Page 52 of Loverboy
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 looksbetterthan 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.
