We chew in silence for several moments. Not quite tense, not quite comfortable. As though we both know we’re constantly straddling a line between tentative truce and opposing goals.
When he speaks again, he’s apparently chosen to lean into the truce, because he looks and sounds more relaxed than usual. “I haven’t done this in a long time.”
“The food? The park? The bench?” I ask curiously.
“All of it. The spontaneity, mostly.”
“You do seem to be rather… structured.”
“Wouldn’t you be?” he says, mostly to himself. “If you’d grown up hearing, even jokingly, that you were betrothed from the cradle? If there was a Princeton sweatshirt under the tree every Christmas, long before you’d even thought about college? If it was a foregone conclusion that you’d take over the family business?”
“So where did you go to college?”
“Princeton.”
I think about this as I finish my gyro. I crumple up the foil as I chew the last bite, knowing I did Omer proud with my eating, even if I disgraced Keva with my cooking.
“I know I only met them once,” I say cautiously. “But your parents seem pretty cool. Reasonable. You can’t undo the Princeton thing, but you could marry this other girl—the complicated one. Become a horse trainer because, sorry, you’ve got to give up the jockey thing. You’re way too big.”
He crumples up his own foil and then twists it idly in his fingers, lost in thought. “Perhaps.”
“You want to know what I think?” I turn toward him and pull my leg up beneath me, prop my elbow up on the back of the bench so I can look at this complicated man.
“Oddly, yes.”
I don’t mind the oddly part. I know what he means. We’re not friends. On a professional front, we’re downright adversaries. But we’re connected somehow, and that sense that I knew him even before I met him seems to grow stronger the more I’m with him. Might as well put my inexplicable connection to this man to good use.
“I think it’s easier to go along with what your parents want. Easy, in a comfortable sort of way. If you’re chasing what they want, and it doesn’t quite work out, the loss would be tempered somewhat. You won’t fight for it as hard, true, but it also won’t sting as much because you’ve got no skin in the game.”
He crumples the ball in his left fist, then leans back on the bench, his right elbow brushing mine lightly as he stretches out his legs. “No, I don’t believe that’s true.”
“You don’t?” I’m surprised. I’d sort of impressed myself with my insight.
He shakes his head and looks over at me. “No. If we were less motivated by other people’s plans for us, by other people’s dreams, you wouldn’t be fighting so hard to keep Bubbles & More open.”
My head snaps back, a little stung that he’d upset our truce by going there. “It’s not the same.”
“No?” He pivots toward me, leaning his head against his fist, mirroring my posture. “So, if Bubbles hadn’t been a family run store, you’d still refuse to even hear my offer? Still refuse to consider something that might be better for your employees. And for you?”
“Respectfully, you don’t know the first thing about what’s right for me, Mr. Andrews.”
He frowns a little, more to himself than at me, and lifts his head slightly. His finger beside mine on the bench moves closer. Just slightly enough that it could be an accident. But then the tip of his small finger brushes mine, a whisper of a touch.
“No,” he says quietly. “Perhaps not.”
Yearning.
It’s the first word that pops into my head, and it’s also one that makes me think of Sir. And the realization that I’m thinking of one man while sitting beside another, that for the first time in my life I feel it for two men, and can have neither, leaves me frustrated.
I stand abruptly. “It’s late. I should be heading home.”
Sebastian doesn’t argue. “Sure,” he replies, standing up as well.
We walk in silence toward the park exit. “Where do you live? I’ll walk you home.”
I smile. “I appreciate that, but I’ve walked myself home hundreds of times.”
His stubborn expression doesn’t change, and I roll my eyes but smile. “Hell’s Kitchen. Fifty-Fourth, between Ninth and Tenth. I doubt you’re going my way.”
“I’m not. But I’ll walk you home. But first…” He points at one of the food stands. “Ice cream.”
“You know, I think you made all that up about your parental pressures,” I joke. “I don’t think there’s ever been anything you wanted that you didn’t get.”
“You’d be surprised,” he says quietly, then points at the menu. “What are you having? My treat.”
Not saying no to that. I survey the menu. No pistachio gelato, but I could easily make do with something chocolatey. Or maybe just a basic vanilla dipped in chocolate and sprinkled with some peanuts. Or…
My gaze locks on a menu item in the bottom right corner. It’s a whole subcategory of frozen treats I’ve never bothered with before because there’s no chocolate, no nuts, no flavor…
You haven’t lived until you’ve tried a lemon sorbet on a hot summer day in the city…
It’s not a hot summer day in the city, but…
I point. “I’ll have one of those.”
The look he gives me is so long, and so piercing, I think I’ve offended his very soul. A sentiment I can agree with, because I’ve sort of just offended myself as well. Lemon sorbet? Really?
Sebastian turns toward the impatient woman waiting to take our order. “Two lemon sorbet cups, please.”
The order bothers me. Lemon sorbet is my thing with Sir, and I don’t like thinking about Sebastian Andrews and Sir in the same thought.
I like even less that when he notices me shiver and drops his coat over my shoulders, I stop thinking about Sir altogether.
Fourteen
It’s been a while since I’ve indulged in a proper girls’ night. And when you need one? You need one.
I’ve invited all the usual suspects: Lily, Rachel, and Keva, but I’ve also made a surprising addition:
Robyn.
The prickly sommelier’s been bothering me less lately. The intensity that used to drive me, well, nuts, has actually been a pretty big asset around the store lately. I’m realizing that perhaps I’ve been seeing her all wrong: Robyn’s not a condescending know-it-all as much as she is a woman who’s lucky enough to have found her passion (sparkling wine) and a job that allows her to live that passion.
In the past couple of weeks, it’s been Robyn who stays late to help me brainstorm new ideas on increasing revenue; Robyn who takes it upon herself to try to get vendor sponsorships every Friday; Robyn who’s taken over inventory management.
And I don’t know if it’s the successful shopping trip with Keva that resulted in her new lipstick or what, but her customer service skills have done an about-face. Instead of spouting off her knowledge as though wanting a gold star for her efforts, she comes across as committed to making sure people take home a wine they love.