To Sir, with Love

by Lauren Layne

  “God, I hope I’m not that hard up,” I mutter. “Am I?”

  She finishes my sandwich. “Well, let’s see, your last date was…?”

  “A respectable two weeks ago.”

  “Uh-huh. And last kiss…?”

  I don’t reply—I’m too busy trying to remember—and she shakes her head. “I repeat. Cybersex.”

  “For, oh, I don’t know, the thousandth time, Sir and I are just friends. Also, quit saying the word cybersex. I don’t think that’s a thing anymore.”

  “Oh, it’s a thing,” she says with a little smirk as she finishes her wine. She glances at her phone. “Damn. I’ve gotta run, or Grady’s going to start with the lectures.”

  “Speaking of kissing and sexy times…” I waggle my eyebrows. Keva and her boss, Grady, have an intense I-hate-you-so-much-but-I-secretly-want-you vibe going on, and the rom-com lover in me is not-so-patiently waiting for them to get to the good stuff already.

  “I’d rather eat imitation crab than hook up with Grady,” she says with enough disgust to let me know that imitation crab is as low as it gets in Keva Page’s book.

  I sigh. “So, neither of us is getting any.”

  “I didn’t say that.” She winks.

  Maybe I should invest in some red underwear…

  Keva grabs the handle of her suitcase and swats my ass before heading to the door. “Put on Big Bang, finish your masterpiece, and then do the big bang, even if it’s virtually. That’s an order.”

  She blows me a kiss and closes the door. Shaking my head, I sip my wine and decide to do two out of the three.

  To Sir, with frustration,

  Do you ever feel like the people closest to you are the ones who get you the least?

  Lady

  * * *

  My dear Lady,

  Quite often.

  Yours in mutual frustration,

  Sir

  * * *

  To Sir, in follow-up,

  Do you ever find that the person who gets you the most is a person you’ve never met?

  * * *

  My dear Lady,

  Yes.

  Seven

  “Oh my God.” I lean closer and peer at my laptop screen. “Is that a goatee?”

  My brother laughs and rubs a palm over the scruffy hair on his chin. “Yeah. What do you think?”

  “I love it,” I say at the exact same time Lily announces from the left side of my screen that she hates it.

  It’s a little after eight on Sunday, and we Coopers plus May are finally getting around to our family video chat. Lily from her apartment, Caleb from his house in New Hampshire, and May and me from the shop.

  “It’s really good to see your face,” I interject quickly before Caleb and Lily can start squabbling. “Facial hair and all. Though I’m shocked. They have Internet where you are?”

  My brother grins, taking a quick sip of his beer. “I rigged something together with two sticks and some fishing wire.” His eyes flick away from me, presumably looking at Lily’s head on his screen. “Where’s Alec?”

  My sister shrugs. “Work thing.”

  On a Sunday night?

  Having poured us each a glass of sparkling brut from Sonoma, May nudges me aside and takes her place in front of the laptop’s camera, scowling at Lily. “You know, I can’t think of the last time I saw that boy.”

  I smile a little at überserious forty-one-year-old Alec being described as a boy.

  Another shrug from Lily. “You know how busy his job keeps him.”

  May has never tried to insert herself into our lives as a maternal figure, even after she and my dad started seeing each other. She let us come to her, and we all eventually had. Even Alec. And as far as May was concerned, once you wandered into her nest, you were hers for life, to peck at and to protect.

  “Wednesday night,” she announces. “You and Alec will come to my place for vegetarian lasagna. You too, Gracie. Caleb’s off the hook, not because he’s in a different state, but because I won’t be able to enjoy my eggplant lasagna while looking at that thing growing on his chin.”

  “Nooooooo,” Caleb says in faux despair. “Don’t make eggplant without me!”

  Lily hesitates. “May, I appreciate the offer, but I really don’t know if—”

  “Wednesday night,” May repeats with finality.

  My sister sighs a little, then nods before changing the subject. “Baby brother, did Gracie tell you that some big corporation is trying to buy the store. She certainly didn’t tell me.”

  “Seriously?” he asks, looking stunned.

  “It’s not a big deal,” I say, nibbling a piece of cheese. “Think of it more as a newly discovered virus that goes by the name of Sebastian Andrews. Symptoms include nausea, extreme annoyance, and random surges of anger.”

  “Sis!” Caleb sounds delighted. “Is this ire I’m hearing from Snow White? Did you finally encounter someone who doesn’t fit into the fairy tale?”

  Yeah. I haven’t exactly hidden my fairy tale–junkie status from… anyone.

  “No, no,” I say, popping the rest of the cheese into my mouth. “He actually has a starring role. As the villain.”

  “A villain with a great butt,” May adds.

  I pivot to look at her. “You’ve never even met him.”

  “I googled him,” May says pragmatically. She tips her head back to take a sip from her flute, her neon-blue guitar earrings swaying.

  “And you searched for ‘Sebastian Andrews’s butt’?” I ask.

  What results came up? I don’t ask. But I want to.

  “I don’t care if his ass rivals J.Lo’s,” my brother interjects. “I hope you told him to go to hell, Gracie.”

  “I actually did tell him exactly that!” I say, feeling rather proud.

  “Good,” Lily says firmly. “I’m glad we’re all on the same page about keeping Bubbles in the family.”

  My brother nods, but I feel May’s gaze on me. “Gracie?”

  “What?” I pick up another cheese, mostly to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes, even via a screen.

  “Are you all on the same page?” May persists.

  “Of course we are,” Lily says indignantly. “The store’s more important to Gracie than any of us. She’s the one there all the time.”

  “What choice did I have?” The words pop out before I can stop them, and both my siblings look bewildered.

  I take a deep breath. “I didn’t mean it like that,” I say. “Bubbles is important to me, of course. It’s just sometimes I feel like I’m doing all of the hard stuff, all alone.”

  May squeezes my hand. Go on. I squeeze back and smile, grateful to have an ally. I take a deep breath. “I’m not saying we should sell. I’m just saying I could use some help.”

  “Crap.” Caleb drags a hand over his face. “I feel like a jerk.”

  “Well, yeah,” Lily says. “How many times has she asked you to fix the website?”

  “Oh, and I’m sure you’ve been falling all over yourself to stop by and help her restock inventory in between your weekly manicures,” he shoots back.

  “Guys,” I say in my gentle but stern middle-child voice.

  “Okay,” Lily exhales. “Okay. What do you need, Gracie?”

  I need to double the numbers.

  I decide to start with something less intimidating. “Well, I know neither of you were thrilled when I changed things up. You hated the new bags, protested the addition of & More.”

  “Only because Dad wouldn’t have wanted it,” Lily says, and Caleb nods in agreement.

  Oh sure. On that they see eye to eye.

  “I get that,” I say softly. “But as the one who does the books, I can tell you that that’s when things started to turn around. And we need to turn them around even further. The mom-and-pop model our mom and pop subscribed to just doesn’t cut it anymore. I’m open to ideas—”

  “A new logo,” Caleb cuts in, ever the graphic designer. “I know I protested that last time you suggest
ed it, but you’re right. The one we have now looks tired, and you can never underestimate the power of a good rebrand. I’ll get to work on some mockups for that and the new website.”

  “You know,” Lily says, “the other day I went to a cooking class with a couple of girlfriends, and they had wine pairings with it. I wonder if we could do something like that with champagne…?”

  “Yes!” I say excitedly, pulling out a notepad to write it down. “My friend Keva actually teaches cooking classes. I bet she’d help. These are good. What else…”

  Thirty minutes later, I have a sizable list of ideas to save Bubbles and feel the lightest I have in months.

  Watch out, Sebastian Andrews. I’m coming for you.

  My dear Lady,

  Do you ever sense a storm is coming but can’t quite figure out the direction or the source?

  Yours in severe weather predictions,

  Sir

  * * *

  To Sir, with umbrellas,

  Absolutely, though I confess I’m having one of those glorious days where I am the storm.

  Lady

  Eight

  “Open.” I open my eyes and stare into Keva’s dark brown gaze as she gives my face a critical study. She waves her makeup brush in command. “Close.”

  I close my eyes as she resumes blending the eyeshadow on my right eyelid.

  “Are you sure I shouldn’t borrow one of your red dresses?” I ask.

  “Not unless you can make these quadruple in size in the next hour.” She unceremoniously thumps the top of my boob with a flick.

  “Ow.” I rub my breast as she whips away the towel that’s been draped over my chest.

  “Open,” Keva commands.

  I open my eyes once more, and this time after studying me, she nods in approval. “You’re ready.”

  “And you’re positive on the dress?” I ask, unfolding my legs from their cross-legged position on my bed. “It’s not too… princessy?”

  “Look, it’s your favorite dress, right?” she asks, putting a fist on her generous hip.

  “Yes. But it’s not particularly sophisticated. I was picturing—”

  She’s already shaking her head, her bun wagging. “You don’t need sophisticated. You need power. And there’s nothing more powerful than a woman wearing her favorite dress because she knows she looks good.”

  I open my mouth to argue, but she points at me. “Stand.”

  I do and let her guide me to the full-length mirror I’ve leaned in the hallway outside the bathroom because my bedroom barely fits my bed and dresser.

  “Oh wow,” I say when I see myself. She’s right, the dress is one of my favorites. It’s a sort of pool-water blue, with an off-the-shoulder neckline, fitted bodice, and short full skirt.

  My face, however, is… a masterpiece. I look like me, but more badass. She’s done something to make my eyes seem bluer, more direct, yet you can’t tell I’m wearing makeup.

  “I know, right?” Keva says smugly. “You look like Veronica Mars meets alternate-universe Cinderella.”

  “I was going for Olivia Pope,” I admit.

  Keva shakes her head. “All wrong. He’ll be expecting an Olivia Pope move. He won’t see this coming, and it’ll knock him on his ass.”

  “Well, I do like the sound of that,” I say, heading back into the bedroom and pulling a pair of beige ballet flats from the shoe rack hanging over the closet door.

  Keva bats them out of my hand and they drop to the floor. “Nope, those.” She points at a pair of hot pink high heels. I bought them to match a bridesmaid dress for a college friend’s wedding and haven’t worn them since.

  “You want a little Olivia Pope,” she explains.

  “There’s zero chance I’ll make it the two avenue blocks wearing those. I wouldn’t even make it two regular blocks.”

  “Which is why you’re taking a taxi.”

  I snort. “Just to get to Columbus Circle? I’ll have to hand in my New Yorker card.”

  “You’ll have to hand in your scrappy New Yorker card,” she corrects. “Today you get to be the other kind of New Yorker. The kind who takes taxis without blinking an eye.”

  She pulls a twenty out of her bra and hands it over.

  I shake my head. “I’m not taking that.”

  “Because it’s been nestled against my boob?”

  “Gross. Nestled? And no, I don’t want it because I won’t take your money, especially not to take a cab a few blocks.”

  Keva rolls her eyes and unabashedly tucks the money into my bra.

  Giving up, I sigh and pull out the pink stilettos. “Fine. Only because it’s fitting that a twenty-dollar bill plays a role in this meeting.”

  Keva stares at me. “Huh?”

  “Never mind,” I say, remembering I never got around to telling her about the sidewalk meet-cute between Sebastian and myself when I’d accidentally miscast him as the hero of my story for a hot minute.

  Now that I know he’s the villain, and that I’m about to enter his turf, a secret twenty-dollar bill somehow feels like an appropriate power play.

  I put on the shoes and then wince as they immediately pinch my feet. I’m going to need that cab after all.

  * * *

  Last night, instead of sleeping, I was envisioning how this day would go. I pictured everything in my mind, right down to what the Andrews Corporation headquarters looked like: my imagination decided a lot of glass and stainless steel.

  Turns out, I was 100 percent right. The elevator alone looks like a spaceship, except instead of astronauts, I’m joined by men in gray and navy suits and women in smart dresses and tailored slacks.

  The cliché about New Yorkers wearing only black isn’t entirely untrue, and I’m feeling a little out of place in my bright blue dress and pink shoes until a middle-aged woman behind me in the elevator taps me on the shoulder.

  “Excuse me,” she says with a smile. “I’m dying to know—where’d you get your shoes?”

  “Oh!” I turn and smile back as I name the brand. “I do feel I should warn you, they’re not terribly comfortable.”

  She sighs as the elevator doors open and she moves around me to exit. “They never are. Worth it though. Those are fabulous.”

  The compliment is a much-needed ego boost, and I feel increasingly confident about my impending meeting.

  Sebastian Andrews, as one of the Andrewses, is on the second highest floor of the fifty-story building, so the rest of my elevator comrades are long gone by the time I step out onto the forty-ninth floor.

  As with the lobby downstairs, the office space is very cool and modern—lots of white marble, white leather, and stainless steel—but it’s all softened, rather surprisingly, by two stunning flower bouquets set up on either side of the large reception desk.

  “Oh!” I say, forgetting to play it cool as I walk right up to the flowers and touch a hydrangea, which contrasts perfectly with pink snapdragons and yellow roses. “These are so pretty.”

  The black-haired man in tortoiseshell glasses behind the desk grins. “Aren’t they? We used to order our arrangements from one of the generic corporate florists. Lots of white roses and lilies.” He lets out a dramatic yawn. “Just a couple of weeks ago, Mr. Andrews found this local guy up on Amsterdam. He doesn’t deliver, but I actually like to get out of the office to peruse the weekly selection.”

  I stare at him. Surely, he’s not talking about Carlos.

  If he is, I’m thrilled for Carlos and Pauline. These arrangements must have been wildly expensive.

  But I’m irritated for me.

  The thought of Sebastian Andrews and me getting our office flowers from the same place feels… irksome.

  “You must be Noel,” I say, extending my hand. “I’m Gracie Cooper. We spoke on the phone a couple days ago? I really appreciate you finding time on Mr. Andrews’s calendar.”

  He looks surprised, as though nobody ever acknowledges his presence, much less his name.

  “Yes, sure,” he
says, pushing his glasses up his nose and looking down at his computer screen. “I’m sorry I could only find a half hour, though honestly it’s rare he has any time available this last minute.”

  “A half hour is all I need,” I say.

  “You’re just a bit early, and he’s on another call,” Noel says. “Can I get you anything to drink while you wait? Water? Coffee? Tea? We’ve got a fancy espresso machine.”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” I say, moving to the elegant but comfortable seating area. I’ve just settled in with an old Citizen magazine Man of the Year issue featuring Carter Ramsey, because who doesn’t like to fantasize about a hot baseball player, when Noel says my name.

  I glance up, and he nods toward the door. “Mr. Andrews is available.”

  I stand and pick up my purse, smoothing a hand over the back of my skirt to make sure I’m not living my actual nightmare of having it tucked into my underwear. Begging my already pinched feet to hang in there for another half hour or so, I enter Sebastian’s office.

  I was sort of hoping for something to pick on—a ghastly hunting trophy or a torture chamber of some kind, but the worst I can say is that it’s generic. The desk big, the chairs black, the view… well, there’s nothing generic about that.

  “Wow,” I breathe, my eyes scanning the view of Central Park and all of the Upper East Side behind him. I start to walk forward to the window, then pause. “May I?”

  He gestures with an open hand toward the floor-to-ceiling windows in a way that makes me think I’m not the first to gawk. “Looking is free, photos are ten bucks.”

  “Oh, so the Tin Man makes jokes now,” I say, stepping around his desk and walking to the window. Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see him check out my legs, my shoes. I carefully try to hide a smirk. And the butterflies.

  “Tin Man,” he repeats quietly, standing, though not coming any closer to me as I survey the stunning view of New York City in front of me.