Page 54 of Loverboy
“It’s too low. By a lot.” I hold up the page to show him.
He squints at the number. “Eh. I told them you had a long history in the restaurant business. Maybe they know your dad or something.”
“But that’s not right,” I sputter. “My father has nothing to do with this place. He’s never even been inside.”
Gunnar doesn’t even flinch. He’s busy pouring milk onto a latte, the foam forming the shape of a cat’s face. “Here you go, Lina,” he says to a customer. “The kitty of the day has one floppy ear.”
“You’re so talented,” the customer gushes. “Thank you, Gunnar!” She shoves a five-dollar bill into the tip jar.
“Aw, shucks,” he says. “You have a nice day, now.” He waves as she walks away, then eventually turns to where I’m standing here, fuming. “Chill, Posy. So they gave you a price break, maybe. It’s nothing to get upset about. This is exactly why I don’t drink caffeine. It makes people ragey. Is it time for my lunch break yet?” He pats his impeccable abs. “A growing boy needs to eat.”
“No,” I say, agitated. “I need another thirty minutes before I can cover for you.”
“All right. Don’t be a stranger.” He gives me a maddeningly sexy smile.
I spin around and storm back into the kitchen, my body pinging with hormones and confusion. Who are Gunnar’s friends, anyway, that they could practically give me a new window? “Who does that?” I ask my empty kitchen, because Ginny is outside on her phone, and Jerry has snuck off to read comics.
The only answer I get is the ding of the oven timer. So I get back to work.
16
Gunnar
You do a woman a favor,and she only gets agitated. Ah well. I tried.
There’s a short break between customers, so I wipe down the counter, hoping Posy won’t make too big a deal over the low bill we sent her.
The night of the break-in, we basically turned this place into a security fortress. Cameras capture everything in high resolution from every angle, 24/7. It’s awfully invasive. But I need to know if The Plumber is connected to Posy’s business or family. And I need to know soon.
I don’t feel great about it, though, because it isn’t even working. We still don’t have a suspect. There must be something I’m missing. “Hey, Teagan,” I try during a rare lull behind the counter. “How’d you get into making donuts, anyway?”
She looks up from the phone that’s always glued to her hand. “Everybody likes donuts. It’s a recession-proof business.”
“Sure. But not everyone makes them.”
She stashes the phone. “Well, it’s kind of a personal story. My family went to Hawaii when I was seven. It was the only really big trip I can remember us taking together.”
Bingo. You should always ask a small question first. If I’d asked Teagan about her family, it would have sounded suspicious. But asking about donuts got her talking anyway.
“We got these Portuguese donuts at a shop on Oahu, and they were still warm. We ate them on the beach, and I rinsed my fingers in the ocean. It was the best thing I’d ever eaten, and twenty years later it still seems magical.”
“That’s a nice story,” I say. “And you haven’t been back there?”
She shakes her head. “I always wanted to go. But my parents were killed in an accident a few years later. I went to culinary school, and I worked for some fancy restaurants. But I didn’t like those jobs. Famous chefs are all assholes. So now I work for myself. I make the donuts for a few customers, and I work here for extra cash. I’ll never be rich, but it’s a good life.”
“Sure is,” I agree mildly. The bell on the door jingles, and another customer walks in. To my surprise, it’s Saroya. She's wearing a sequined sweater, bright red lipstick, and a somewhat sheepish expression.
Interesting.
“Hello there, Gunnar,” she says, blinking rapidly. “I was hoping you might have a decaf sugar-free nonfat peppermint iced latte with my name on it.”
I paste on a smile. “Of course, madame.” I'm as friendly as possible, although it is just a little weird that last time we saw each other, I called her boyfriend an asshole, and then she said that I was “obviously deranged.” Honestly, I didn't expect to see her set foot in this place again. And I was perfectly okay with that.
On the other hand, I'm told that I am a truly great barista and pregnant women are well known for their cravings. “Would you like that for here or to go?”
“For here, please.”
I grab a glass from the clean stack and get busy making her disgusting drink. People are weird. Her especially. While I'm making the coffee, I take surreptitious glances at her. Saroya is very busy examining the cafe and eyeballing the clientele. She’s studying the pie shop like there will be a quiz later.
