And open the door to Sebastian Andrews.
Eighteen
“What are you doing here?”
Sebastian rubs a hand over the back of his head and looks down at the ground. His other hand holds a cheap white plastic bag.
When he glances up, it’s with a slight frown. “I don’t know.”
I lean against the door jamb. “You don’t know what you’re doing outside an out-of-business wine shop at 10:30 p.m.?”
Without looking, I flick my fingernail at the champagne sign. “We’re closed. For good. Oh wait, you know that.”
Sebastian exhales. “I’m probably the last person you want to see. It’s inappropriate that I’m here given the circumstances. I just…”
He hands me the bag. “Lamb gyro. Just in case.”
“Just in case?” I ask, taking the bag, but not bothering to hide my confusion.
Sebastian frowns again. “I don’t know quite how to explain it. I just had the strangest sense…” His gaze finds mine. “That you needed something.”
My smile slips. Here I’d been willing Sir to magically sense I needed to talk. Or Lily to have some new surge of sibling connection. I’d been sending vibes out into the universe all right, and the person who’d felt them was… Sebastian Andrews?
“Anyway,” he clears his throat, looking embarrassed. “I’ll leave you to your…” He looks behind me, apparently noticing the empty store for the first time, and he looks regretful. And maybe a tiny bit guilty.
Again, those aqua eyes find mine, and again, I feel an annoying tug in my stomach.
“Are you okay?” he asks gently.
I make a rueful face and scratch my cheek. “My face is all blotchy, huh?”
“My mother would kill me if I answered that,” he says with a slight smile. He reaches toward my face. His hand pauses, and when I don’t move away, his thumb comes to rest against the center of my forehead in a gesture that’s both surprising and… tender.
He swipes with his thumb, and when he pulls it back and shows me the pad of his finger, it’s bright pink.
“Oh for God’s sake,” I mutter, rubbing at my forehead with the back of my hand. “May and her lipstick. I don’t suppose you’re old-fashioned and have a handkerchief tucked into your suit pocket there?”
“Normally, yes. But alas, I left it next to my pocket watch and top hat this morning.”
I can’t help the little sigh that slips out. “Don’t you ever wish we could go back to that time? When men were gentlemen and ladies were… well actually, I guess we couldn’t vote, huh?”
“Depends. Did men carry handkerchiefs and pocket watches after the Nineteenth Amendment was ratified? I’d like to think yes.”
“Ugh, I’m not in the mood for you to be likable right now,” I say without heat.
He smiles, and I’m tempted to smile back, even as I’m irrationally angry. At him, for being so appealing when he’s hung up on some other woman. At me, for hating that other woman…
“Thanks for the food,” I say, giving the bag a little jiggle. “But I have more work I should get back to, and I’m sure you’ve got someone to get back to.”
The warmth in his eyes fades. I try to tell myself his expression is irritation or wounded pride. But it looks a lot like hurt.
Sebastian gives a single nod and takes a step backward. “Ah. Never let it be said I can’t take my cue. Good night, Ms. Cooper.”
He turns away, and the second he does, I know this is all wrong.
“Wait.” I reach out and grab his sleeve. He’s not wearing a coat over his suit jacket, and the crisp texture of the suit sleeve reminds me of the night he’d walked me home and lent me his jacket.
His teal eyes glance down at my hand, then back to my face. Questioning. Hoping?
I shift to the side and tilt my head. Come in.
He steps into the empty Bubbles, though it feels a lot less empty with him in it.
By now Bublé’s moved on to singing about him and Mrs. Jones as I set the white bag on the counter.
Sebastian looks around the near-empty room, his expression betraying nothing, at least until he notes the champagne. The two glasses. “You were expecting company.”
“Sort of. It’s complicated,” I say with a little smile.
“Ah.” His voice is a touch sharp. “Your suitor.”
“Suitor. I like that word.” I pick up the champagne bottle and give it a twist, the sharp crack of the cork creating a pleasant sort of harmony with the old-school music. “I think I undersold that last time. Complicated doesn’t even begin to cover the situation with my suitor.”
“No?” he asks, coming to stand across from me at the counter. I pour the wine and glance up, expecting to see him taking note of the bottle’s label, but instead he’s watching me.
I let his question hang in the air. I don’t want to think about Sir’s rejection just now. In fact, I realize, it’s strange how little I seem to be able to think about Sir in Sebastian’s presence, or Sebastian while messaging with Sir. It’s as though my brain’s put up some sort of buffer that prevents me from comparing the two men.