To Sir, with Love

“I rediscovered it the other day,” I say as she takes the dress off the hanger and hands it to me. It’s the same blue dress I wore to Sebastian’s office, and even though that meeting didn’t quite go as planned, I’d liked the way I felt when I wore it.

Plus, if I’m honest, my closet is sort of slim pickings since my wardrobe budget really only has room for underwear and bulk buys of men’s undershirts.

“Please tell me you brought something to fix your hair too,” she says as I change, rummaging through the free tote bag I got from a book fair in Brooklyn. “Aha!” she says in triumph, pulling out a curling iron and plugging it in.

I slip on tan flats with a leather bow across the toe—no chance the pink heels would have made it all night.

Lily pulls the elastic out of my hair, freeing it from its limp ponytail, and then begins winding sections of my hair around the wide barrel, twisting each strand in a different direction than the last to avoid what she informs me would be “Shirley Temple curls.”

“Where’s your hairspray?” she demands.

“Um…”

She sighs. “Without it, these curls won’t last more than an hour, but it’s better than the pony. I guess.”

“Stop with the effusive compliments. I’m getting embarrassed!”

“Stay,” she says, holding up a finger in command.

A moment later she returns with a folding chair and her own purse and pulls out a makeup bag. She opens the chair and points. “Let me fix your face.”

“I didn’t realize it needed fixing,” I grumble, but I sit.

“It doesn’t,” she says, adding bronzer to my temples. “You’re perfect. But tonight, we need to take all the girl-next-door cuteness and channel woman-next-door success. Turn.” She twirls her finger, and I turn to the mirror.

“Wow! Not bad! You’ve come a long way since the blue eye shadow and red blush of my recital days,” I say.

“Hey, I stand by that look,” Lily says. She lifts one of my curls and moves it to the other side of my head. “There. Now it has some more body.” She smiles. “You look beautiful, and I am a genius.”

I roll my eyes and check my watch. “Oh crap! People are already arriving!”

“May’s got it,” she says soothingly. “Tonight’s going to be really great. I know Dad used to do the occasional tasting, but not like this, not at night, with live music and super cute pumpkin decorations.”

“You did notice them!” I say, delighted. “I knew you’d love those. Let’s just hope everyone else does. Actually, I just hope they show up.”

The nervousness I’d been carefully avoiding hits me all at once, because despite the fact that I’d handed out flyers to my fellow local businesses, called every friend I’ve ever made, and posted the event on social media, I have no idea if people will show.

Lily holds my hand as I open the door to the cave, and immediately the nervousness dissipates into happiness. The event only started ten minutes ago, and while it’s not exactly a packed house, there are enough people milling around to make it feel like an actual party.

I smile as I look around. The band is seriously good, and people—even Robyn—are smiling, the vendors sponsoring the tasting have an engaged audience, May seems delighted by the man delighted by her amply displayed cleavage, and…

Across the room, a pretty freckled blonde in a pristine white dress listens with rapt attention as the vendor from a Napa winery explains the nuances of her blanc de blanc. Her male companion isn’t paying attention at all.

He’s too busy glaring at me, and when his aqua eyes lock with mine, he lifts his glass in a silent, mocking toast.

* * *

Though we don’t exchange a single word, by silent agreement, Sebastian Andrews and I find ourselves alone in a secluded corner of the shop where we can bicker in private. The art corner. My art corner, not that I’ll ever let him in on that little fact.

He’s holding two glasses, and I’m thrown off guard when he hands one to me. I blink in surprise, and he shrugs. “It’s from the California label. A blanc de pinot noir.”

It rolls off his tongue, the way it would for someone effortlessly familiar with sparkling wine, not someone who’d just learned the term at a tasting. Another surprise. Irritating.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, clearly not the least bit sorry. “Was it invitation only?”

“No, but—”

His head dips forward so he can speak softly into my ear. “Maybe I just like to support small local businesses.”

I try to come up with a witty response, but his closeness is annoyingly distracting.

When he pulls back and meets my eyes, there’s a slight playfulness to his expression I’ve never seen before. Along with last week’s revelation about Avis and Jesse, and his clear affection for his parents, the man is turning out to have layers.