To Sir, with Love

Still, I force a bright smile. “I’m the owner. How may I help you?”

The line between his eyebrows becomes a full scowl. “You’re a member of the Cooper family?”

I try to hide my surprise. Some of our longtime regulars know we’re a family-run shop, but it’s not something we advertise. And this man is definitely not a longtime regular.

Maybe if we were, he’d be married to me instead of dating that other woman, and we’d have aqua-eyed babies…

Oh dear, Gracie. Pull it together.

I keep my smile in place and nod. “I’m Gracie Cooper.”

He stares at me a minute longer, and something like disappointment flickers in his eyes before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a white envelope—the long, skinny, official-looking kind, not the cute just thinking of you! greeting card variety that we sell in this very shop.

“I came to deliver this in person,” he says. “It seems the ones we’ve sent by mail have gotten… lost.”

The second I see the envelope, recognizing the discreet navy logo that’s become the bane of my existence over the past couple of months, I roll my eyes. “You can take that right on back to your boss.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “My boss?”

“I’m assuming you work for Sebastian Andrews?” I say, irritatingly familiar with the name that’s been the signatory of every letter.

The man stares at me coolly before replying. “I am Sebastian Andrews.”

No doubt the man delighted in surprising me with his name as much as I enjoyed surprising him, but make no mistake: it is a surprise.

In fact, for a moment my entire world seems to tilt sideways in denial. How can it be possible that in the span of an hour I went from thinking this man was the love of my life to learning that he represents everything I hate about business?

Sebastian Andrews works for the V. Andrews Corporation, the company we lease the Bubbles space from. For the past three months, they’ve been making repeated, unwelcome offers to buy out the five years remaining on our ten-year lease, each version of the letter colder and more stern than the last.

“Of all the men,” I mutter. “It had to be you.”

Mr. Andrews blinks his remarkable eyes. “Pardon?”

Oops. “I said that out loud?”

“You did. You weren’t aware?”

I wave a hand. “I thought I’d outgrown my tendency to blurt out everything I’m thinking, though thoughts are really a bit of a revolving door, don’t you think?”

“Hardly.”

“Shouldn’t they be though?” I persist.

“Shouldn’t what be?” he asks warily.

“Wouldn’t life be more interesting if everyone was a bit more open?” My question’s rhetorical, but this stiff man in his formal suit seems to consider it seriously.

“Actually, I disagree entirely. If everyone spouted their every thought to every person, you’d remove the unique joy of getting to know one person in particular.”

It’s a wonderfully valid argument, and my opinion of him goes up fractionally, even as my annoyance with him increases tenfold.

“Is there something I can help you with? A nice bottle of Tattinger to celebrate your girlfriend’s new dove-gray boots?” I say with my best customer service voice.

His eyes narrow in warning. “I’m not here to purchase anything.”

“Just what all shop owners love to hear.”

“You received my company’s letters,” he says. It’s not a question.

“I did, yes. Very high-quality stationery.”

“Did you open them?”

“Some of them.”

His jaw tenses. “And the rest?”

“Went to a very special in-box.”

Mr. Andrews looks weary. “Let me guess. The trash bin?”

“No!” How very insulting. I gesture him around the counter, and with a sigh, he complies.

I regret my decision immediately, because it’s a small space, and it brings him near enough for me to smell his cologne, something smoky and masculine.

I point down to the paper shredder we keep beneath the counter, indicating the pile of crimped white scraps. “We only use this for the most special of papers.”

Unamused, he turns his head toward me and our eyes lock. Again, I feel that strange pull I felt on the sidewalk, that whisper of white doves and happily-ever-after. Only now that pull is also laced with frustration, both that he has a girlfriend and that he’s a corporate robot who seems to think nothing of trying to bully a beloved forty-year-old family shop out of business.

Mr. Andrews steps back around to the other side of the counter. I stay where I am, and when he puts the latest letter he’s brought with him on the counter between us, it feels like a line in the sand.

He and I engage in a silent battle of wills for what feels like minutes, though I’m sure it’s only seconds.

“Open it,” he commands.

“No, thank you. Not interested.”

His palm resting on the counter twitches, his fingers thrumming one at a time in plain irritation. “You don’t even know what it says.”

“It says that you want to put us out of business.”