As though in protest at the word dog, Cannoli comes strolling out from wherever he’s been hiding with a long meow and hops up onto the arm of the couch, tail twitching as he gives Sebastian what can only be described as a skeptical once-over.
The cat meows again, a little more friendly this time, and Sebastian steps toward him, extending a finger and rubbing the side of the cat’s face. Cannoli’s eyes close, and he pushes his entire head against Sebastian’s hand, pressing his face into the large palm.
I’m not going to lie, it’s pretty heart melting.
“Boy or girl?” he asks, still petting the cat.
“Boy. Cannoli.”
He gives me a sharp look, and I shrug with a smile. “What? I like dessert.”
His eyes narrow just slightly. “What’s your favorite kind of dessert?”
“I’m not terribly picky. If it’s sweet and delicious, I love it. Though I do think it’s hard to beat really good ice cream.”
“Gelato,” he guesses, though it’s more statement than question.
“Totally,” I smile, thinking of Sir. “Give me a pint of pistachio gelato, and there’s basically zero chance that I won’t finish the entire thing. By myself. In one sitting.”
He frowns. “That night in the park. We stopped at the ice cream truck, but you didn’t get ice cream. You got lemon sorbet.”
I smile, remembering. “A whim. A… friend of mine swears by it. I think it’s an affront to dessert, but I realized I couldn’t really say that when I hadn’t given it a chance.”
“What’s the verdict?”
“I still think it’s an affront to dessert,” I say with a grin.
Sebastian doesn’t grin back but studies me with a strange expression. Then I realize that he’d ordered lemon sorbet with me, and maybe I’d just insulted his dessert of choice. I shake my head. What is it with the men in my life liking frozen lemon nonsense?
Perhaps more important: When did I start counting Sebastian Andrews as a man in my life?
Cannoli grows bored and ambles off to my bedroom, and Sebastian nods toward the stack of finished paintings against the wall. “May I?”
“Um…” I hesitate, remembering the one of the man with the aqua eyes. It doesn’t look like Sebastian. It doesn’t look like anyone, really. It’s more shadow than features. Still, those eyes…
“Sure,” I say, because I can’t think of a way to say no that wouldn’t be rude.
I expect him to flip through them quickly, but he takes his time, holding each painting and studying it thoroughly before moving on to the next. I hold my breath when he gets to the one of the man.
He looks at it the same way he did the others, then sets it aside without a word and moves onto the next, seemingly without noticing the unusual eye color. I slowly exhale.
Finally, he gets to the last one—there are eleven in that stack, the ones I think are my best, though I’m still working to get twenty I feel are good enough to take to Mr. Wheeler.
Sebastian turns around to face me once more. “They’re charming, and no, I don’t mean that to be the least bit condescending. Hugh’s going to be thrilled.”
“Thank you,” I say, pleasure rushing over me. “I’ve been—wait… Hugh? Hugh Wheeler?”
He shrugs, then nods once.
I stare at him in confusion. “How did you know that a Chelsea art gallery was—”
Dismay settles low in my stomach as I realize there’s only one way he’d know about Hugh Wheeler approaching me. “It was you.”
Sebastian blinks, looking taken aback by the sharpness in my tone.
“You were his source,” I say. “You were the one who told him how to find me.”
“Yes, I went to school with his brother. He’s a friend. I thought—”
“Oh my God.” I dig my fingers into my hair and tug. “I’m one of your projects.”
“My what?”
“Another Jesse. Another Avis. You all but told me that this is what you do—push people out of business and then fix them up with some other venture so you don’t have to feel guilty. The new restaurant with Jesse. Setting Avis up in Florida. With me, it’s buying me lamb gyros, sucking up to my cat, and calling in a favor with a friend to get my art displayed. It’s pity.”
His eyes flash in anger. “That’s not what’s going on here.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and press my thumbs against my eyelids as it all clicks into place. Every kind gesture, every moment, was merely him trying to assuage his conscience for his role in the failure of Bubbles.
I nod toward the kitchen table. “Did you bring Jesse and Avis their checks in person too?”
He says nothing.
“Did you?” I’m shouting now.
“Yes.”
He says it calmly, and all of my shock and hurt fade into the background, replaced by aching disappointment. No, something a lot worse than disappointment.
Hurt. A hurt so deep it feels awfully close to heartbreak.
I let out a shaky laugh. “I can’t believe I actually thought…” I shake my head.
He steps closer. “You thought what?” His voice is rough, his eyes seeming to plead with mine, and for an insane moment, I want to tell him.
I want to tell him to choose me, to feel about me the way I feel about him.
“Gracie—”
His use of my first name sends something warm curling through me, but I shove it aside.
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m not going to stand here and become another one of your projects, another example you can rattle off to the next person you put out of business as proof that you’re some sort of corporate savior who somehow improves people’s lives when actually you ruin them—”
His eyes flash in anger. “What exactly have I ruined? I didn’t put you out of business. I didn’t sabotage your store. In fact, I supported your efforts. I showed up at your tasting and bought a case of sparkling wine. I showed up at your cooking class, paid full price. I’m being scorned, for what, exactly? For making a sound financial offer that you chose to accept? For mentioning your art to a friend? What’s my crime here, Ms. Cooper?”
“I didn’t need any of that! I didn’t want it. I was fine before that day I ran into you on the sidewalk, before you showed up in my shop, before you stalked me at my house.”
“Stalked you,” he repeats. “Stalked you?” He stares at me a moment, then shakes his head. “Unbelievable.”
Sebastian heads toward my front door, jerking it open, then turns back. “Don’t worry, Ms. Cooper. This is the last you’ll see or hear from me. Have a nice life.”
The door slams shut as he walks out of my apartment. Out of my life.
I should feel relieved. Instead, I sit on my couch and cry.
To Sir, with a touch of melancholy,
I have a bit of a confession. I miss my dad every day—both my parents. Of course I do. But lately I’m a tiny bit glad that they passed on before seeing what a mess I’ve made of my life. Have you ever felt that with your dad? Relieved that he can’t see you at your less than fine moments? Not that you have those, of course…