Loverboy

by Bowen, Sarina

  I bite into a cracker. It’s salty and cheesy perfection. Posy would like these, I think. I should tell her about them.

  But no, I can’t. Because baristas don’t lunch at the Harkness Club. It’s out of character with the role I’m playing at the pie shop.

  The truth is I’m bone tired of lying to Posy. My line of work requires lying. It doesn’t usually bother me, because I’m working hard to keep bad guys away from good guys. And I’m telling small lies in search of greater truths.

  I lost my room key.

  The manager sent me to ask you a few questions.

  I’m here to fix your computer.

  This time it’s different. I knew Posy before my days as an operative, so she has a reasonable expectation of hearing the truth from me. I feel closer to her than I expected to. And lying to her feels like a violation.

  Installing those cameras in her shop this morning made me feel squicky. And now I’m going to do a deep dive into her private life, too? Although I can’t really see an alternative.

  “Posy is recently divorced,” I tell Max. “Her ex might have a grudge, although I don’t see how. He walked away with a nice settlement.”

  Max glances up at me. “I thought they didn’t have children?”

  “They don’t.”

  My friend makes a face. “No able-bodied man should ask his ex-wife to support him.”

  “Preach. He has a younger girlfriend, too. She looks familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “Really? You’re so good with faces.”

  “I know. She reminds me of someone, but I’m not sure who.”

  “Add her to the list,” Max says. “I’ll handle their finances. You look into everyone’s past.”

  “Sure. With regard to finances, I’d always assumed that Posy was very well funded. Her daddy made a wad selling the family restaurant to a private equity firm. But now I’m not so sure about her bottom line. She’s probably real estate rich but cash poor. The price of a new plate-glass window seems heavy on her mind.”

  “Hmm.” Max tents his fingers. “I’ll look into it later. Someone in her life may be caught up in this drama.”

  “It's possible,” I concede.

  “You know what this means, right? You have to stay sharp where she’s concerned.”

  “Yeah, that’s starting to sink in.” I need to find The Plumber and figure out who’s trying to wreck the pie shop. And I can’t let myself be distracted by the pretty lady in the kitchen. It’s not good for my concentration, and it’s not fair to her, either.

  The waiter approaches with a tray, and Max is forced to set our backgammon game aside to make room for our lunch. “I suppose I can finish you off later.”

  “You know it.” I place my napkin in my lap. “Let’s eat some stuffy rich dude food first. This lobster bisque is barking my name.”

  Max gives me a funny smile and picks up his spoon.

  * * *

  We never do finish that backgammon game, though. Instead, we head upstairs to the club’s library—where computers are permitted—and sit down to spend some quality time looking up all the details of Posy’s life.

  First I focus on her father. Nothing much to see there. He sold his grandparents’ restaurant and cashed out. He owns a penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side and a home in Southampton.

  Posy’s mother lives in Paris with her new boyfriend. They don’t look very interesting, either.

  Then I look for dirt on Spalding Whittmer Jr. and Saroya. Usually you can’t get anywhere if you don’t have a last name, but Saroya is an unusual enough name that I find her right away. She used to be a real estate broker in Brooklyn. Her picture is still on their web page.

  Meanwhile, Max is digging into Posy’s finances. “You were right. Your rich girl isn’t a rich girl anymore,” he says when he finds Posy’s mortgage documents. “She’s increased her debt load twice.”

  Looking over his shoulder, it’s pretty hard to deny it. Posy borrowed money to buy out her sister a few years ago. And then she increased her burden again when she had to sign over the adjacent building to her ex.

  “Her divorce lawyer should be disbarred,” I whisper. She lost a big chunk of her inheritance to her asshole ex. “I think she’s supporting her sister, too.”

  “Really? Why?”

  I shrug. “Seems like daddy disowned Ginny when she had a kid with a criminal.”

  “What kind of criminal?”

  I jot down a note to figure that out.

  “Still,” Max muses. “Posy could sell that building and walk away with some cash in her pocket.”

  “She doesn’t want to. It’s the one part of her old life that she wants to save. Her ex is having a kid with his new piece. Posy practically sets herself on fire every time they walk into the place.” I feel a spark of anger just mentioning them. Usually I don't get all emotional over a background check. But her ex is such a tool.

  Besides, I used to think Posy was spoiled. If I’m honest, I disliked her for it. She hadn’t worked a real job before that summer at the bar. And she never had the crushing student loan debt that I did. Everything seemed so easy for her.

  I’m starting to realize it’s not.

  “Posy’s business is drowning?” Max asks.

  “Struggling against the current, anyway. It isn’t easy to run a small business in that expensive neighborhood. Her taxes are high. She needs a new roof, and the bricks need repointing. The place is worth millions, but only on paper.”

  “Messy,” Max says.

  “Yep.” But Posy shows up with a smile every morning at five to make pies and pastries for other people. She’s inspiring, damn it.

  “Do you think the ex-husband could be dirty?” Max asks. “Maybe he has a Windows laptop and an unfortunate connection to the Turkish mafia.”

  “I’ll check him out. But he seems too clueless to be secretly dropping secrets on the dark web. His new woman, though …” I trail off, trying to decide what to say about her. “She's different. Icy. Pushing her own agenda. She spends a lot of time in the pie shop. Almost like she’s flaunting it. I’m looking at her, too.”

  “Cool,” Max says. “You never know.”

  I go back to my work, spending a few minutes on Saroya. For a young person, she’s had a string of jobs, including the real estate gig. Before that, she managed a car wash in the Far Rockaways. Then the trail goes dark.

  “This was a good start,” Max says, logging off his computer. “But I reserved a racquetball court for us at three-fifteen.”

  “I have my gym bag, but I didn’t bring my racquet.”

  “You can use my extra one. And if I win, you can pretend that was the reason.”

  I roll my eyes, but then I follow him to the elevator anyway. We’re pretty well matched at racquetball, although Max enjoys it more than I do. In college, he was always dragging me off to learn what we both called “rich kid sports.” Like golf, which I detest. And racquetball, which I tolerate.

  But I was never as interested. “Why don’t we throw a frisbee around, and leave squash to the prep school kids?” I’d asked one afternoon when we were sweating in a dank basement court somewhere underneath Columbia.

  “Because I like to beat people at their own games,” Max had said, tossing the ball in the air and catching it. “And so do you, tough kid. We’re going to work on your New York accent, too.”

  “Nevuh,” I’d replied, letting that Queens accent rip.

  But life had other plans for my accent. After college, Max and I went to work together for a branch of government intelligence that I am still not allowed to talk about. And spies don’t speak with big fat New York accents. So I learned really fast to tamp it down.

  Max leads the way to the posh locker rooms downstairs. I toss my gym bag on a bench and dig through it for a pair of shorts. That’s when I happen to overhear a conversation on the opposite side of the bank of lockers that divide the room.

  “Run down the city council meeting
agenda for me?” asks a very familiar voice. And I freeze in place.

  “It’s going to be a long one,” comes the answer. “At least four committees will take the floor.”

  “God damn it, I don’t have time to sit there for three hours,” grumbles another man. And their voices are getting louder.

  Without even thinking, I duck into one of the private changing rooms off to the side. And I linger in there, swapping my khakis for a pair of athletic shorts, while the other men leave the locker room.

  Max gives me a frown when I finally step out. “Are you allergic to city officials? Got a string of parking tickets I should know about?”

  “Nah, I’m good,” I grumble. “Let’s go smash a very bouncy ball all over the walls.”

  But now I have a brand new reason to avoid the Harkness Club.

  15

  Posy

  After one day closed, I’m back in business feeding the hungry people of SoHo.

  Although the break-in has taught me to be afraid. Each morning is an exercise in bravery as I unlock my shop in the predawn darkness, always scared of what I'll find.

  But so far, I’ve always found the new copper lock on the back door intact. And inside, my shop is as tidy as ever. When I flip on all the lights, I see that the sturdy new security grate is still there, protecting my shiny new plate glass window.

  That’s when relief sets in. And the feelings of gratitude.

  In truth, my shop looks better than it did two weeks ago. I needed a decal for my new window, so I chose a better design. Pedestrians on Mercer Street now walk past a cute drawing of a steaming lemon meringue pie, with vintage hand lettering that offers: Pies! Savory Pastries! Life-giving Espresso Drinks!

  I also took this opportunity to repaint the battered legs of the tall pine table in the middle of the room. I chose a can of paint in a cheery pea-green color and did two coats after closing one night. The bright color seemed risky as I brushed it on, but now it looks cheerful and adorable.

  Who knew my cafe needed an act of criminal violence to spruce it up a little? And even though I’m a little terrified to think about the bills coming in, at least I was only shut down for a single day. It could have been so much worse.

  And this edgy feeling I have will pass, right? The first two hours of the day—when I’m alone in the kitchen making pastry—is the scary part. But eventually, employees start showing up. Gunnar’s knock is the first one. And he always follows up by calling out to me, so that I can identify his voice before I open the metal door.

  “Morning,” he says as he steps past me, filling the space with his muscular body and a scent so manly that his shaving soap must be seventy-five percent testosterone. “Everything okay here last night?”

  “Yes, just fine,” I reply in a voice that’s hoarse from both silence and sexual tension.

  That’s the other problem I’ve had since the night of the break-in. My feelings about Gunnar have gone from irritation and attraction to gratitude and full-on lust. My body will never forget those kisses I got before we were interrupted. And my stupid little heart will never forget the way that Gunnar took care to keep me and my shop safe that night.

  But these feelings are apparently one-sided. Gunnar doesn’t spare me more than a glance as he heads for the apron rack, tying a fresh one around his waist. Then he washes his hands at the sink. “Need a coffee before the hoards descend?”

  “That would be wonderful, thank you,” I say in a voice that’s too breathy. I clear my throat and try again. “By the way, I still haven’t gotten a bill for the new window and the grate.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you will,” he says. “Companies like to get paid.” He dries his hands on a paper towel before disappearing toward the cafe. And I catch myself staring at his backside as he walks through the door, wondering how it would feel to lie beneath that strong body.

  Given the choice, I would like to thank Gunnar for all he’s done for me. And my preferred method of thanking him would be to invite him upstairs, strip off his Posy's Pie Shop T-shirt, and lick him everywhere.

  Every time we're in the same room—six days a week—I feel lit up and hungry inside. Every time he catches my eye, I feel a tingle. Every time I hear him laughing with Teagan behind the counter, I ache. Those kisses he gave me last Friday night were magic. And I'm still feeling their lingering effects.

  So potent is my attraction to Gunnar that I'm almost willing to break through the ever-present fear of rejection and do something about it. Almost. The trouble is that I do not live alone. Nights without Ginny and Aaron are about as rare as a lunar eclipse. So I couldn't invite Gunnar over without feeling super awkward about it.

  Ginny disagrees, of course. "Better get on that," Ginny whispers occasionally in the pie shop kitchen. "Before a customer asks him out first. Or Teagan.“

  “Teagan has a live-in boyfriend,” I always snap in reply.

  Still. Every time Ginny mentions him, my eyes take an involuntary journey toward the counter, where Gunnar is inevitably lifting a twenty-five-pound bag of coffee with his Hercules arms to refill the grinder. Or making someone laugh.

  My yearning feels bottomless, and I don't know how to handle it. I’ve never had much experience with lust. I met Spalding at nineteen, so I never learned to navigate a single girl’s hookup.

  And at thirty-four I don't know how to remake myself as a sexy, confident lady about town. These days, my version of sexy attire is taking off my hairnet and putting on a clean T-shirt.

  I could get dolled up and make the first move, maybe by inviting Gunnar out for dinner somewhere. In the unlikely event that he said yes, I'd have to drop hints all evening about how many people there are at my house, until Gunnar finally says, "Let's go back to my place."

  Honestly, that all sounds trickier than the three-layer pumpkin, chocolate and cinnamon pie with a braided crust I made once. And that's why ten days have slipped by without me doing anything about my raging attraction to Gunnar.

  Besides, Gunnar may have forgotten about me. He hasn’t kissed me again, maybe because I’m just too much trouble. But I think he still wants to. Yesterday I could swear his eyes were pinned to my backside while I loaded fresh pastries into the breakfast case. And when I awkwardly lifted my apron over my head at lunchtime, his gaze took in every curve of my chest. Twice.

  Yet he hasn't uttered a word about our lost night together. He hasn't suggested a rematch, or even caught me in a compromising position against the walk-in refrigerator door for a stolen kiss.

  These are my thoughts as Gunnar reappears ten minutes later holding steaming cups for both of us. I watch the muscles in his arm flex as he hands mine over.

  “Thank you,” I squeak, hoping that he can’t read minds. “What’s in your mug, anyway?” I blurt out. My curiosity about him knows no boundaries.

  “Mint tea,” he says, sipping from it. “I don’t do well on caffeine.”

  “There’s always decaf coffee,” I point out. “Do you even drink coffee?”

  He shrugs mysteriously. “Pleading the fifth amendment, here.”

  “Like it matters,” I tease. “Your tip jar is always overflowing. I know you’re a good barista, even if you’re secretly a fraud.”

  I could swear that something flickers past his eyes when I say this. But it’s gone a half-second later. “You can be good at making something without enjoying it yourself. I’m sure you prefer some pies over others.”

  “Not true!” I cry. “I love all my babies equally. Every slice is a delight to the senses.”

  “I’ll bet,” he says slowly, his gaze making a slow trip down my body. “You need anything more from me before I open up?”

  Yes! Ravish me. “Just take these quiches for the front case, thanks.” I hand him the tray and hold back another hungry sigh. I can honestly say that I’ve never felt this kind of overwhelming attraction before in my life. But it’s worse than that. I like Gunnar Scott. I like his company as much as I like the way he fills out his jeans. And whe
n he sticks a fork into a pie I’ve made, and then moans, I want to sit on his lap and feed him bite after bite.

  But not today. There’s work to do. I’m forced to put aside my libido and bake the heck out of a dozen different recipes. I barely catch a breath until the afternoon, when the mailman arrives at the back door.

  The stack of mail includes a bill from a company that uses a skeleton key as its logo. But this is weird—there's no name listed. It's an invoice for one plate glass widow, installed, plus a new security grate with electronic controls, installed. I brace myself to look at the total owed.

  It says $507.52.

  Wait, what? I read the whole page again. But there's no mention of a payment plan, or another bill forthcoming. Just the total, barely five hundred bucks.

  For a moment I'm giddy. But then I realize it would be immoral to simply pay this and pretend that someone in their billing department hasn’t misplaced a decimal point.

  “Gunnar,” I say, walking abruptly into the cafe. “I have a problem.”

  "Do you now?" he asks, looking up from the jug of milk he's frothing. He moves it slowly in a circular motion under the frothing arm, and I feel myself getting a little hot just watching the slow, grinding motion.

  Jesus, Posy. Get a grip. My cheeks turn pink. “There's something wrong with my bill from your friends at the security company.”

  He looks up. “Really? What’s the matter?”

  “It’s too low. By a lot.” I hold up the page to show him.

  He squints at the number. “Eh. I told them you had a long history in the restaurant business. Maybe they know your dad or something.”

  “But that’s not right,” I sputter. “My father has nothing to do with this place. He’s never even been inside.”

  Gunnar doesn’t even flinch. He’s busy pouring milk onto a latte, the foam forming the shape of a cat’s face. “Here you go, Lina,” he says to a customer. “The kitty of the day has one floppy ear.”

  “You’re so talented,” the customer gushes. “Thank you, Gunnar!” She shoves a five-dollar bill into the tip jar.