Loverboy

by Bowen, Sarina

  26

  Gunnar

  It always ends like this—with me flattened on the bed, half on top of Posy, my brain left behind somewhere in a neighboring zip code. I’ve made it my personal mission to prove to her that she’s fun in bed. But that meant proving it to myself, too.

  There’s no denying how much I care for her. I never wanted to live in New York, but it’s hard to think about leaving right now.

  But that’s just the endorphins talking, right?

  I’m really not sure anymore.

  “Gunn. You’re heavy.”

  “Sorry, baby.” I move to the side and then pull her into my arms. I cooked for her tonight, and then I blew both our minds in bed. It was the perfect day. But even perfect days end.

  I close my eyes and wish it weren’t so.

  * * *

  Every morning Posy’s alarm goes off at an ungodly hour. I always find myself wrapped around her body, her curves in my hands, her rump tucked against me. Even though I don’t start work as early as she does, I wake up just to spend a couple of minutes admiring up close all the things I used to admire from afar. The slope of her nose. The softness of her skin.

  “I have to get up,” she inevitably says.

  “What if you didn’t, just this once?” I always reply.

  “Owning a business is like owning a dog,” she tells me. “If you don’t get up and deal with it, there will only be a big mess later.”

  “That’s why they invented dog walkers,” I point out. “Hire somebody besides Ginny to work in the kitchen. Then we can spend the morning in bed one of these days.” I run my hand up her leg and under her nightgown just to incentivize her.

  “Hiring people is really difficult,” she says, nudging my hand away. She sits up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “I couldn’t get good help in the kitchen for what I pay myself.”

  “How much do you pay yourself?” I ask. “Whatever it is, I think you should give yourself a raise. You deserve it for having the willpower to get out of a bed that I’m naked in.”

  She turns her chin and gives me the first smile of the day. “Your ego is already awake, I see.”

  “Not just my ego.” I push the sheet down and show her my boner. It never goes away these days. And I’ve noticed that Posy enjoys looking at it.

  She licks her lips, and I feel a moment of hope. But then she stands up anyway. “Better save that for later. Go back to sleep for another hour and a half, but don’t be late for work. Those lattes aren’t going to make themselves.”

  I turn my smile into the pillow. Before she walks away, she leans down to run a soft hand through my hair. And then she gives me a soft kiss goodbye.

  * * *

  Two hours later I’m tiptoeing out of the bedroom, my shoes in hand, when I come face to face with Ginny Paxton. “Heck, lady,” I whisper. “You startled me.”

  “Sneaking out again, are you?” she gives me a stare.

  “I always leave before your little boy gets up. If my presence really bothers you, I could bring Posy home to my place.”

  “That won’t actually solve anything,” Ginny says, arms crossed, expression steely.

  “Look, you used to like me, and now you don’t anymore. Is it something I said?” I ask, stepping into my shoes. “Might as well get it off your chest.”

  “Fine. I need you to be careful with Posy.”

  “We’re very careful,” I say through a yawn. “There’s another one of my team members outside watching the pie shop right now. We’re very good at what we do.”

  Ginny waves a hand, dismissing my promise. “I don’t mean it like that. I’m sure you’re the biggest, baddest security dude, and so are all your friends. And you gave her that panic button device, for those rare moments when you’re not in her bed. But so what, Gunnar? Whoever’s killing hackers on the front page of the New York Times isn’t interested in Posy anyway.”

  “That’s true. So what’s your problem?”

  “My problem is what comes next,” she says. “You won’t stick around when this is done.”

  “How do you know?” I ask indignantly. Even though it’s a fair question.

  “Because I just know,” Ginny says quietly. “Men say nice things when they want something. I’m used to it, but Posy doesn’t have as much practice. That ass she used to be married to made her feel like a piece of crap, too.”

  “Oh, please,” I scoff. “Do you really want to compare me to him?”

  She gives me a critical head-to-toe glance. “I’ll admit that the packaging is better in your case. And the way my sister looks at you, I know you’re way better in the sack.”

  I’ve always been good at taking a compliment, but I decide to let this one fly by without acknowledgement.

  “How much longer will you be in New York?” she asks. “Days? Weeks?”

  “I’m not sure,” I hedge.

  “Well, after the Posy-watching gig is over, will you be in the neighborhood on a regular basis?”

  “That’s hard to say.”

  “Is it? You tell everyone who will listen how much you hate New York.”

  “Well—”

  “Is your job dangerous?” she interrupts.

  I don’t even try to skirt that one. “Yes, once in a while. But I have a terrific team to back me up.”

  “Uh huh.” Her jaw is tight. I’ve had easier interviews when I was detained by Chechen rebels at the border. “And when your boss declares victory, are you just going to waltz out of here leaving Posy with no barista?”

  “Unfortunately. But we already put a sign in the window, looking for help.”

  “Oh, well.” She sniffs. “As long as you put a sign in the window.”

  “Hey—the labor shortage is not my doing,” I argue. “Before I walked in, she was in the same boat. I’ve made a metric fuckton of coffee for Posy.”

  Ginny doesn’t care about logic, though. She crosses her arms again and glares. “Just think about what you’re doing, Gunnar. She’s a thirty-four-year-old woman with a ticking biological clock. Her ex threw her away like a used paper towel. If you’re going to break her heart, do it soon.”

  “Who said anything about broken hearts?” But even as I ask the question, I realize it’s entirely possible. I have feelings for Posy. So it’s only logical that she may have feelings for me.

  Ginny shakes her head sadly. “If you give someone a little taste of perfection, they want more of it. They won’t be able to stop thinking about it. She deserves more than you can give. My sister doesn’t trust people easily.”

  “That’s because she’s smart.”

  “Oh man.” Ginny shakes her head, her expression turning sad. “Then it’s worse than I thought.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Two deeply cynical people don’t have an easy road together. Posy needs a man who thinks that happiness is possible.”

  “When did I say it wasn’t?” I challenge her. This is the strangest conversation I’ve ever had. “I’m happy.”

  “Uh huh.” Ginny rolls her eyes. “Having fun isn’t the same thing as being happy. I learned that lesson the hard way, and I learned it pretty young. Fun is something you’re good at. You have an exciting job and adventurous taste in pie. Happiness is a different thing altogether. It’s slowing down long enough to let someone else get near you. Think about it.”

  At that, Ginny turns around and retreats down the stairs to her and Aaron’s part of the apartment.

  * * *

  It’s a busy morning behind the counter. They all are. Teagan and I sling a lot of coffee and breakfast pastries. The tip jar is rocking, and the donuts are all sold by the time the line dies down.

  “Can I step out for a break?” I ask Teagan, who’s watching a makeup tutorial on Instagram, like a good Millennial.

  “Sure,” she grunts.

  So I pour myself a cup of tea and head for the back. When I reach the kitchen, I pause at the door.

  Posy has her pho
ne pressed to her ear. She's ordering flour in fifty-pound bags. “What's the price for almond flour?” With her free hand, she’s weaving the lattice of a beautiful cherry pie.

  Just watching her, I feel a jolt of wonder. How is she real? With her quick hands and her bright eyes and that luscious pink mouth arguing with the bakery supply company. She tilts her head, taking a fractional second to admire her work. But then she sees something that isn’t perfect, and reaches down again to fix it.

  That's Posy. She only holds still when she's asleep. The satisfaction of her warm, spent body in my arms all night is something I’ve grown to cherish.

  She turns her chin, catching me smiling at her. And she returns the smile. I feel something warm and unfamiliar pass between us, and it lands in the center of my chest with a happy thud.

  And yet Ginny thinks I’m a bad influence. What the heck does she know, anyway?

  I pass Jerry, who’s whistling as he washes a baking tray, and carry my tea out the back door.

  There stands Saroya, bent over at the waist, her hand reaching for something that’s just out of my line of sight. I step out a little further, letting the door bang shut behind me, and Saroya straightens up quickly. “Oh hi,” she says a little breathlessly.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, my voice less than polite. I step off the stoop and turn around, so I can see whatever’s captured her interest.

  “There’s a broken window,” she says, plunging a hand into her pocket. “It looks trashy. You should tell Posy to have it fixed.”

  Sure enough, there’s a broken pane in a small window that’s nearly at the level of the sidewalk. The whole thing is maybe twelve inches high, and two feet across, and sectioned into four glass squares. “What’s down there, do you think?”

  Saroya shrugs. “A cellar? How would I know. But it looks like crap. These old buildings always need something. I keep telling Spalding he should sell and find someplace a little easier to maintain.”

  “A nice condo, maybe,” I suggest. Saroya is the luxury condo type. I’d bet cash money that she wants a doorman with white gloves and gold buttons. And I’m happy to make the suggestion, because it would be easier on Posy if they moved to a different neighborhood.

  “Exactly,” she says, beaming. “I mean, history is neat, but not if you have to do the maintenance yourself.”

  “Uh huh.” I take a careful sip of my scalding tea. “I’ll tell Posy about the window.” Although the broken pane isn’t a security risk. Only a pigeon could fit through there.

  “Thanks, Gunnar.” She swishes off down the alley. “See you later for coffee!” She turns toward the street and disappears.

  What is your game, lady? The question lingers in my mind. But I haven’t found anything else incriminating about her. She doesn’t have a fat bank account making overseas wire transfers, or a sudden change of identity. At least not that we can find.

  And Max and I are pretty devious.

  Speaking of Max, he’s had it. This mission was his idea, and now I’m worried that it may be his undoing. All week long, my colleagues have rotated through the coffee bar line, a new one every couple of hours. They ask me for ridiculously complex lattes (like an extra hot half-decaf caramel latte with an extra shot), and then they take a seat in the back corner, watching the customers come and go.

  We’re watching the whole street, too. But we’ve got nothing. The Plumber continues to post missives right under our noses. And Max is about to lose his mind. “We’re missing something,” he keeps saying, and I can’t disagree.

  And now I have a new voice message from him. I put my earpiece in and listen. “This message is for Gunnar Scott,” Max’s voice says. “You’re at the top of our waiting list at the salon. I can get you in for a cut, color, and blowout at two p.m., if you can leave work early today. Hope to see you then. Kisses!”

  That’s Max’s latest code for get your ass to the office. He never tires of inventing new ways to summon me. But the message is clear. I’m needed this afternoon.

  So I go inside and beg Teagan to stay until closing today. And I leave right after the lunch rush.

  * * *

  “This … wow.” It’s not my most articulate statement. But we’re locked in Max’s office and nobody can hear me anyway. I’m looking at a print-out of The Plumber’s latest web posts. And shit is getting personal. I feel nauseated as I read what looks like a desperate plea.

  To us.

  You want answers, but you’re not looking in the right place. A dozen security guys who think they’re smarter than everyone else. Cops across the street, too. None of it is working.

  They’re hungry. They will try to show you. I think it’s personal. This ends badly unless you find them before they hit you first.

  “He’s talking about us,” Max says flatly.

  “Cops across the street?”

  “NYPD intelligence set up in a second-floor commercial space across the street. Pieter spotted them last night on his stakeout shift.”

  I grunt and read the threat again. “We are smarter than everyone else. But not smart enough, I guess.”

  Max rubs his neck. “And we’re not immortal.”

  “The use of them is really strange,” I remark. “Who talks like that?”

  “Someone who’s afraid,” Max says. “The Plumber is a dissatisfied foot soldier. I think he wants to throw his boss under the bus.”

  “Yeah,” I say slowly. “I’m coming around to seeing it that way. The bragging has evolved, hasn’t it? This sounds like a plea more than a boast.”

  We’re both silent for another long moment, until Max suddenly says: “I’m taking you off the pie shop.”

  “What?” My chin snaps up. “What are you talking about?”

  “The Plumber is right—we’re looking in the wrong place. And you’ve outlasted your usefulness there. Unless it’s an inside job, you’d have found him already. We have so much other work to do on this investigation. Tomorrow you and I will go over every loose end. Why does he call himself The Plumber, for example? How many plumbers are there in SoHo? There’s a lot we could be doing.”

  “But what about Posy?” I blurt out.

  “She’ll be well protected.” Max puts his elbows on the desk, and his chin in his hands. “I’ll keep staff at the shop.”

  “But she’ll be shorthanded.”

  Max smiles slowly. “Aw. Look who’s developed some professional pride behind the coffee bar.”

  I groan. “Give me forty-eight hours. I have to hire a replacement. What’s that site people use to post jobs?” I grab my laptop and flip open the lid.

  “No clue,” Max says. “But you’d better find it fast. I can’t give you two days. Besides.” He picks up the print-out and shows it to me again. “If The Plumber actually knows who I am, the best thing you could do for your girl is stay away.”

  An icy chill climbs up my spine. “We have to find this guy.”

  “No kidding.”

  “I’ve been distracted,” I say slowly. “He’s right under my nose somewhere.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Maybe he’s in an upstairs apartment—in Posy’s building, or the ones next door. Let’s go in there as the gas company, maybe? Or pretend there’s a gas main break? Why didn’t we do that already?”

  “Because it’s illegal?” Max gives me a dark look. “You were supposed to find the guy by looking over his shoulder. But I guess it’s time to pull the Con-Ed truck and the jumpsuits out of the cellar and knock on some doors. I’ll get Pieter on it. You hire a barista, or beg Posy’s forgiveness, or both.”

  “Okay,” I say dully. “On it.” I pick up my computer and leave Max’s office, heading for my own little-used office at the end of the row. Someone keeps it clean and dust free, even though I only visit it a few times a year.

  Ginny was right, I realize as I settle in to look at job posting sites. She said I’d flake off and leave Posy hanging. And that’s exactly what I’m about to do.

  And
I don’t know why I didn’t see that coming.

  27

  Posy

  It’s during the lunch rush when a brand-new disaster strikes.

  “Posy?” Teagan says, sticking her head into the kitchen. “The health department is here for an inspection.”

  “Okay,” I say calmly, but my hands begin to sweat. I glance around the kitchen, hoping they haven’t caught me with anything out of the refrigerator.

  My eye lands on an open carton of eggs just as the inspector appears in the doorway, a white coat on, and a clipboard in his hand. “Eggs,” he says in the voice of an automaton, writing it down quickly, and I feel my heart drop. “To prevent contamination, they must be refrigerated to forty-five degrees.”

  “But they need to be at room temperature to whip up properly,” I argue. “And I’m going to use them all.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” the robot says. “The code makes no distinction. Please correct the deficiency.”

  Biting my tongue, I close the carton and carry the eggs to the reach-in refrigerator. I know better than to argue. But if he’d come just twenty minutes later, all those eggs would be doing laps around the mixer. I’m making meringue today.

  This is just a spot of bad luck. I’ll lose a few points for the eggs. My last health department inspection was an A-, because there’s always some little thing that isn’t perfect. But you can’t have two little things, because then your grade starts slipping. Or—God forbid—three.

  So I start praying to St. Gourmet, the patron saint of restauranteurs that the inspector won’t find anything else to complain about.

  St. Gourmet isn’t listening, apparently. Just when I think the inspector is finished, he asks to see the cellar.

  “We aren’t storing anything down there,” I tell him. “It’s not convenient enough.”

  “But it’s on your form as a designated storage area,” he says in a flat voice. “I am required to look.”