by Lauren Layne
I wave a hand in his general direction without looking his way. “You know. Tall. Thin. Controlled.”
He says nothing for a long minute, though I feel him studying me, and the room suddenly becomes… charged?
No. He has a girlfriend. I have a… pen pal.
We hate each other.
Still, Sebastian surprises me by coming closer, stopping a respectable distance away, but close enough for me to smell his cologne, close enough to feel small next to him.
His left hand slides into his pocket as his right points ahead. “You can’t quite see the sign through the construction scaffolding in front of it, but that’s Bubbles.”
I slowly turn my head to look at him. He hadn’t even hesitated before pointing, as though he’s already scoped it out.
“You were spying on me?”
“Yes,” he says sarcastically. “I hurriedly stashed my telescope in the closet just before you got here.”
His mention of Bubbles & More reminds me why I’m here, and shifting into business mode, I pivot and walk back around his desk.
“No pictures?” he asks with what might be a tiny fraction of a smile, but it’s hard to know. I’ve never seen him smile.
“Can’t afford it,” I say sweetly. “Not with my outdated business model and ‘cutesy Tinker Bell paintings.’ ”
If it was a smile I saw on his face, it’s gone now.
“Ms. Cooper—”
I gesture for him to sit, even though it’s his office. “May I speak?”
“Of course,” he says, his tone as stiff as his posture as he resumes his place behind his desk, less man, more… suit.
I take a deep breath. “I was wrong to put your letters in the shredder without response. You were at least due a reply, a confirmation of receipt. I’d like to apologize for my lack of professionalism and respect for your time.”
He’s silent for a moment. “I appreciate that.”
“You strike me as the type of man who doesn’t act without first doing his research, so I expect you know that Bubbles is a family business.”
“I do. I know your parents opened the store before you were even born.”
I nod. “And both my parents are gone now. Bubbles isn’t just a business for me, it’s part of a legacy. My legacy. And it’s one I plan to protect.”
“Protect against big bad businessmen like myself,” he says, leaning back in his chair as one palm rests on the desk, those long fingers ready to drum in irritation. The other rests on the arm of his chair, casual, but in a practiced way, as though he’s studied how to look relaxed.
“I understand legacy, Ms. Cooper,” he continues. “I understand family business. And because you strike me as the type of woman who’s done your research, I’m sure you know that this is a family business as well. Do you have any idea what your stubbornness is standing in the way of? The magnitude of it, the number of people it would serve?”
“I too did my homework, and I know this company builds high-rises. I also know that the last thing this city needs is another soulless skyscraper.”
His jaw tenses in frustration. “And you’re in the position to speak for the city?”
“Are you?” I shoot back.
“I’ve done my market research.”
“I’m sure you’ve got a PowerPoint presentation bursting with graphs, but have you actually talked to people? Did you ever ask the people walking along Central Park South—right outside your window there, admiring the horses and carriages, delighted in their hot dogs—what they wanted from the New York City experience? Did you ever sit down with Jesse Larson or Avis Napier? Do you even know who they are?”
His aqua eyes flash with anger as he replies, his voice clipped. “This project won’t have any ill effect on the horses, or the hot dogs. And yes, Ms. Cooper, I know Jesse Larson, former owner of Little Rose Diner on Central Park South, now owner of Little Rose Café in the East Village, recently written up with praise in the New Yorker. Avis Napier, former owner of The Central Park Spa, is now happily living in a brand-new beachfront condo in Florida, just a five-minute drive from her daughter’s family.”
A knot of unease has formed in my stomach, but I stand my ground. “Who are you to say Avis is happy? You bought her out and now you’re just telling yourself whatever it takes to help you sleep at—”
He leans forward suddenly, all pretense of chill gone. He’s all heat and anger. “Avis’s daughter’s name is Kathleen. She’s married to Barry. Their son, Jon, just turned four, and their daughter, Monica, was born on the Fourth of July. When I spoke to her last Friday, she was out shopping for a birthday present for her grandson and leaning toward a talking microscope. As for Jesse, I highly recommend the mushroom and thyme scramble, though he’s also recommended the ricotta French toast. And I intend to try that next time I go there for brunch, which will likely be this weekend.”
He leans back in his chair, his posture relaxing slightly, but his intensity still crackling. “Yes, I talk to people, Ms. Cooper.”
I keep my hands pressed to my lap, afraid that if I move them, they’ll start shaking, because I feel shaken. Nothing about this meeting matched my daydreams. He’s supposed to be a cold robot in a suit. I’m supposed to be the humane one who cares about people and my city.
Instead, I feel small. Selfish.
He checks his watch, his impatience plain. “What exactly is it that you came to tell me, Ms. Cooper? Or did you make the appointment merely to disparage my character?”
I try to gather my righteous anger, and while my voice isn’t as strident as it was when I first sat down, at least it doesn’t wobble or crack as I lift my chin.
“I know your business owns the building we rent from, which makes you, essentially, my landlord. But I also know that as long as we continue to pay the rent, you can’t kick us out until the lease is up, which isn’t for another five years.”
Now it’s me who leans forward. “I may have disparaged your character, but you belittled mine when you insulted my shop and me. You want to know why I made this appointment today? It was to thank you. Because you were right. I wasn’t thinking big enough, and I intend to remedy that immediately.”
His aqua eyes narrow. “Is that so?”
“It is,” I say confidently as I stand. This time I know it’s definitely not my imagination that his eyes track the hem of my dress where it falls just a smidge short of business appropriate, but when his gaze snaps up to mine, it’s more irritated than ever.
“I do hope you’ll consider Bubbles & More for all of your champagne needs,” I say calmly as I pick up my purse and turn toward the door. “Though, if I might be so bold as to recommend you skip the art section—I don’t believe you’d appreciate it.”
My feet are screaming in the uncomfortable shoes, but I try harder than ever to hide it as I saunter toward the door.
“Ms. Cooper.” His voice is right behind me. “Wait.”
I don’t slow my step.
“Please.”
Swallowing, I pause and force myself to turn back toward him. I regret it immediately, because he’s followed me, and he’s close. Close enough for me to smell that expensive cologne, close enough to see the precision of his tie knot, to feel the heat of his body…
That last one might be wishful thinking.
“What?” I demand, forcing myself to meet those remarkable aqua eyes.
He’s staring down at me, looking frustrated, then squeezes his eyes shut and gives a quick shake of his head. “Nothing. Never mind.”
I swallow again. “Okay then.”
“Wait,” he says again, touching my arm when I reach for the door handle.
This time when I turn back, he looks faintly embarrassed and lifts a fist to his mouth, clearing his throat slightly. “You have. Um…”
“What?” I say, more impatient this time.
His eyes drop to the vicinity of my chest, and before I can register what is happening, he’s reaching out, the backs of his fingers
brushing against my collarbone, and his touch seems to sear my skin with the desire for more.
Slowly his hand pulls away, and the sharp longing in my belly is replaced by a knot of humiliation when I see the twenty Keva had stuffed into my bra earlier that must have wiggled its way into visibility.
His lips twitch with the hint of a reluctant smile. “What is it with you and twenty-dollar bills?”
“Give me that,” I snap, reaching out and grabbing the bill, much as I had the day of our first meeting.
I yank open the door, ignoring his soft chuckle as I storm out of his office.
There’s an older couple chatting with Noel in the reception area, and the woman breaks off midgripe about her hot yoga class when she sees my shoes. “Oh my goodness. To be young again and be able to pull those off.”
I’m beginning to hate these shoes. In addition to hurting like hell, they’re preventing what could be a very sassy Walk Away.
Still, the woman looks kind and genuinely admiring, so I give her a sunny smile. “Thank you! Though I’ll be honest, young or not, I’m about to go buy myself a pair of flip-flops because my feet are not enjoying their pointy-toed prison.”
The woman laughs and points to her own feet, which are adorned with stylish white loafers. “I used to pride myself on wearing four-inch heels all day, then boom. I rounded the corner on fifty-five, and suddenly flats and wedges became my best friend.”
Daaaang. If this woman is over fifty-five, I need to start investing in some serious eye cream, because I wouldn’t have pegged her for a day over fifty. Her dark shoulder-length hair is thick and shiny without a hint of gray, her figure trim, and her skin has the healthy look of someone who’s decided to embrace the natural aging process and sunscreen.
“I thought I was your best friend,” the equally attractive man beside her says, glancing up from his phone with a wounded expression. Dressed in a light gray suit sans the tie, with a tanned complexion and deep smile lines, he’s her perfect match, and I feel that usual tinge of delight and jealousy at seeing two people who clearly belong together. I want that.
She gives his arm a fond pat. “You’re in the top five for certain, dear. Right in between my navy Tory Burch flats and Fendi sandals. It’s a good place to be.” Her pretty blue eyes move beyond me, her smile widening. “Sebastian, there you are.”
“Mom. Dad.” The gravelly voice from behind me sparks an annoying tingle of awareness down my spine. Then his actual words register. These are his parents?
No. No way can two people so charming and pleasant produce him. They’re all wide smiles and geniality. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen his teeth.
But on closer inspection, I realize the woman’s eyes aren’t just blue. They’re aqua blue, albeit a good deal more friendly than her son’s. And while Sebastian doesn’t particularly resemble his father, the elder Mr. Cooper has the same Ivy League airs and command of the room.
Belatedly, I realize that if these are Sebastian Andrews’s parents, that makes them Vanessa and Gary Andrews, CEO and CFO of the company, respectively. I am annoyed to have to admit I’d stereotyped them by imagining them to be cool and aloof, instead of the type to cheerfully discuss shoes with a stranger.
“Thanks for pushing the schedule back for a late lunch,” he says, and I glance at Noel, realizing that when he’d said Mr. Andrews had been able to move some things around, he’d pushed back lunch with his parents. To meet with… me?
It’s nearly as puzzling as Carlos’s flowers on his reception desk.
“Not a problem!” his mom says. “Will Genevieve be joining us?” I’m starting to ease around her to make my exit, but she looks my way once again. “Sebastian’s girlfriend would go absolutely bonkers for your shoes.”
Genevieve. The name fits her.
I smile politely. “I believe it. I don’t think I’ve ever spoken about anything with as much affection as she had when she found a pair of over-the-knee dove-gray boots.”
“Oh, you’ve met her!” Vanessa seems delighted. “Did Sebastian ever tell you how he and Genevieve met?”
I really don’t want to know, but the way Sebastian shoves his hands into his pockets and scowls means he doesn’t want me to hear it either.
I glance his way and grin innocently. “He’s never said! But I love a good story.”
“Well,” his mother continues. “Gen’s mom and I were sorority sisters back in the day, and we became the best of friends. Roommates, maids of honor, the whole deal. We even got pregnant at the same time. Genevieve was born just six days before Sebastian, and in the same hospital. We burped them together, changed them together. They were basically betrothed from birth. We never would have pushed them together if they weren’t interested, of course, but you can imagine our delight when they hit puberty…”
“I got most of my gray hairs during that decade,” Mr. Cooper says, running a hand through his thick head of salt-and-pepper hair that’s a much lighter shade of brown than his son’s.
“That’s adorable,” I gush with a wide grin at Sebastian. “My sister and brother-in-law are high school sweethearts. They’ve been married twenty-one years.”
“You hear that?” Vanessa says playfully, raising her voice and glancing at her son. “Married.”
She drags out the word for emphasis in a way that makes me think it’s not the first time they’ve had that conversation, and while I can’t say I’m not a little curious about the situation, my exit is well overdue.
“Well, I’ll let you get to your lunch,” I say, lifting my hand for a little farewell wave. “It was nice to meet you!”
“Oh, I didn’t get your name, you of the fabulous shoes.”
“This is Gracie Cooper,” Sebastian cuts in.
Vanessa Andrews’s eyes flicker with something that looks like regret, telling me she knows exactly who I am and why I’m here, but I can’t seem to hate her for it.
Maybe because all my hatred has been used up on her son.
“Well, it was lovely to meet you, Gracie.”
“Same.” I smile at her and her husband and wave at Noel.
I ignore Sebastian completely.
To Sir, with polite curiosity,
Do you have any pets? On paper, I’m a dog person. I love all that open affection and loyalty, the excitement they show when you walk in the door. And yet I have a cat. His name is Cannoli, he’s completely indifferent to me, and I love him so. What do you think that’s about?
Lady
* * *
My dear Lady,
Perhaps it’s because the cat is so indifferent that you love him so. There’s something irritatingly irresistible about someone who won’t give you the time of day…
Yours with armchair psychology,
Sir
Nine
As it turns out, Lily hadn’t been exaggerating about Alec’s busy schedule, because Wednesday dinner at May’s got pushed out to Sunday.
“I thought you were going vegetarian,” I say to May, picking up a little wheel of bacon-wrapped ricotta topped with chives and nibbling the salty deliciousness.
She pauses in stirring a pitcher of her legendary martinis. “Why would you think that?”
“Why else would you use eggplant in lasagna instead of beef?”
Her cocktail spoon resumes its stirring. “Because it’s damned delicious.”
May is wearing a printed wrap dress with bright red poppies and enormous grapefruit-slice earrings that somehow manage to look exactly right in her lime-green kitchen. She lives on Eighty-First and Madison in the stately, if dated, prewar apartment she bought with her second husband, and fourth Great Love, who’d died of a heart attack at age forty-seven.
May has had a lot of Great Loves, and while I still firmly adhere to my belief in One True Love, I can’t deny that I’m grateful my dad was her seventh Great Love, because it brought her into my life.
May never really talks about her financial situation, but considering I very rarely see her wear
the same clothes—or earrings—twice, and the fact that she lives just off Madison, makes me think one of her Great Loves left her very well off.
Knowing that she doesn’t have to work at Bubbles but continues to anyway makes me love her all the more, as does her taking a paycheck just like everyone else so I never feel like a charity case.
“So, what’s going on with your sister and that boy of hers?” May asks.
I sigh as I chew the bacon and cheese. “You’ve noticed too, huh?”
“That our Lily’s eyes never light up when she talks about Alec anymore?”
“Maybe they’re just fighting.”
May looks down at her cocktail pitcher, and the spoon clanks against the crystal. “Maybe.”
“You’re wise,” I say. “What do you think’s going on?”
“If by wise you mean that I’m old and I’ve been around”—she pulls out the copper spoon and jabs it in my direction—“you’re exactly right.”
She places the spoon on a towel and gestures to the silver tray and four martini glasses on the small built-in wet bar behind me.
I carefully lift the tray and place it in front of her. She uses a strainer to pour two drinks, leaving the other two empty, since Lily texted that she and Alec were caught in traffic and would be a few minutes late.
May skewers olives with silver Samurai sword–shaped cocktail picks she purchased from Bubbles & More and drops one into each glass. She hands me one, and we lift the cocktails in a silent cheers.
“What do I think?” she says before taking a sip of her martini and leaving a coral lipstick mark behind. “I think they’ve forgotten how to be in love. And I think you have more important things to worry about.”
“Like the store,” I say, sipping my drink.
“Sugar, no. I mean, yes, you’ve got your work cut out for you there. But what you have no business fretting over is your sister’s love life. At least she has one.”
“Um, ouch.”
“Oh, tits up,” she says. “Now, tell me who’s got you smiling at your phone all the time.”
