by Lauren Layne
“Done,” I say gratefully.
“So,” he says with a boyish grin. “My turn for the invasive personal questions. How are things with your guy? Or girl?”
“Guy. And they’re…” I smile a little wistfully as I try to explain the strange combination of feelings I get when I think of Sir. The butterflies. The old-fashioned romance of it all. The giddiness when I have a new message.
The frustration that he’s not real.
“Ah,” Sebastian says. His voice is just slightly curt, and I look up in question.
“It’s like that,” he says.
“Like what?”
“The dopey-in-love thing.”
“Dopey?” I repeat, outraged.
“Not dopey,” he amends quickly. “It’s just clear he’s important to you.”
“Yes. He is.”
“You said last time that it was complicated. What’s complicated about it? He doesn’t feel the same?”
I give him an annoyed look. “Love that that’s your first assumption. But actually… I don’t really know how he feels.”
“You could ask him,” he says, holding out his glass for Robyn to fill. I do the same, ignoring the blatantly curious look she gives us before moving away.
“Oh really? I could ask him?” I say sarcastically, with no heat.
“I’m just saying, men aren’t exactly known for their emotive skills in this area.”
“True. I should. It’s just…” I wrinkle my nose in befuddlement. “Why am I talking about this with you? I haven’t talked about him this much with anyone.”
“It’s just what?” he presses, turning and pushing the plate out of the way, leaning against the counter so he’s facing me.
“What if I’m disappointed?” I say it quickly, to get the words out for the first time ever. To him, of all people. Not to Rachel, or Keva, or Lily, or May, but to Sebastian Andrews.
“What do you mean?”
I blow out a breath, gathering my thoughts. “It’s hard to explain. But I’ve built this guy up so much in my head, and I think maybe the reason I haven’t pushed to move forward is that I’m worried fantasy won’t match reality.” I wince. “You think I’m an idiot.”
“I don’t,” he says quietly, looking down at his glass. “I think I understand it more than you think.”
“Okay, so here’s another fear,” I say, the bubbly apparently starting to go to my head. “And brace yourself, because this is high school–crush territory, but… what if he doesn’t like me as much as I like him?”
Sebastian nods slowly. “I get that too. It’s not high school territory. It’s human territory. Nobody wants to learn they’re the only one feeling things.”
Our eyes lock for a moment that feels… important, somehow.
We both look away.
“So, how did you and Mr. Complicated meet?” he asks as he accepts the basket of ingredients for the crab cake from Josh. “Blind date? Mutual friend? Dating app?”
Oh, you know, we haven’t actually met.
I may be sharing things with this man that I haven’t with anyone else, but I draw the line at that humiliating little tidbit.
“You know,” I say slowly as we begin unloading panko, eggs, and crab meat from the basket, “until just a couple weeks ago, I was so sure there was only one right person for everyone and that my guy would find me, Princess Jasmine–style. Or I’d find him, Little Mermaid–style.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “You think you’re going to rescue your soul mate from a shipwreck?”
I grin. “Mr. Andrews! Your knowledge of Disney impresses me.”
“I try.” He inspects a lemon, and I hope he doesn’t plan to slaughter it like he did the last one. Aqua eyes cut back to mine. “And you’ve found him? Or he you?”
“Well, that’s the thing—it feels like it, but I don’t want to be wrong.” I pick up a red bell pepper and sniff it distractedly, then turn to him. “You ever feel completely convinced you’re supposed to be with someone but have no idea how to go about it?”
“Actually. Yes. Twice,” he admits. “You?”
“Yeah.” My voice is quiet now, nearly a whisper. “Twice.”
His eyes darken in what seems to be irritation or… jealousy?
Keva starts explaining the art of the crab cake, and I quickly turn away from Sebastian and walk to the front table to watch the demonstration.
Partially because I need all the cooking help I can get.
Partially because I can’t let Sebastian Andrews know that for a split second on a Manhattan sidewalk, I’d thought he was that guy.
Thirteen
Sebastian and I stare at our sad excuse for a strawberry parfait.
“I thought she said it would be easy,” Sebastian says, sounding vaguely accusatory.
“I thought she said we couldn’t possibly do worse than the crab cake,” I add.
He hands me a spoon. “Together this time?”
I take it reluctantly. “Do we have to?”
“It’s just berries in some orange gunk and cream whipped with almond flavor. How bad can it be?”
I sigh and take the spoon.
“One,” he counts as our spoons tip into the parfait glass in unison. “Two…”
We lift the spoons to our mouths.
“Three—”
So bad. So so so so bad, that’s how bad it can be.
He hands me my water glass, then reaches for his own. “Jesus.”
“Yeah, in case it wasn’t clear, you guys get an F,” Keva calls over her shoulder as she heads toward the front door, arms full of cooking equipment.
Sebastian looks affronted. “I’ve never failed anything in my life.”
“I have,” I say cheerfully, a little loose from the champagne, though I was careful not to have too much. Lowering defenses around this man feels… dangerous.
“What’d you fail?” he asks curiously.
“Psych. Freshman year of college. It’s not worth the long story, but short version: you’ll get over it.”
Since Sebastian and my cooking efforts were among the worst of the group, most everyone else had cleared out before us. Grady arrived with his catering truck, and all but two of the wheeled kitchen island stations had already been moved out of the space. Still, there’s plenty of cleanup to be done to get the store back to rights before opening tomorrow, and I begin to gather the champagne flutes on our station. Since we’ve rented them for the night, they just need to be rinsed and put back into the crate.
Robyn comes out of nowhere and takes them both out of my hand. “I’ve got this.”
I blink at her. Never, in the nearly two years she has been working here, has she initiated helping with the more menial tasks around the store.
“That lipstick really suits you,” I say, referring to more than the way the color lights up her face.
“Thanks!” she says brightly. “Keva says it’s a tad too warm for my complexion, so we’re going shopping on Saturday for something with more blue undertones. And how did you not tell me she knows the somm from Blago over on Third? He’s gorgeous, single, and Keva’s going to try to set us up.”
I can only blink at her, wondering where the Robyn I’ve known—and let’s be honest, suffered through—for almost five years has gone.
I’m also increasingly aware that Sebastian is still here, the only nonemployee in the space. And that it doesn’t feel weird. Maybe because I know he’s the landlord of sorts? Though shouldn’t that make it more weird?
I feel Robyn’s gaze flick between me and Sebastian, her speculation clear, and when I try to pick up our failed strawberry parfait, she blocks me. “Why don’t you head out for the night, boss. You’ve been setting up all day for the class.”
“We all have,” I argue.
“Yes, but you also did the planning and the organizing and lost enough sleep for all of us.”
“I didn’t lose sleep!” I did. I definitely lost sleep, because everything we do in the store seem
s to matter too much. One slip, one bad sales day, one slow week…
But the most alarming part is that there are moments when I wonder if the store failing wouldn’t be a blessing in disguise.
Hands full of dirty dishes, Robyn heads toward the front of the store, and I glance at Sebastian. He’s already removed his apron, making me realize I’m still wearing mine. I tug the string around my waist and lift my arms to pull the thing over my head, then yelp as I inadvertently tug the baby hairs at the back of my neck.
Wordlessly, Sebastian moves behind me. “You’re tangled,” he mutters softly. “Hold on.”
He pushes my hair over my shoulder to better see what he’s doing. I don’t move a muscle as his warm fingers brush the sensitive skin on the back of my neck. I feel the ever-so-slight scrape of a short nail as he works, feel the heat of his body in the too-warm room.
“There we go,” he murmurs, lifting the apron over my head. No tug this time.
“Thank you,” I say, not quite looking at him. “Apparently I don’t know how to work aprons, but good thing you’re handy with them.”
“A waste of a skill considering the result,” he says, pointing at the melting parfait that looks like a foamy chem lab experiment gone wrong.
“I hope everyone else had better luck,” I say a little glumly. “I’d hate to think we charged people three hundred bucks for food they can’t even eat.”
“Pretty sure we were the only ones who were three for three on inedibility. Everyone else seemed to be having a great time, and at least got fed.”
“You really think so?” I look up at him. I tell myself his approval matters for professional reasons, but the way my heart thumps says otherwise.
He shrugs. “Sure. Yeah. Nobody seemed to be leaving hungry.”
“Nobody but you.”
He smiles slightly. “I confess, I’m a bit peckish.”
“Is that a nice way of saying you’re starving? Because I so am.” I tilt the basket of crackers toward me, but it’s long empty, the only thing I’ve eaten since the burrito I had for lunch while setting up.
Sebastian had rolled up his dress sleeves while we worked—and no, the distraction of his toned forearms had nothing to do with my cooking mishaps, why do you ask?—but he’s rolled them back down now and is rebuttoning the cuffs in a gesture so effortlessly masculine my mouth goes a bit dry.
“So feed me,” he says simply, reaching out and picking up the suit jacket he’s folded over the back of a chair, out of range of our cooking disaster.
“Sorry?” I ask, still distracted, as he shrugs on the navy jacket. At some point during the evening he’d loosened his tie, just a little, and unbuttoned the top button. I wait for him to button it, to tighten the knot, but he does neither. This is a more relaxed Mr. Andrews.
This is Sebastian, I realize.
“Feed me,” he says with a slight smile. “I want my money’s worth.”
“You had excellent champagne. Hardly a rip-off.”
“True. But I did sign up for a cooking class. I believe the website indicated a three-course meal was included.” He reaches for his phone. “I could check…”
“Oh my God, fine. I’ll refund you 50 percent. Which is more than fair, since you did drink the wine, and that was the most expensive part.”
The light in his eyes dims. “Forget it. I wasn’t asking for a refund.”
“Then what—”
Now he does button his shirt. Tightens the knot of his tie. “Thanks for the interesting evening, Ms. Cooper.”
I feel my heart sink. That brief glimpse of Sebastian the man is gone, and just like that, he’s back to being the buttoned-up Mr. Andrews.
He strides away without looking back, pausing at the front door and stepping aside to make way for Keva and Grady’s reentry, then exits into the night.
I feel something thwack against my chest, glance down, and see my purse and May’s magenta nails. “Gracie. We’ll clean up. Go feed that boy.”
There are plenty of things I could and should say. That the cooking class was my idea, and I’d clean up. That they should go home and I’ll take care of the rest.
That Sebastian was hardly a boy.
That he wasn’t mine to feed.
That he wasn’t mine period.
Instead, I give her a quick hug of gratitude, then find myself out on Central Park South, looking both right and left as I realize it’s unlikely he’d return to the office at this hour, and I have no idea if he lives on the East or West Side.
Luckily, the street’s relatively quiet at this hour on a weeknight, and I catch sight of his broad shoulders moving toward Broadway. He’s got a long stride, so I have to speed walk, and even then, I can’t quite catch up to him unless I run. And my clunky sandals aren’t going to cooperate with that.
“Mr. Andrews!”
He doesn’t turn. Or even pause.
“Sebastian!”
He halts and slowly pivots toward me, waiting as I close the distance between us. He looks down at me, those aqua eyes questioning, maybe a little wary.
I smile. “I can’t afford fancy. But how do you feel about Halal?” I tilt my head toward the circle of food stands in Columbus Circle.
Something warm and wonderful happens to his face that takes my breath away.
I keep babbling to disguise my reaction. “It’s a little overpriced since it’s in tourist central, but their gyros are pretty great for absorbing excess champagne.”
“Speaking from experience?” he asks as we walk toward the food stand in silent agreement.
“I was born and bred into the sparkling wine business, so yeah, I know my way around hangover prevention.”
He glances down at me. “Did you ever want to do anything else besides go into the family business?”
I smile. “Of course. Didn’t you?”
“Of course.”
I look up at his profile, then away. “Astronaut? Doctor? Fireman?”
“A jockey.”
I laugh and give his six-foot-plus frame a once-over. “Seriously?”
“When I was eleven and a business partner had given my parents tickets to a fancy box at the Kentucky Derby. I’d barely even seen a horse before then, but I was fascinated and decided there’d be no cooler job than flying around a muddy track on horseback.”
“How long did the dream last?” I ask as we step behind a couple of teens in line at the Halal food truck.
“Longer than you’d guess. My mom had gently pointed out that jockeys were usually of a certain height and that genetics might not be in my favor, but I did my research. The average jockey was about five two, of which I was perfectly in range at the time. But then…”
“Growth spurt?” I ask.
He nods. “A big one. I went from five feet to six feet overnight.”
“Crushing.”
“A little bit. Though making the varsity baseball team as a sophomore helped ease the disappointment.”
“And I’m sure it didn’t hurt that the prep school girls, after years of towering above the boys, were delighted by your growth spurt?”
He smiles a little and doesn’t deny it. “It did not hurt.”
Sebastian and I step up to order. He studies the menu, then glances down at me. “I’ll have what you’re having.”
“Spicy sauce or no?”
“Yes, but don’t go crazy.”
“Not one of those people who needs to order extra heat to prove your badassery?”
“Do those people exist?”
“Oh yes. Most of my ex-boyfriends,” I say, smiling at the man behind the counter. “Hey, Omer.”
“Gracie! Where you been? Everything good?”
“Everything’s great! Just busy, but in the good way. How are things here?”
“Same great days, great nights. No complaints. Same thing?”
“Yep, but make it two. And two waters.”
Sebastian reaches to pull out his wallet, but I place my hand on his, trying to igno
re the way the simple contact makes my pulse leap. “You told me to feed you. Let me do it.”
I brace for him to argue. I want to do this, to show him I’m not some floundering shop owner, but a businesswoman who’s built something. It’s important to me.
Slowly, he nods.
Omer gives me my change, and I stuff all of it into the plastic tip cup. Grabbing two bottles of water out of the ice at the front of the stand, I step aside to let the couple behind us place their order while our food cooks, and Sebastian follows my lead.
He twists off the cap of his water and takes a drink, then replaces it. “What did you want to be?”
I’d been distracted by a saxophonist playing a decent version of “It Had to be You” and turn back toward him. “What?”
“Before you decided to be a champagne shop owner. What did you want to be?”
“Oh. An artist.”
Sebastian says nothing, his attention seemingly on the saxophonist as well. He surprises me by handing me his water, then pulling a twenty out of his wallet and dropping it into the man’s case, a lone twenty among a pile of ones and a couple of fives. The man pauses in his playing to flash a gap-toothed smile at Sebastian. “Thank you.”
Sebastian nods, then turns back to me with a mischievous grin. “Well, well. Another twenty-dollar bill.”
“Any more, and I won’t be able to see one without thinking of you,” I say before I can think better of it.
Something flits across Sebastian’s face at my words, but Omer waves me over to get the food before I can identify it.
Central Park is open until midnight, but the nights are slowly growing chillier, so there are fewer people here after dark than in the peak of summer. We find a bench and sit. I’m too hungry to make decent small talk, and the first bite has my eyes rolling back in my head.
“Good, right?” I say, mouth full as I look at Sebastian, who’s already devoured three bites.
He nods slowly and wipes his mouth with a thin paper napkin. He brings the gyro to his mouth as though to take another bite, then frowns at it. “So why didn’t you?”
“Why didn’t I what?”
“Become an artist.” He takes another bite.
I shrug. “Probably the same reason most midwestern eighteen-year-olds who move to Hollywood don’t ever get to go to the Oscars. Some things are simply meant to be dreams.”
