Page 12 of Loverboy
Another woman steps forward. She’s really interesting looking, too, with dark hair and giant brown eyes that look familiar to me. She’s wearing an artistic kimono-style top and about a million bracelets on her smooth wrists. “Posy, hello! Howareyou?”
“Great, thanks,” Posy says in an uncharacteristic clipped voice. “What can Gunnar pour for you? The usual?”
“Not exactly,” she says with a broad smile. “I’d like adecaflatte, half two percent, half skim, sugar-free peppermint, iced, no foam. I’m off caffeine for a while. And a ginger cookie, please.”
Oh man. I’m trying to play back that order in my head when I see the blood drain from Posy’s face.
Huh. She must know that I’m about to fuck this up. “Could you repeat that, please?”
“Of course!” Her smile grows even wider. “I’d like—”
“I got it,” Posy snarls. Then she puts her hands on my ribcage and actually steers me out of the way. “Ginger cookie,” she says between clenched teeth.
“Well, okay.” I fetch a plate with a single cookie on it, then use the extra time to compliment our customer on her blouse. “That bright color really suits you. I love it.”
Posy’s smile is menacing as she makes the drink and then cashes out the woman, who thanks her and floats over to claim a table. “What the hell was that?” she hisses when they’re out of earshot. “It wasn’t that complicated an order. But you didn’t even wipe off the basket rim. Or purge the steam arm. And what was that milk design supposed to be? It looked like an ass.”
“Some people really like asses,” I hiss. “Especially mine. I was giving that woman something to remember me by. But I can up my game, Posy. I’m just a little rusty.”
“Rusty,” she spits, her blue eyes flashing. “What you are isclueless. Why are you even here?”
Irritation rips through me, and I want to tell Posy Paxton where she can put her attitude. It’s just coffee, for fuck’s sake. It doesn’t matter.
But then I remember what does matter. I scan the cafe, where at least two people have laptops open. Someone who has evidence of murder has been using this space to boast about killing people.
And I know what I have to do.
“Posy,” I say in a low voice. I force myself to meet her gaze. Her cheeks are flushed with anger, and her eyes are bright. “I need this job. It’s, uh…” Yup, this is going to hurt me. “I need it bad, okay? Can you give me a chance?”
Her expression softens. “Well, um, I don’t know. You aren’t a very good barista. I have a friend who owns a bar. Maybe he—”
Uh oh. “Please? It’s for my father. He’s recovering from surgery. I need work, and you need a barista. Let me brush up on my skills tomorrow. I’ll come in here on Monday knowing what a slim chocolate fizz is. Or whatever that lady ordered.”
“Gunn.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s not that easy. This is aluxurycafe. We have to uphold certain standards.”
Now I want to roll my eyes, too. The Paxtons are so full of themselves. “Give me one more try. One single shift. That’s all I ask.”
She sighs. “Fine.One. But only because I really need the extra hands on Monday. If it doesn’t go well, you should really apply for some bartending jobs. Something tells me that alcohol is more your speed. Do you even drink coffee?”
“On special occasions,” I lie. “Thank you for this chance. It means a lot to me.” Just to keep her off balance, I lean in and give her a quick hug.
“You’re, uh, welcome.” She shivers. “I don’t know how you’re going to become a barista in forty hours. But I’ll see you Monday before seven a.m.”
“Seven?” I whine. That’s four a.m. California time.
“Seven,” she barks. “And don’t be late.”
“Yesma’am.” I give her a salute. Then I pull out my phone and take a photo of the espresso machine. And another one of the whole cafe.
I’d better find this murderer fast. Because I’m going to have a single shift to do it.
* * *
After kissing Posy’s (delectable) ass for just a few minutes more, I get the heck out of there. As soon as I hit Mercer Street, I walk a block and then dial Max.
“Talk to me,” he says.
“Max, we’re fucked.”
