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 ignore 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.”
“What kind of artist are you?”
“I dabble,” I say vaguely, not in the mood to revisit the cutesy Tinker Bell comment when things are so amiable between us.
“Did you ever try? To go professional?”
“Did you ever try?”
“To become a horse jockey?”
I smile. “No. To be anything other than—what’s your title again? Vice president of city domination?”
He winces. “Development. Vice president of development.”
“Same thing,” I mutter, wiping some hot sauce from the back of my hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a frustrated look cross his face, and he exhales before taking another bite.