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I’m also increasingly aware that Sebastian is still here, the only nonemployee in the space. And that it doesn’t feel weird. Maybe because I know he’s the landlord of sorts? Though shouldn’t that make it more weird?
I feel Robyn’s gaze flick between me and Sebastian, her speculation clear, and when I try to pick up our failed strawberry parfait, she blocks me. “Why don’t you head out for the night, boss. You’ve been setting up all day for the class.”
“We all have,” I argue.
“Yes, but you also did the planning and the organizing and lost enough sleep for all of us.”
“I didn’t lose sleep!” I did. I definitely lost sleep, because everything we do in the store seems to matter too much. One slip, one bad sales day, one slow week…
But the most alarming part is that there are moments when I wonder if the store failing wouldn’t be a blessing in disguise.
Hands full of dirty dishes, Robyn heads toward the front of the store, and I glance at Sebastian. He’s already removed his apron, making me realize I’m still wearing mine. I tug the string around my waist and lift my arms to pull the thing over my head, then yelp as I inadvertently tug the baby hairs at the back of my neck.
Wordlessly, Sebastian moves behind me. “You’re tangled,” he mutters softly. “Hold on.”
He pushes my hair over my shoulder to better see what he’s doing. I don’t move a muscle as his warm fingers brush the sensitive skin on the back of my neck. I feel the ever-so-slight scrape of a short nail as he works, feel the heat of his body in the too-warm room.
“There we go,” he murmurs, lifting the apron over my head. No tug this time.
“Thank you,” I say, not quite looking at him. “Apparently I don’t know how to work aprons, but good thing you’re handy with them.”
“A waste of a skill considering the result,” he says, pointing at the melting parfait that looks like a foamy chem lab experiment gone wrong.
“I hope everyone else had better luck,” I say a little glumly. “I’d hate to think we charged people three hundred bucks for food they can’t even eat.”
“Pretty sure we were the only ones who were three for three on inedibility. Everyone else seemed to be having a great time, and at least got fed.”
“You really think so?” I look up at him. I tell myself his approval matters for professional reasons, but the way my heart thumps says otherwise.
He shrugs. “Sure. Yeah. Nobody seemed to be leaving hungry.”
“Nobody but you.”
He smiles slightly. “I confess, I’m a bit peckish.”
“Is that a nice way of saying you’re starving? Because I so am.” I tilt the basket of crackers toward me, but it’s long empty, the only thing I’ve eaten since the burrito I had for lunch while setting up.
Sebastian had rolled up his dress sleeves while we worked—and no, the distraction of his toned forearms had nothing to do with my cooking mishaps, why do you ask?—but he’s rolled them back down now and is rebuttoning the cuffs in a gesture so effortlessly masculine my mouth goes a bit dry.
“So feed me,” he says simply, reaching out and picking up the suit jacket he’s folded over the back of a chair, out of range of our cooking disaster.
“Sorry?” I ask, still distracted, as he shrugs on the navy jacket. At some point during the evening he’d loosened his tie, just a little, and unbuttoned the top button. I wait for him to button it, to tighten the knot, but he does neither. This is a more relaxed Mr. Andrews.
This is Sebastian, I realize.
“Feed me,” he says with a slight smile. “I want my money’s worth.”
“You had excellent champagne. Hardly a rip-off.”
“True. But I did sign up for a cooking class. I believe the website indicated a three-course meal was included.” He reaches for his phone. “I could check…”
“Oh my God, fine. I’ll refund you 50 percent. Which is more than fair, since you did drink the wine, and that was the most expensive part.”
The light in his eyes dims. “Forget it. I wasn’t asking for a refund.”
“Then what—”
Now he does button his shirt. Tightens the knot of his tie. “Thanks for the interesting evening, Ms. Cooper.”
I feel my heart sink. That brief glimpse of Sebastian the man is gone, and just like that, he’s back to being the buttoned-up Mr. Andrews.
He strides away without looking back, pausing at the front door and stepping aside to make way for Keva and Grady’s reentry, then exits into the night.
I feel something thwack against my chest, glance down, and see my purse and May’s magenta nails. “Gracie. We’ll clean up. Go feed that boy.”
There are plenty of things I could and should say. That the cooking class was my idea, and I’d clean up. That they should go home and I’ll take care of the rest.
