To Sir, with Love

Hugh’s eyes are wide, and he’s nodding dramatically behind Mr. Frey’s shoulder indicating that I’d be an idiot to say no.

“Of course,” I say, smiling at the older gentleman. “I’d love to hear more about what you’re looking for. Perhaps we can discuss it next week?”

“Hugh has my info. Though, damn—you’re sure I can’t sweet-talk you into giving me the name of whoever snatched this one up before I saw it?” he asks, turning to Hugh with a mischievous smile. “The colors would look fantastic in my living room, and the foil wrappers remind me of lunches when I was a paralegal in my twenties over on Fifth and Sixty-Third…”

“Sorry,” Hugh says, not looking even remotely sorry. “The buyer of this one seemed quite set on it. I can’t imagine him wanting to sell.”

“Me neither.”

I whirl around at the familiar voice, though it’s one I hadn’t expected to hear tonight, no matter how desperately I wanted to.

I find myself grinning into his smiling aqua eyes, and acting purely on instinct, I fling my arms around his neck. “You decided to come!”

He hugs me back, strong and sure, and when I start to pull away, his arms tighten almost imperceptibly as though hesitant to let me go. He releases me and turns to Mr. Frey.

“Doug, good to see you again. It’s been a while.”

The older man smiles and shakes Sebastian’s hand. “You’re not usually so quick on the draw with Hugh’s pieces, but I should have known you’d get the drop on me one of these days.”

“I’m not usually so quick on the draw with Hugh’s pieces, no,” Sebastian clarifies. “But with Gracie Cooper originals, on the other hand, it took some restraint to limit myself to these two.”

It takes me a second to register the meaning of his words, and I look up. “Wait. You bought these? Why?”

Sebastian’s eyes are warm as they look down at me. “I should think it would be obvious.” His voice is quiet, meant for my ears only, and as though sensing they’re no longer a part of the conversation, Hugh and Doug Frey tactfully shift away to mingle with the rest of the guests.

I feel flustered. And confused. And anticipatory, like I’m on the edge of something life changing but missing a key piece of the puzzle.

“The Central Park one, I guess I understand,” I say. “But the other, that’s—”

“You and your mystery man,” Sebastian finishes for me before glancing around the room curiously. “Speaking of, where is he?”

Horrified to realize I’d forgotten about the big meeting after Sebastian’s surprise arrival, I quickly scan the men in the room. There are plenty of suits. No pink roses. My heart sinks, but I remind myself he could simply be running late, or gathering his courage…

“He’ll be here,” I say stubbornly, still peering through the crowd, because I need to believe it. Because every part of my heart believes that this is my night, that this is my man, that—

“Gracie.” Sebastian says my name quietly, the ache of it wrapping around my heart and pulling me back around to face him.

I meet his eyes, and the tender expression makes me furious with frustration and longing. How dare he do this now, how dare he make me wish—

A flash of pink catches my eye.

I drop my gaze to his chest. To his suit pocket, where a single perfect pink rose is tucked, a simple, sweet beacon calling me home.

My mind whirls, and I shake my head in confused denial at the flower. “How did you—I didn’t tell—the only person who knew about the pink rose…”

Oh my God.

There’s only one way Sebastian Andrews could know what to wear tonight. Only one reason he’d want both paintings, the one of him and me and…

The other one of him and me. Of me and Sir.

Because they’re one and the same.

My eyes close as all the pieces slowly fit together. The overlaps between the two men. The revelation that Gary isn’t Sebastian’s biological dad, which means that Sebastian’s real father could be dead… just like Sir’s.

The pink flowers today, a hint, a promise. The other woman, the complicated one he couldn’t bear to lose. Me.

I open my eyes and slowly lift my gaze to his, where he seems to be holding his breath, his heart and hope in his eyes.

“It’s you,” I say softly. “It’s always been you.”

“Yes.” He whispers it, his hand lifting toward my face, hesitating. Then, very gently, he sets his fingers to my cheek, his thumb catching a tear I didn’t realize had fallen. “Yes.”

“When did you know?” I ask as his fingers trace over my cheek tenderly.

“Your cat’s name was the first jolt. That Gracie’s and Lady’s cats were both named Cannoli caught me off guard. Then you passionately defended gelato, which was familiar. After that, I went back and read every message, and I could only hear your voice. Then that night at dinner, you told me all about—”