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He has the nerve to roll his eyes. “Don’t romanticize it.”
“Don’t romanticize it?” I repeat, outraged. “I assure you, my concern for my employees’ livelihood, my own livelihood, is extremely grounded in facts and logic.”
“If that’s the case, you owe it to your employees and yourself to seek the best option for them.”
“Oh, and closing my business will somehow achieve that?”
“We’ve put together a very compelling offer. Something you’d know, had you found a less special place for my letters.”
“Oh, I can think of a less special place,” I say sweetly.
His fingers drum once more, faster this time, more irritated, and it fills me with… something.
I’m a middle child through and through, accustomed to being the peacemaker, to making everyone comfortable, to charming the conflict out of tense situations, but for the first time in my life, I have no desire to remove the tension in this moment. Mr. Andrews can go ahead and choke on it for all I care.
Unfortunately, I’ll be deprived of the pleasure of watching that, because the jingle of the bell indicates a new arrival. I glance at the front door, recognizing one of our regulars, and lift my hand in greeting.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say. “Paying customers require my attention.”
“Ms. Cooper, all I want is five minutes to discuss a business offer that would be beneficial to both of—”
“Understood,” I pick up the letter. “I’ll be sure to set this aside for review later.”
Holding his gaze, I lean down and feed the letter into the shredder. If our previous standoff had been a silent cold war, the shrill clatter of his offer being diced into a million pieces is a warrior’s cry.
He shakes his head, having the nerve to look disappointed in me.
“If you ever need some help fulfilling your sparkling wine needs,” I say under my breath, “I’d be delighted to point you to one of our competitors on Sixty-Fourth and Columbus.”
As far as parting remarks go, it’s not exactly gold, but I’m fairly pleased to at least have gotten the last word as I round the corner and head toward my customer without so much as a glance his way.
“Nicola, how are you?” I ask.
Nicola Cirillo is a publicist who lives in one of the fancy high-rises nearby and who’s in the shop at least once a week or so. She’s in her midforties, maybe even a very well-maintained fifty, and lives to entertain, frequently buying cases at a time for brunches, trivia nights, watching the Oscars, Super Bowl parties, etc.
Most of our regulars know what they like and buy the same label over and over, much to the chagrin of Robyn. Nicola, on the other hand, is always on the lookout for something new. Robyn’s going to be ticked she missed a chance to sell her Franciacorta.
“How’d your vintage game night go?” I ask, recalling the reason for her last visit.
“It was a huge hit, thanks. Fun fact, tipsy Candy Land is more fun than you’d think. And you were so right on the New Mexico bubbles, by the way. Who knew the Southwest could produce that sort of quality?”
“We just got some more cases. Can I grab you a couple bottles?” I’m increasingly aware that Mr. Andrews missed my hint to leave and is now roaming the shop, pretending to browse.
“No,” Nicola says, running a well-manicured hand through her long blond hair as she surveys the front display of sparkling rosé. “I’ve got sort of a last-day-of-summer itch. I want a fun, pink Monday wine. Just for me.” She says it with a grin.
A lot of customers have the last-day-of-summer itch, which is exactly why I’d set up the summery display Nicola’s currently perusing at the front of the shop. In addition to the pink wines that scream sip me in the sunshine, I’ve also pulled together some summery hosting goodies: pool blue cocktail napkins, glittery fruit wineglass charms, and champagne bottle stops in bright pops of color.
I’m secretly itching to replace the whole thing with my fall display, but when Nicola makes a delighted sound at a corkscrew shaped like big Audrey Hepburn sunglasses, I know I’ve got at least another week to try to move the summer inventory.
“You have this one cold?” she asks, putting a finger to the foil of a Rotari Rosé.
“Pretty sure I do,” I say. “Let me double-check.”
A quick trip to the refrigerated section affirms that I have the bottle cold, and that Sebastian Andrews is still lurking. I glare at his profile, but he’s too busy pretending to study a bottle of Dom to notice.
I return to Nicola, still holding the sunglasses corkscrew as she surreptitiously steals glances at Mr. Andrews.
“Wow,” she mouths silently to me. She fans herself.
I know. But just wait till he opens his mouth and ruins it.
Guess I can have inside thoughts after all.
