Page 24 of Loverboy
They smile and bat their long eyelashes. One of them drops a ten-dollar bill into the tip jar.
“Thank you so much,” I say, eyeing the tips in that jar. Honestly, I can’t even remember how it felt to live off tips. But people do it all the time. I used to be one of them. I don’t need the money anymore, though. My stake in The Company is worth over a hundred million dollars.
Meanwhile, I can’t forget my true purpose here. Between customers, I slowly wipe the entire width of the coffee counter. Not only does it make me look like a perfect kiss-ass, but it allows the camera pen sticking out of my pocket to get a good look at everyone in the restaurant.
Each time the camera picks up a new customer, the guys in the control room will try—in real time—to match the face with every known facial recognition database.
One particular customer has already piqued my attention. There’s an older guy who’s been holding court in the corner by the window for two hours already. I can’t see his screen, though. It’s facing the exposed brick wall on the opposite side of the room.
Meanwhile, he’s had two different visitors already, each one taking a seat in front of him for forty minutes at a time. It’s like he thinks this place is his office, and that table is his private conference room. At least everyone bought drinks. And one of the guys purchased a thick slice of Chai Swirl Pumpkin pie.
Every slice of pie I cut looks more glorious than the last. Posy might be an irritating trust fund kid with a bossy streak a mile wide, but she bakes a hell of a pie. Each one is a work of art, too. I didn’t know you could braid a crust or cut pastry to look like lace. Posy’s obsession with detail has finally found its natural outlet.
I’d buy a pie for the guys in the control room, but a whole one costs forty bucks. That’s too pricey for an hourly employee to afford, and I can’t blow my cover.
“Look, I just don’t get it,” Posy says suddenly as I scrutinize the customers. When I turn, she’s propped against the doorway. She’s removed her apron, which means I’ve got a great view of her curves in the tight top she’s wearing. “Why did you screw up the coffee so badly the other day if you actually knew what you were doing?”
“I told you I was rusty,” I say mildly. “Spent some time at the University of YouTube this weekend, remembering how to do coffee right.”
Her eyes narrow. She doesn’t believe me.
Got to give the girl some credit for that, I guess. Her suspicions are very well founded. “You just don’t want to see me succeed. You never did back in the day.”
She pushes off the wall and stalks forward. “That isnottrue. I always said you were the better bartender. But I was hell bent on being the better barmanager. Not that it mattered.”
“Not that it mattered,” I echo, cackling. “Notice that you’re still not ready to let it go.”
“You brought it up.” She folds her arms, which only emphasizes her breasts. Posy is stacked, and I have eyes and a functioning libido. I’m not really ogling my boss. Not much anyway.
I’m ready to up the ante on our argument when Posy abruptly turns around and disappears into the kitchen.
A moment later I realize why. That same hottie from the other day—the one who wanted a decaf latte—is back again.
Posy doesn’t like this woman, and now I’m curious why. “Hello there,” I greet her. “Can I make you adecafsugar free peppermint latte, half two percent half skim, iced, no foam?”
Her eyes light up like sparklers. “You remembered! I wouldloveone. So long as it’s decaf. I can’t have regular coffee. It would be bad for the baby.”
“Congratulations, and I won’t forget,” I promise, giving her a cheesy wink. And when I turn around to grind a shot of decaf—which is relegated to Siberia on the wall behind me—I catch a glimpse of Posy out of my peripheral vision. She’s in the kitchen, pressed against the wall just out of sight of the counter. Her eyes are closed, and she’s braced herself against the wall, as if she needs it for support.
Hmm. That’s interesting.
I make this woman’s complicated coffee beverage practically on autopilot. I’m really that good at this now. And just as I’m ringing her up, a guy in starched khaki pants and a white linen shirt strides in on shiny penny loafers. “Saroya,” he says, approaching the counter. “What’s taking so long?”
And I’ve seen this guy before. His face is familiar, and I’m searching my brain for a reason. His look could best be described aspreppy newscaster. But I don’t think he’s actually a face from TV.
“I’ll just be another moment,” his wife says. “Don’t you want a latte, too? I was hoping to share our big news with Posy.”
At that, the man’s eyes dart toward the kitchen door. “I don’t see her. Maybe another time?”
His guilty look is the thing that jogs my memory. “Actually, Posy isn’t here at the moment,” I say to this man who used to sit at the bar just to flirt with her. What was his name—Skippy? Spiffy? I remember it was something pretentious. “She had an appointment in Midtown,” I add, because the look on Posy’s face a minute ago tells me that she wishes she really were several miles away.
“Hear that?” the guy says. “Let’s get going.”
“Thank you for the excellent coffee,” Saroya says with a flirty smile.
“Anytime.” I give her a panty-dropping smile in return, just to watch her preppy partner scowl. He’s eight or nine years older than she is, or I’m the mayor of New York.
As they leave, I glance at my watch. Could this shift last any longer? I clean off the frothing arm one more time.
