I stare at him. Surely, he’s not talking about Carlos.
If he is, I’m thrilled for Carlos and Pauline. These arrangements must have been wildly expensive.
But I’m irritated for me.
The thought of Sebastian Andrews and me getting our office flowers from the same place feels… irksome.
“You must be Noel,” I say, extending my hand. “I’m Gracie Cooper. We spoke on the phone a couple days ago? I really appreciate you finding time on Mr. Andrews’s calendar.”
He looks surprised, as though nobody ever acknowledges his presence, much less his name.
“Yes, sure,” he says, pushing his glasses up his nose and looking down at his computer screen. “I’m sorry I could only find a half hour, though honestly it’s rare he has any time available this last minute.”
“A half hour is all I need,” I say.
“You’re just a bit early, and he’s on another call,” Noel says. “Can I get you anything to drink while you wait? Water? Coffee? Tea? We’ve got a fancy espresso machine.”
“I’m fine, thanks,” I say, moving to the elegant but comfortable seating area. I’ve just settled in with an old Citizen magazine Man of the Year issue featuring Carter Ramsey, because who doesn’t like to fantasize about a hot baseball player, when Noel says my name.
I glance up, and he nods toward the door. “Mr. Andrews is available.”
I stand and pick up my purse, smoothing a hand over the back of my skirt to make sure I’m not living my actual nightmare of having it tucked into my underwear. Begging my already pinched feet to hang in there for another half hour or so, I enter Sebastian’s office.
I was sort of hoping for something to pick on—a ghastly hunting trophy or a torture chamber of some kind, but the worst I can say is that it’s generic. The desk big, the chairs black, the view… well, there’s nothing generic about that.
“Wow,” I breathe, my eyes scanning the view of Central Park and all of the Upper East Side behind him. I start to walk forward to the window, then pause. “May I?”
He gestures with an open hand toward the floor-to-ceiling windows in a way that makes me think I’m not the first to gawk. “Looking is free, photos are ten bucks.”
“Oh, so the Tin Man makes jokes now,” I say, stepping around his desk and walking to the window. Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see him check out my legs, my shoes. I carefully try to hide a smirk. And the butterflies.
“Tin Man,” he repeats quietly, standing, though not coming any closer to me as I survey the stunning view of New York City in front of me.
I wave a hand in his general direction without looking his way. “You know. Tall. Thin. Controlled.”
He says nothing for a long minute, though I feel him studying me, and the room suddenly becomes… charged?
No. He has a girlfriend. I have a… pen pal.
We hate each other.
Still, Sebastian surprises me by coming closer, stopping a respectable distance away, but close enough for me to smell his cologne, close enough to feel small next to him.
His left hand slides into his pocket as his right points ahead. “You can’t quite see the sign through the construction scaffolding in front of it, but that’s Bubbles.”
I slowly turn my head to look at him. He hadn’t even hesitated before pointing, as though he’s already scoped it out.
“You were spying on me?”
“Yes,” he says sarcastically. “I hurriedly stashed my telescope in the closet just before you got here.”
His mention of Bubbles & More reminds me why I’m here, and shifting into business mode, I pivot and walk back around his desk.
“No pictures?” he asks with what might be a tiny fraction of a smile, but it’s hard to know. I’ve never seen him smile.
“Can’t afford it,” I say sweetly. “Not with my outdated business model and ‘cutesy Tinker Bell paintings.’ ”
If it was a smile I saw on his face, it’s gone now.
“Ms. Cooper—”
I gesture for him to sit, even though it’s his office. “May I speak?”
“Of course,” he says, his tone as stiff as his posture as he resumes his place behind his desk, less man, more… suit.
I take a deep breath. “I was wrong to put your letters in the shredder without response. You were at least due a reply, a confirmation of receipt. I’d like to apologize for my lack of professionalism and respect for your time.”
He’s silent for a moment. “I appreciate that.”
“You strike me as the type of man who doesn’t act without first doing his research, so I expect you know that Bubbles is a family business.”
“I do. I know your parents opened the store before you were even born.”
I nod. “And both my parents are gone now. Bubbles isn’t just a business for me, it’s part of a legacy. My legacy. And it’s one I plan to protect.”
“Protect against big bad businessmen like myself,” he says, leaning back in his chair as one palm rests on the desk, those long fingers ready to drum in irritation. The other rests on the arm of his chair, casual, but in a practiced way, as though he’s studied how to look relaxed.
“I understand legacy, Ms. Cooper,” he continues. “I understand family business. And because you strike me as the type of woman who’s done your research, I’m sure you know that this is a family business as well. Do you have any idea what your stubbornness is standing in the way of? The magnitude of it, the number of people it would serve?”
“I too did my homework, and I know this company builds high-rises. I also know that the last thing this city needs is another soulless skyscraper.”
His jaw tenses in frustration. “And you’re in the position to speak for the city?”
“Are you?” I shoot back.
“I’ve done my market research.”
“I’m sure you’ve got a PowerPoint presentation bursting with graphs, but have you actually talked to people? Did you ever ask the people walking along Central Park South—right outside your window there, admiring the horses and carriages, delighted in their hot dogs—what they wanted from the New York City experience? Did you ever sit down with Jesse Larson or Avis Napier? Do you even know who they are?”
His aqua eyes flash with anger as he replies, his voice clipped. “This project won’t have any ill effect on the horses, or the hot dogs. And yes, Ms. Cooper, I know Jesse Larson, former owner of Little Rose Diner on Central Park South, now owner of Little Rose Café in the East Village, recently written up with praise in the New Yorker. Avis Napier, former owner of The Central Park Spa, is now happily living in a brand-new beachfront condo in Florida, just a five-minute drive from her daughter’s family.”
A knot of unease has formed in my stomach, but I stand my ground. “Who are you to say Avis is happy? You bought her out and now you’re just telling yourself whatever it takes to help you sleep at—”
He leans forward suddenly, all pretense of chill gone. He’s all heat and anger. “Avis’s daughter’s name is Kathleen. She’s married to Barry. Their son, Jon, just turned four, and their daughter, Monica, was born on the Fourth of July. When I spoke to her last Friday, she was out shopping for a birthday present for her grandson and leaning toward a talking microscope. As for Jesse, I highly recommend the mushroom and thyme scramble, though he’s also recommended the ricotta French toast. And I intend to try that next time I go there for brunch, which will likely be this weekend.”