“Anyway,” he clears his throat, looking embarrassed. “I’ll leave you to your…” He looks behind me, apparently noticing the empty store for the first time, and he looks regretful. And maybe a tiny bit guilty.
Again, those aqua eyes find mine, and again, I feel an annoying tug in my stomach.
“Are you okay?” he asks gently.
I make a rueful face and scratch my cheek. “My face is all blotchy, huh?”
“My mother would kill me if I answered that,” he says with a slight smile. He reaches toward my face. His hand pauses, and when I don’t move away, his thumb comes to rest against the center of my forehead in a gesture that’s both surprising and… tender.
He swipes with his thumb, and when he pulls it back and shows me the pad of his finger, it’s bright pink.
“Oh for God’s sake,” I mutter, rubbing at my forehead with the back of my hand. “May and her lipstick. I don’t suppose you’re old-fashioned and have a handkerchief tucked into your suit pocket there?”
“Normally, yes. But alas, I left it next to my pocket watch and top hat this morning.”
I can’t help the little sigh that slips out. “Don’t you ever wish we could go back to that time? When men were gentlemen and ladies were… well actually, I guess we couldn’t vote, huh?”
“Depends. Did men carry handkerchiefs and pocket watches after the Nineteenth Amendment was ratified? I’d like to think yes.”
“Ugh, I’m not in the mood for you to be likable right now,” I say without heat.
He smiles, and I’m tempted to smile back, even as I’m irrationally angry. At him, for being so appealing when he’s hung up on some other woman. At me, for hating that other woman…
“Thanks for the food,” I say, giving the bag a little jiggle. “But I have more work I should get back to, and I’m sure you’ve got someone to get back to.”
The warmth in his eyes fades. I try to tell myself his expression is irritation or wounded pride. But it looks a lot like hurt.
Sebastian gives a single nod and takes a step backward. “Ah. Never let it be said I can’t take my cue. Good night, Ms. Cooper.”
He turns away, and the second he does, I know this is all wrong.
“Wait.” I reach out and grab his sleeve. He’s not wearing a coat over his suit jacket, and the crisp texture of the suit sleeve reminds me of the night he’d walked me home and lent me his jacket.
His teal eyes glance down at my hand, then back to my face. Questioning. Hoping?
I shift to the side and tilt my head. Come in.
He steps into the empty Bubbles, though it feels a lot less empty with him in it.
By now Bublé’s moved on to singing about him and Mrs. Jones as I set the white bag on the counter.
Sebastian looks around the near-empty room, his expression betraying nothing, at least until he notes the champagne. The two glasses. “You were expecting company.”
“Sort of. It’s complicated,” I say with a little smile.
“Ah.” His voice is a touch sharp. “Your suitor.”
“Suitor. I like that word.” I pick up the champagne bottle and give it a twist, the sharp crack of the cork creating a pleasant sort of harmony with the old-school music. “I think I undersold that last time. Complicated doesn’t even begin to cover the situation with my suitor.”
“No?” he asks, coming to stand across from me at the counter. I pour the wine and glance up, expecting to see him taking note of the bottle’s label, but instead he’s watching me.
I let his question hang in the air. I don’t want to think about Sir’s rejection just now. In fact, I realize, it’s strange how little I seem to be able to think about Sir in Sebastian’s presence, or Sebastian while messaging with Sir. It’s as though my brain’s put up some sort of buffer that prevents me from comparing the two men.
Perhaps because my heart knows it would have to choose.
I finish pouring the glasses and hand one to Sebastian.
He hesitates. “You really want to be drinking champagne? With me? Tonight?”
“This is a strange little twist of fate, to be sure,” I say, looking around at the empty store. Empty because of him. But because of me as well. “But fitting, wouldn’t you say?” I lift my glass. “To Bubbles.”
He lifts his as well. “To Bubbles. To new beginnings.”
I nod, about to sip, but he adds one more. “To the unexpected.”
Sebastian catches my eyes as he says it, our gazes holding as we click our glasses and sip. The wine is outstanding. And has nothing to do with the butterflies in my stomach. The dryness in my mouth. The slight fuzziness where logic should be.
“This is incredible,” he says, finally seeming to register his beverage. He reaches for the bottle and blinks. “And very expensive.”
I shrug. “For all my preaching to my customers—former customers—about treating every day like a special occasion, I guess I’m old school. I’ve been saving this particular bottle for an extraspecial occasion, bittersweet as it may be.”
“And here you are, sharing it with a man you hate.”
I quickly shake my head. “I don’t hate anybody.”
“Extreme dislike?” he asks with a grim smile.
I exhale. “Closing Bubbles was likely inevitable,” I say softly. “But I won’t claim that the constancy of your letters and your sheer persistence didn’t shove me along. Perhaps before I was ready. Or perhaps I should be thanking you. I’m not quite sure, to be honest.”
His gaze flickers with regret. “Ms. Cooper—”
I quickly shake my head. “I don’t want to talk business, Mr. Andrews. Not tonight. That part is done. I had my attorney handle everything for a reason.”
“What reason?”
“So I don’t come to hate you,” I say, giving him a quick grin.
He looks off-balance for a moment, then lets out a quiet chuckle. “You did warn me during our first meeting that you share your every thought.”
Not my every thought.
I pull a stool over and hop onto it. I point at the other stool, but he shakes his head. I shrug and reach for the lamb gyro, smiling a little as I realize I’m about to combine cheap New York street meat, extraordinarily expensive champagne, and Sebastian Andrews.
A strange blend that is surprisingly… perfect.
“Want to split this?” I ask, unwrapping it.
“I don’t believe there’s a knife.”
I shrug and take a bite, then hand it to him. Sebastian hesitates only a second, looking vaguely nonplussed, as though sharing food is a novelty. Then he takes a bite—a large one that makes me think he skipped dinner or had a salad—and hands it back.
It’s about as intimate a meal as I’ve had in recent memory, yet nothing about it feels weird.
“So,” I say, taking a bite and wiping my chin. “How’ve you been?”
He takes the gyro and stares at it, though he’s not really seeing it. “Fine.”
I lift my eyebrows. “Uh-huh.”
He still hasn’t touched the gyro, so I take it back and take another bite.
“You could try it my way,” I say with a grin. “A little more babble, a little less stoicism.”