Page 53 of Loverboy
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. IlikeGunnar Scott. I like his company as much as I like the way he fills out his jeans. And when 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?”
