I’m sorry, Gunn. I don’t know how that happened.” My memory of that night is a little sketchy. Not because I’ve forgotten that kiss, but because it had scrambled my brain. One minute we were shouting at each other over some little bartending dispute. And the next minute we were kissing. It was like a sudden clap of thunder.
We only stopped when my father called my name. But he wasn’t in the doorway. He’d been farther off.
“He must have seen us,” Gunnar says, as if he’s following my memory at the same speed. “Or maybe someone else ratted us out. But he made it very clear that I was a lowlife kid from the boroughs who should have known better than to touch his daughter.”
“What an asshole.” I thought I was done learning all the ways my father could be an asshole. But I guess there was no end to it. “He lied to me, too. He told me that he’d planned to give you the bar manager’s job, but since you quit, he had to give it to me instead.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Gunnar snarls. “He fired me, telling me it was your fault. And then he tells you that you’re his second choice? Who does that?”
“Him, obviously. And the funny thing? I could have sworn he liked you more than he liked me.” Showing love wasn’t my dad’s style.
“Not true. He handed me my last check and told me never to come back. And not to file for unemployment or he’d tell the cops I stole from him.”
“What?” I yelp. “That’s horrible!” My dad is an animal. He really is. “Although I’m not surprised. He’s done worse to his own family.”
“Like what?”
“Like cutting off Ginny when she got pregnant. And …” I guess I don’t really need to unload all our ugliest secrets tonight. “He’s not a nice man. And I spent a lot of time trying to please him. I keep telling myself that I won’t do it anymore. But do you know what I thought about tonight while I was watching the policemen poke around?”
“No idea.”
“I thought, I hope my father doesn’t hear about this. He’ll think I can’t handle my own business.”
“We all do that.” He sits down on his end of the couch again, his feet up on the coffee table. “The stuff our fathers do to us is hard to forget. Some people never get over it.”
“Therapists have to make their money somehow,” I say with a yawn.
He chuckles quietly. “I guess so.”
We sit in a comfortable silence for a few more minutes, until I realize something strange. “You still wanted the barista job.”
“Sorry?” he asks, yawning.
“You thought I got you fired from Paxton’s. And you still wanted to work for me. Why? That makes no sense.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “A job is a job,” he says eventually. “And fifteen years is a long time to nurse a grudge.”
“Is it?” I ask. I’m pretty sure my grudge against my father has another decade to go. At least.
* * *
Eight hours later, I open my eyes to find sunlight streaming into my bedroom windows. I’m lying on top of my covers, and I’m covered by the blanket that usually lives on the back of the couch.
And someone is moving around in my living room. I’m not frightened, though, because that someone stubs her foot on the corner of the coffee table, and the curse she makes definitely belongs to Ginny.
I sit up, groggy, trying to remember how last night ended. But I can’t quite remember anything that happened after my late-night confessional with Gunnar on the sofa.
He must have carried me to bed and covered me with a blanket.
Oh wow, my hormones say. That’s romantic.
And also embarrassing.
“Hey—are you okay?” My sister appears in the doorway to my bedroom. “I can’t believe someone trashed the pie shop! You should have called me!” She puts her hands on her hips and glares at me.
“You were having a fun date, and I didn’t want to ruin it. You probably wouldn’t have even checked your phone. One of us should be having sex.” I cover my face with my hands. “I tried, Ginny. I almost managed it. But before we even got across the street, the vandal shattered the window.”
“Oh, honey!” Ginny bounds into the room and plops onto the bed. “Really? You picked up a guy? That’s—” Ginny’s eyes go wide. “Omigod. Was it Gunnar?”
“Yes,” I sigh, feeling embarrassed all over again. “I invited him home for spicy chocolate pie and sex. Instead, all he got was a long conversation with the cop
s. And the pie, I guess. Eventually.”
“Whoa …” Ginny sits on the edge of the bed. “This is more shocking than the break-in, Posy. You really went for it? That’s bold! How did you put it to him …” she wiggles her eyebrows “… so that he’d put it to you?”
“Actually, I was kind of a chicken,” I grumble. “I used the pie as an excuse to invite him over. But my intentions were clear.”
“Were they?” She gives me a once-over. “Maybe they weren’t clear enough, or you could have gotten some after the whole crime scene thing.”
“I was too upset.” I sit up a little. “And too tired. What time is it?”
“Nine,” she says.
“NINE?” I throw off the blanket. “I have to get downstairs. Gunnar asked some kind of security company to stop by and board up the window.”
“Oh, they’re just about done,” Ginny says with a wave of her hand. “Although it isn’t boarded up. They found a glass company that works Saturdays. They’re putting the finishing touches on it. And Gunnar had them give your security grate an upgrade.”
“Gunnar did what?” I wrestle my PJ shirt off and lunge for my bra. “I can’t afford an upgrade.” I’m about to spend my day throwing away pie, cleaning up debris and basically starting over.
“You can’t afford to get broken into again, though,” my sister says, examining her nails. “Aren’t you going to ask about my night?”
“How was your night?” I ask, jumping into a pair of jeans. “Just tell me the G-rated parts.”
“There weren’t any G-rated parts,” she says with a grin. “This guy had all the moves. I’m going to be thinking about it for a month.”
“Aren’t you going to see him again?”
She shrugs. “I hope so, but you never know. He seems a little flighty. A little full of himself. He’ll probably find someone with fewer obligations to bang. Kind of hard to blame him. But at least I got one great night. It could be months before I get another. But that’s okay, I can store it up. I’m like a sex camel.”
“A sex …” I decide not to pursue that idea any further. “Good for you.” Let’s face it—I really don’t understand my sister. We’ve always had completely different approaches to life. She has a very fulfilling sex life, though, and she’s not afraid to pursue it. Note to self.
I dash for the bathroom to quickly brush my teeth and hair before I have to come face to face with the hottest man I almost-but-not-quite had sex with.
14
Gunnar
It’s no accident that I let Posy sleep in while my crew fixed up the pie shop. By the time she appears in tight jeans and a T-shirt that says BAKE right across her delectable chest, there’s a new window installed on the shop, and a sturdier lock on the back door. The floor has been swept clean, and the display case has been repaired.
Except for the pies themselves—which my guys were sad to throw away—the place looks completely untouched by last night’s crime.
Some of our fixes aren’t visible to the eye, though. There are six brand new cameras hidden around the cafe. They’re top-of-the-line devices, and so well camouflaged that nobody will ever find them. Nothing that happens in this space will go undetected by the team at The Company headquarters.
I feel terribly guilty about this, even though Posy’s shop is now safer than Fort Knox. She wouldn’t appreciate the deception. Hopefully it will be over soon, and she’ll never have to know.
On the bright side, she appreciates the cleanup job I’ve supervised. As soon as her eyes sweep the room, taking everything in, she squeals with happiness. “Oh my god! Gunnar! This is amazing. I can’t believe how much better it looks in here. I’m terrified to see the bill. Truly terrified. But I’m still super impressed.” She turns slowly in a circle, her mouth open. “My god—I can reopen tomorrow. Even if the insurance company stiffs me, at least I won’t be closed more than a day.”
“They won’t,” I say quickly. “I took pictures before they fixed the window.”
At that, Posy smiles. And it’s not just a little smile, it takes over her whole face. And I feel that smile everywhere, because I put it there. As soon as I get the chance, I’m going to make her smile again, for entirely different reasons.
I still want my night with her. How many times can a guy get interrupted? You know that saying—the third time’s a charm? It better be true.
“You guys,” she says, clapping her hands together. “I can’t offer you pie, because it was all ruined. But does anyone want a coffee drink? And the cookies in the fridge will still be good.”
“Oh hell yes,” says Duff, who’s masquerading as a handyman today. He’s wearing a zip-up jumpsuit and everything. “Who’s the barista around here, anyway?”
Fucking Duff.
“Well, it’s this guy,” Posy says, jerking a thumb toward me. “But he’s done enough already. I’ll make you a drink. What do you like?” She walks over and flips on Lola.
“Anything you’re making,” Duff says, then he follows her over to the counter and leans against it, admiring Posy. And I have the strangest urge to punch him. It’s weird, because I’m not the jealous kind.
Huh. I must just be exhausted after that long night on Posy’s sofa. I laid awake for hours, trying to decide whether Posy’s break-in was related to Max’s case.
And now Max is blowing up my texts, wanting to discuss it with me.
I need a nap, I tell him. Let’s talk this afternoon.
2pm, he fires back. The Harkness Club.
Ugh. Fine, I reply. See you at 2.
* * *
The damn club has a dress code. So after my nap and a shower, I put on a nice shirt and head uptown to the richly paneled game room at the club, where Max is an honorary member.
Carl Bayer—Max’s dad—attended Harkness College, and joined the club upon graduation. When he started up his private security firm in the nineties, the club immediately employed his services.
Max and I went to Columbia, though, not Harkness. We should be ineligible for club membership. But then, five years ago, Max and I uncovered an embezzlement scheme at the club. Upon recovering a hundred thousand dollars of mishandled funds, the club offered us both free memberships for life. “We’re better off with you two permanently on the premises,” the president had said with a chuckle.
I declined, because I can’t stand stuffy rich people. But Max accepted. And once in a while I find myself sliding into a leather wing backed chair in front of Max. “Did you order lunch?” I ask him. “Because I’m totally putting a bowl of that lobster bisque on your tab.”
“Order two,” he says, unfazed. “And the duck confit salad.”
I flag down one of the obsequious middle-aged waiters, who’s wearing a tuxedo at one o’clock on a Saturday afternoon. Poor guy. The reason I worked my ass off in college was so I wouldn’t end up serving drinks to rich assholes my whole life. I place my order, adding, “We’d like a basket of those warm cheddar crackers, please.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Good call on the warm cheddar crackers,” Max says, sinking back into his chair.
“They’re the best thing about the Harkness Club,” I say grumpily.
Max ignores the dig and opens up one of the club’s beautifully inlaid wooden backgammon boards. “Let’s have a little game before the food arrives.”
“I knew you’d find a way to make me pay for lunch.” Max always wins at backgammon, and I can’t resist betting against him. Just one time I’d like to clean his clock. So I keep betting.
We roll the dice to see who starts, and Max comes out on top. Of course he does. “Talk to me,” he says while rolling for his first move.
“I spent all night thinking about the break-in, and I still don’t understand it.”
“Same, same,” Max says, collecting his dice. “All we know about our perp is that he likes to use bakery WiFi for all his propaganda needs. Was Posy’s modem knocked out last night?”
“The computer was trash
ed, but the modem was only unplugged. I plugged it back in this morning. It’s fully functional right now.”
“Hmm. That’s a lot of hassle for just unplugging a modem. Although the connection log was destroyed, right? That might have been the goal.”
I’m not convinced. “They didn’t take the hard drive from the machine. If you really wanted to cover your tracks, you’d grab it.”
Max doesn’t say anything for a while, and I can’t tell if he’s thinking about the break-in or just concentrating on humiliating me at backgammon. “Maybe the break-in is unrelated,” he finally says.
“It’s certainly possible. Maybe even probable. And I’ve been hoping to poke holes in your grand conspiracy all week. The problem is that the break-in makes no sense on any level. There was nothing of value to steal. The vandal didn’t spend much time looking through her files, either. It was a straight-up toss and run job.”
“Does Posy have enemies?”
I snort. “Posy doesn’t make enemies. She makes pie.”
“Disgruntled former employee?” he tries.
“Maybe.” I shrug. “She got hit with a workers comp claim that she said was bogus. She and her sister were freaking out about it yesterday. But she hasn’t even had a chance to respond to that.”
“Then we’re missing something,” Max says. “We began this adventure thinking that Posy’s Pie Shop had nothing more to do with the crimes than a convenient WiFi connection. And maybe that’s still true. But now you’re going to have to dig into the business to be sure.”
I look down to see that Max has rolled another double. Fucking backgammon. He always wins. Even the waiter who's brought us our cheddar crackers winces.
This game might cost me two hundred bucks. We'll settle up later, of course, since the Harkness Club doesn't permit gambling. Or even phones. It's a haven from technology in the middle of the city. And the members of this joint pay tens of thousands of dollars a year to strip themselves of their phones in this room.
Rich men are weird. I realize I’m one of them now. But I don’t have to act like it.
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