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“No, no.” Keva bats her hand away and steps forward, grabbing Robyn’s chin and forcing her mouth into a pucker. She applies the red lacquer and steps back.
I blink. In the span of ten seconds, Robyn looks like an entirely different person.
Keva tilts her head. “What do we think, Gracie? It’s a little orange, but I’m into it.”
“You look…” Alive. Friendly. Nice. “It looks really good on you,” I tell Robyn.
She looks doubtful, and when she opens the compact Keva hands her to inspect her look, her expression betrays nothing. She snaps the compact shut and hands it back. “I like it.”
“I know,” Keva says with a shrug.
“So glad that’s sorted,” I say. “Now about the fact that we have twelve people arriving any minute—”
“Uh-uh.” Keva lifts a finger. “Remember what I told you? No fussing. I’ve taught dozens of cooking classes, so a simple three-course meal is no biggie. And Rob’s got the wine notes covered. The English sparkling wine she’s paired with the crab cakes is going to blow your mind. Now”—she waggles her fingers in dismissal—“I have to practice my opener.”
“You have an opener?”
“I’m an entertainer.”
Robyn nods in solidarity, and I shake my head, unsure if I’m annoyed or delighted by their alliance.
The couples start to trickle in, quiet and a little unsure at first, but the noise level slowly rises as the welcome sparkling wine Robyn’s selected begins to work its magic and couples claim their stations.
The supplies may have been loaned for free, but setup hadn’t exactly been a breeze. In order to make room for six wheeled chef counters topped with induction burners and cutting boards, we’d had to move several racks, and some of our floor inventory had to be placed temporarily in the cave. Still, Bubbles is good-sized for a Manhattan brick and mortar, so with a little creativity, not only did we get all six stations to fit, we were also able to space them out so each couple would have their own little section.
It’s a pretty fantastic date night, if I do say so myself. Not that I can, because I haven’t had one in forever.
Also? Sir is single.
I repeat. Sir. Is. Single.
I’m torn between elation and disappointment that he hasn’t expressed any interest in meeting, or transitioning our relationship from whatever we are to something a little more intimate.
Then there’s also the annoying fact that I’m a tiny bit relieved, because I can’t seem to get a certain aqua-eyed businessman out of my head.
“All good?” I ask May, who’s been handling check-in on the store’s iPad. Her earrings are shaped like gummy worms tonight, one red and yellow, the other green and yellow.
“All good. Though, station six is a half show,” she says, pointing in the direction of the art corner. My watercolors are always carefully wrapped in plastic, but I’d moved them all out of reach to the upper shelves tonight, just in case.
“A half show?” I ask.
“Only half the couple showed up.”
“Oh.” My heart twinges a little for the solo person. “That’s a little… sad.”
“Exactly,” she says ushering me forward. “Which is why he needs a partner.”
“No way,” I say, trying to dig in my heels, but May’s built like a bull, and the poor single male is the red flag being waved in front of her.
“It can’t be me. I’ve got to oversee—”
“Nonsense. Your girl Keva is in charge, Robyn’s second-in-command, you’ve got me and Josh here to take care of the unexpected, and Lily’s on call. If we need you, you’ll know.”
She maneuvers me to the table, picks up the plain black apron Keva had provided, and thrusts it at me. “Have fun,” she says with a wink.
Sighing, I turn to apologize to the paying customer who I’m pretty sure has no interest in cooking alongside the shop owner all night.
He turns to face me, and all seems just a little bit more right in the world.
Sebastian’s face betrays nothing as he looks down at me. “Ms. Cooper.”
“Mr. Andrews.” I swallow. “Where’s your date? Is your mystery woman meeting you here tonight?”
I’m more than a little curious about the mysterious, complicated woman responsible for him ending things with Genevieve.
He lifts his shoulders. “I’m solo tonight.”
I wait for him to elaborate, and when he doesn’t, I narrow my eyes. “Mr. Andrews. What are you doing here?”
“Learning what sort of food pairs with champagne.”
My eyes narrow further. “First the champagne party. Now this. You’re spying on me. Hoping I’ll fail, so you can swoop in with your offer the second I do.”
“Yes,” he says mildly. “Spending three hundred dollars tonight is a stellar example of monetary sabotage.”
Josh appears, carrying a tray of flutes filled with the welcome wine. We’re apparently Josh’s last stop, because there are only two glasses on his carefully balanced tray—he’d spent all afternoon practicing with plastic cups filled with water—and Sebastian takes both of them, handing me one before I can protest.
