He leans back in his chair, his posture relaxing slightly, but his intensity still crackling. “Yes, I talk to people, Ms. Cooper.”
I keep my hands pressed to my lap, afraid that if I move them, they’ll start shaking, because I feel shaken. Nothing about this meeting matched my daydreams. He’s supposed to be a cold robot in a suit. I’m supposed to be the humane one who cares about people and my city.
Instead, I feel small. Selfish.
He checks his watch, his impatience plain. “What exactly is it that you came to tell me, Ms. Cooper? Or did you make the appointment merely to disparage my character?”
I try to gather my righteous anger, and while my voice isn’t as strident as it was when I first sat down, at least it doesn’t wobble or crack as I lift my chin.
“I know your business owns the building we rent from, which makes you, essentially, my landlord. But I also know that as long as we continue to pay the rent, you can’t kick us out until the lease is up, which isn’t for another five years.”
Now it’s me who leans forward. “I may have disparaged your character, but you belittled mine when you insulted my shop and me. You want to know why I made this appointment today? It was to thank you. Because you were right. I wasn’t thinking big enough, and I intend to remedy that immediately.”
His aqua eyes narrow. “Is that so?”
“It is,” I say confidently as I stand. This time I know it’s definitely not my imagination that his eyes track the hem of my dress where it falls just a smidge short of business appropriate, but when his gaze snaps up to mine, it’s more irritated than ever.
“I do hope you’ll consider Bubbles & More for all of your champagne needs,” I say calmly as I pick up my purse and turn toward the door. “Though, if I might be so bold as to recommend you skip the art section—I don’t believe you’d appreciate it.”
My feet are screaming in the uncomfortable shoes, but I try harder than ever to hide it as I saunter toward the door.
“Ms. Cooper.” His voice is right behind me. “Wait.”
I don’t slow my step.
“Please.”
Swallowing, I pause and force myself to turn back toward him. I regret it immediately, because he’s followed me, and he’s close. Close enough for me to smell that expensive cologne, close enough to see the precision of his tie knot, to feel the heat of his body…
That last one might be wishful thinking.
“What?” I demand, forcing myself to meet those remarkable aqua eyes.
He’s staring down at me, looking frustrated, then squeezes his eyes shut and gives a quick shake of his head. “Nothing. Never mind.”
I swallow again. “Okay then.”
“Wait,” he says again, touching my arm when I reach for the door handle.
This time when I turn back, he looks faintly embarrassed and lifts a fist to his mouth, clearing his throat slightly. “You have. Um…”
“What?” I say, more impatient this time.
His eyes drop to the vicinity of my chest, and before I can register what is happening, he’s reaching out, the backs of his fingers brushing against my collarbone, and his touch seems to sear my skin with the desire for more.
Slowly his hand pulls away, and the sharp longing in my belly is replaced by a knot of humiliation when I see the twenty Keva had stuffed into my bra earlier that must have wiggled its way into visibility.
His lips twitch with the hint of a reluctant smile. “What is it with you and twenty-dollar bills?”
“Give me that,” I snap, reaching out and grabbing the bill, much as I had the day of our first meeting.
I yank open the door, ignoring his soft chuckle as I storm out of his office.
There’s an older couple chatting with Noel in the reception area, and the woman breaks off midgripe about her hot yoga class when she sees my shoes. “Oh my goodness. To be young again and be able to pull those off.”
I’m beginning to hate these shoes. In addition to hurting like hell, they’re preventing what could be a very sassy Walk Away.
Still, the woman looks kind and genuinely admiring, so I give her a sunny smile. “Thank you! Though I’ll be honest, young or not, I’m about to go buy myself a pair of flip-flops because my feet are not enjoying their pointy-toed prison.”
The woman laughs and points to her own feet, which are adorned with stylish white loafers. “I used to pride myself on wearing four-inch heels all day, then boom. I rounded the corner on fifty-five, and suddenly flats and wedges became my best friend.”
Daaaang. If this woman is over fifty-five, I need to start investing in some serious eye cream, because I wouldn’t have pegged her for a day over fifty. Her dark shoulder-length hair is thick and shiny without a hint of gray, her figure trim, and her skin has the healthy look of someone who’s decided to embrace the natural aging process and sunscreen.
“I thought I was your best friend,” the equally attractive man beside her says, glancing up from his phone with a wounded expression. Dressed in a light gray suit sans the tie, with a tanned complexion and deep smile lines, he’s her perfect match, and I feel that usual tinge of delight and jealousy at seeing two people who clearly belong together. I want that.
She gives his arm a fond pat. “You’re in the top five for certain, dear. Right in between my navy Tory Burch flats and Fendi sandals. It’s a good place to be.” Her pretty blue eyes move beyond me, her smile widening. “Sebastian, there you are.”
“Mom. Dad.” The gravelly voice from behind me sparks an annoying tingle of awareness down my spine. Then his actual words register. These are his parents?
No. No way can two people so charming and pleasant produce him. They’re all wide smiles and geniality. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen his teeth.
But on closer inspection, I realize the woman’s eyes aren’t just blue. They’re aqua blue, albeit a good deal more friendly than her son’s. And while Sebastian doesn’t particularly resemble his father, the elder Mr. Cooper has the same Ivy League airs and command of the room.
Belatedly, I realize that if these are Sebastian Andrews’s parents, that makes them Vanessa and Gary Andrews, CEO and CFO of the company, respectively. I am annoyed to have to admit I’d stereotyped them by imagining them to be cool and aloof, instead of the type to cheerfully discuss shoes with a stranger.
“Thanks for pushing the schedule back for a late lunch,” he says, and I glance at Noel, realizing that when he’d said Mr. Andrews had been able to move some things around, he’d pushed back lunch with his parents. To meet with… me?
It’s nearly as puzzling as Carlos’s flowers on his reception desk.
“Not a problem!” his mom says. “Will Genevieve be joining us?” I’m starting to ease around her to make my exit, but she looks my way once again. “Sebastian’s girlfriend would go absolutely bonkers for your shoes.”
Genevieve. The name fits her.
I smile politely. “I believe it. I don’t think I’ve ever spoken about anything with as much affection as she had when she found a pair of over-the-knee dove-gray boots.”
“Oh, you’ve met her!” Vanessa seems delighted. “Did Sebastian ever tell you how he and Genevieve met?”