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“Respectfully, you don’t know the first thing about what’s right for me, Mr. Andrews.”
He frowns a little, more to himself than at me, and lifts his head slightly. His finger beside mine on the bench moves closer. Just slightly enough that it could be an accident. But then the tip of his small finger brushes mine, a whisper of a touch.
“No,” he says quietly. “Perhaps not.”
Yearning.
It’s the first word that pops into my head, and it’s also one that makes me think of Sir. And the realization that I’m thinking of one man while sitting beside another, that for the first time in my life I feel it for two men, and can have neither, leaves me frustrated.
I stand abruptly. “It’s late. I should be heading home.”
Sebastian doesn’t argue. “Sure,” he replies, standing up as well.
We walk in silence toward the park exit. “Where do you live? I’ll walk you home.”
I smile. “I appreciate that, but I’ve walked myself home hundreds of times.”
His stubborn expression doesn’t change, and I roll my eyes but smile. “Hell’s Kitchen. Fifty-Fourth, between Ninth and Tenth. I doubt you’re going my way.”
“I’m not. But I’ll walk you home. But first…” He points at one of the food stands. “Ice cream.”
“You know, I think you made all that up about your parental pressures,” I joke. “I don’t think there’s ever been anything you wanted that you didn’t get.”
“You’d be surprised,” he says quietly, then points at the menu. “What are you having? My treat.”
Not saying no to that. I survey the menu. No pistachio gelato, but I could easily make do with something chocolatey. Or maybe just a basic vanilla dipped in chocolate and sprinkled with some peanuts. Or…
My gaze locks on a menu item in the bottom right corner. It’s a whole subcategory of frozen treats I’ve never bothered with before because there’s no chocolate, no nuts, no flavor…
You haven’t lived until you’ve tried a lemon sorbet on a hot summer day in the city…
It’s not a hot summer day in the city, but…
I point. “I’ll have one of those.”
The look he gives me is so long, and so piercing, I think I’ve offended his very soul. A sentiment I can agree with, because I’ve sort of just offended myself as well. Lemon sorbet? Really?
Sebastian turns toward the impatient woman waiting to take our order. “Two lemon sorbet cups, please.”
The order bothers me. Lemon sorbet is my thing with Sir, and I don’t like thinking about Sebastian Andrews and Sir in the same thought.
I like even less that when he notices me shiver and drops his coat over my shoulders, I stop thinking about Sir altogether.
Fourteen
It’s been a while since I’ve indulged in a proper girls’ night. And when you need one? You need one.
I’ve invited all the usual suspects: Lily, Rachel, and Keva, but I’ve also made a surprising addition:
Robyn.
The prickly sommelier’s been bothering me less lately. The intensity that used to drive me, well, nuts, has actually been a pretty big asset around the store lately. I’m realizing that perhaps I’ve been seeing her all wrong: Robyn’s not a condescending know-it-all as much as she is a woman who’s lucky enough to have found her passion (sparkling wine) and a job that allows her to live that passion.
In the past couple of weeks, it’s been Robyn who stays late to help me brainstorm new ideas on increasing revenue; Robyn who takes it upon herself to try to get vendor sponsorships every Friday; Robyn who’s taken over inventory management.
And I don’t know if it’s the successful shopping trip with Keva that resulted in her new lipstick or what, but her customer service skills have done an about-face. Instead of spouting off her knowledge as though wanting a gold star for her efforts, she comes across as committed to making sure people take home a wine they love.
She’s even been friendlier with the Bubbles team and had nearly broken my heart last week when she’d shyly confessed that she’d never been good at making friends and had asked for tips. Remembering the look of pleased shock on her face when I’d invited her to tonight’s get-together is making it a little easier to tolerate the fact that she’s currently in my living room rattling on about the flavor profile of vodka.
Lily catches my eye from the kitchen, where she’s adding baby carrots and ranch dip to her plate, and makes a face as Robyn utters the word grain alcohol for the tenth time, but she’s smiling.
“Oh gawd,” Keva interrupts Robyn, reaching out and emptying the remains of the cocktail shaker into Robyn’s glass. “Woman, I love talking about my craft too, but at some point, food is just food, and a drink is just a drink.” She points. “So drink it and shut up.”
Robyn, cross-legged on my living room floor, blinks. Then she shrugs and sips her cocktail. “Okay.”
