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My mom’s blond hair is windswept, and her sunglasses as big as her smile, as she crouches on the sand, gathering the three of us close to her. Lily and I are in matching purple swimsuits and smile obediently at my Dad’s say cheese command. Six-year-old Caleb, armed with a plastic bucket and shovel, is scowling at having his work on the sandcastle moat halted for the ten seconds required for him to stay still.
It’s not a perfect photo, but it is a perfect moment.
I use it as fuel to remember why I’m doing this, why I’m keeping the shop alive, when sometimes it feels blisteringly hard. The photo is a reminder that this space, this store, is not about the numbers on my laptop that are lower than any of us want them to be. It’s about family. The Cooper family.
If Sebastian Andrews has a problem with it, he can bring it to me, not my brother-in-law.
I’m not tipsy—not quite, but I’ve had just enough wine to feel all fired up and ready for war. I reach for one of the letters from Sebastian Andrews—the first one, and the only one I didn’t shred. I reread it, even though I know what it says. They want to buy out our lease and would be interested in a conversation if we could contact them at the below number to set up a time and place that’s convenient for us.
Convenient my ass.
There’s nothing even remotely convenient about someone trying to swipe your job out from under you.
I’ll be contacting them all right, but not for the reason Sebastian Andrews thinks.
I reach for my cell phone and dial the number, but before hitting the call button, I set my phone aside and pull out a ballpoint pen and a yellow legal pad. It’s 9:45 on a Thursday, which means I’ll get voice mail. Best get my talking points ready.
Bubbles is not for sale.
If you have a problem with that, you can bring it up with me, not my brother-in-law.
How can someone with such beautiful eyes have such an ugly soul?
I scratch that one out.
Go to hell.
I circle that one. It’s my thesis.
Maybe I’m a little tipsy after all, but it gives me the courage I need to hit dial, clear my throat, and stand up straight as I prepare to give my little speech.
I’m listening for a generic recording and the beep, so the rough “Sebastian Andrews” catches me off guard.
“Hello?” The gruff male voice says after a moment of silence, clearly impatient.
“Oh crap, is this your cell number?” I blurt out. Okay. Maybe a little tipsy after all.
Now it’s him who’s silent. “Who is this?”
“Gracie Cooper. I’m so sorry to call so late. I thought this was your office number—”
“It is.”
I frown and look at the clock on the wall, where the hour and minute hands are both—you guessed it—champagne bottles.
“It’s nearly ten o’clock.”
“Well, thank God you called to let me know, Ms. Cooper. I’d never have known the time without this call.”
I ignore his sarcasm and sit on the stool, pulling my heels up to rest on the wooden slat and resting my elbows on my knees. “Do you always work this late?”
Another moment of silence, as though he’s trying to decide whether responding to me is worth his time.
“No,” he answers finally. Then, “Sometimes.”
“You answer your own phone? I’d have thought you’d have a fleet of beautiful assistants in high heels to handle such menial tasks.”
“My assistant’s name is Noel, and he leaves the office at six. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Oh, right.” I pick up my notepad and clear my throat dramatically.
“Here we go,” I hear him mutter.
“Bubbles is not for sale.” I say it clearly, enunciating each word.
“Nobody’s asking you to sell the company, just give up the space. You can always relocate, perhaps to a neighborhood with cheaper rent. Did you read any of the letters before destroying them?”
I ignore the question and look down at my notepad, my irritation bubbling fresh all over again.
“Oh yeah,” I say, tossing the legal pad onto the counter and warming to my topic. “How dare you go around me to my brother-in-law!”
“How dare I?” He has the nerve to sound bemused.
“I run this shop. Not Alec. Ergo, I make the decisions.”
“Ergo.”
I frown. “You keep repeating me. Am I being unclear?”
“No, no. Just enjoying your word choice.”
“Well, see if you can focus on the context,” I snap. “How would you feel if I went around you to go to your sister-in-law to discuss business.”
“I don’t have any siblings, and I’m not married. Ergo, no sister-in-law.”
“Why not?”
“Why don’t I have any siblings? You’d have to ask my parents.”
“No, why aren’t you married?” I clarify. “Your girlfriend is super pretty,” I add when he doesn’t respond.
Yep. Definitely a little drunk. I pull out the snack basket and grab a peanut butter protein bar.
