Home > To Sir, with Love(4)

To Sir, with Love(4)
Author: Lauren Layne

The flower cart is right where it always is, and I smile at the short man currently rearranging bouquets in their little buckets of water.

“Good morning, Carlos!”

“You are late.” He scowls at me.

“I know, I know. I had a hot date with a beautiful baby.” My gaze is skimming over my options, and I’m disappointed, but not surprised, to see fewer choices than usual. Typically I get here as early as I can on Monday mornings to get first pick of the arrangements, but today it’s well after lunch. I reach for a bouquet of cheerful yellow roses, but Carlos swats my hand and bends to lift something out of what seems to be a secret stash tucked behind the cart.

I gasp at the lavish bouquet. “Oh, it’s stunning.”

“Pauline, she made this late last night, told me not to give it to nobody but Ms. Gracie.”

“You saved it for me?” I inhale the fragrant blooms. I’d have never thought to combine freesia, sunflowers, and hot pink roses—which is exactly why I’m not a florist.

“Wasn’t easy,” he grumbles good-naturedly.

“I definitely don’t deserve you,” I say, shifting the bouquet to the crook of my left arm, and with my right, fish around in my back pocket for the cash I’d shoved in there specifically for this purpose.

I hand over the bills to Carlos, making him promise to keep the change and thank Pauline.

Just as I’m putting my remaining twenty back into my pocket, the wind picks up, and it escapes.

“Oh damn.” I don’t usually curse, but much as I love this city, its busy streets aren’t exactly an ideal place to drop a twenty-dollar bill on a breezy day. I make an awkward lunge for it, but miss as the wind picks up again, taking it farther down the sidewalk, only to be stopped by the toe of an expensive-looking male dress shoe.

I reach for the fluttering bill, but the owner of the shoe beats me to it, bending and plucking up the twenty with long fingers.

I smile in relief, already reaching for the money as my gaze travels up the tall length of a navy suit, conservative maroon tie—

Our eyes lock, and I freeze. Aqua eyes—yes, that’s a thing—stare back at me, his surprised expression matching my own shock.

All that noise I mentioned? The New York City soundtrack? It all fades away until it’s just me, him, and Frank Sinatra singing “Summer Wind.”

Well, whatever, it’s almost October, but close enough.

“You,” I say, my voice quiet.

I’ve never met the man. I’ve never even seen him before. And yet I know him. My heart knows him. This is my Prince Charming, my love at first sight.

Turns out, he’s not an average-height, musically inclined Sagittarian, with long brown hair, brown eyes, and a dad bod after all. He’s tall, lean, and serious, with black hair, sharp features, and Tiffany-blue eyes.

The man has his phone in his hand, but slowly he slips it into his suit pocket, all of his attention on me. He doesn’t take his eyes away from my face, and when our fingers brush as he hands me the twenty, his eyes narrow ever so slightly, as though in puzzlement. “Who are—”

“Sorry, babe. Thanks for waiting.” A tall woman with thick honey-colored hair appears by Prince Charming’s side. She holds up a Stuart Weitzman bag. “They had over-the-knee boots in dove gray. I couldn’t resist.”

He blinks and looks her way, and the Frank Sinatra record playing in my head scratches and cuts off midtrack. Moment over.

The woman glances my way and gives a curious smile. She’s pretty. A perfect blend of approachable, wholesome, and Manhattan chic, all freckles and big white teeth, in a dress that looks like it was custom made for her statuesque, curvy frame.

Of course. Of course a man like that would be with a woman like this, pure sophistication and polish.

Not a five-two shop owner who names pigeons, who had eggs with mustard for breakfast, and who probably has… I glance down. Yup. Baby spit on my shirt.

I check their fourth fingers. No ring—yet—but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.

The woman’s gaze drops to the flowers in my arm, and her smile grows even prettier. “Those are gorgeous. Where did you get them?”

I snap back to reality and go into autopilot, smiling back at her. “Carlos here has the best flowers,” I say, turning and gesturing to the stand where he’s helping an older man pick out what I like to imagine are flowers for his longtime lady love. Ooh, or maybe a new lady love—a second chance for both of them as they help each other heal after losing beloved spouses.

Frank Sinatra starts to sing in my head again, albeit faintly. Whew. Still got it.

“Look at those hydrangeas,” the pretty woman is gushing. “I need those in my life.”

She walks past me without a second glance, thick hair and Stuart Weitzman bag swaying as she begins perusing Carlos’s wares.

I glance once more at The Guy and find he’s studying me as though I’m a puzzle he can’t quite figure out.

Look all you want, buddy. You’re taken.

I smile. A bright, platonic smile that’s the equivalent of a friendly punch on the shoulder. “Thanks for this.” I lift the twenty-dollar bill, which, had things gone differently, I totally would have framed and hung above the mantel of our first home together.

Alas. He’s Prince Charming, all right.

Just somebody else’s.

Huh. I’d been so sure that had been The Moment.

Oh well. I begin humming “New York, New York” to myself and pull out my phone, smiling when I see I have a new message on MysteryMate.

At least I still have Sir.

 

 

To Sir, with curiosity,

Do you believe in love at first sight?

Lady

 

* * *

 

My dear Lady,

Of course.

Yours in dying of curiosity why you ask…

Sir

 

 

Three


By the time I get back to Midtown, I’ve pushed the man in the fancy suit with teal eyes to the back of my mind and heart, where he will sit on the shelf alongside my other perfect, unattainable men, like Prince Eric from The Little Mermaid, Mark Ruffalo’s character from 13 Going on 30, and of course, A.J. from Empire Records.

The bell that’s been on the front door of Bubbles & More for longer than I’ve been alive jingles as I let myself into the shop, and my mood boosts a little when I see we have three customers. It’s not a lot. But it’s better than the zero customers we had three years ago.

The shop’s always been small, the revenue modest. But even though I worked at the shop throughout my twenties, I hadn’t realized how much we’d been struggling—none of us kids had—until I took over after Dad died. Not that it was Dad’s fault. The reality of modern life is simply that people want to be able to order their vodka, their cabernet, and their Prosecco all from one place. They want to be able to do it online. And they want it delivered to their doorman while they’re at work.

For all Dad’s adamancy that customer service, product expertise, and neighborhood loyalty would carry the day, the numbers had said otherwise.

And though I can’t claim that champagne or being a shop owner has ever been my dream the way it was Dad’s, the desire to protect a loved one’s dream and legacy is a powerful motivator. In the months following Dad’s passing, I swapped art school in Italy for business school here in the city, taking all morning classes so I could be here when the shop opened at noon. I changed the store’s name from Bubbles to Bubbles & More and expanded our inventory. In addition to being a champagne store, it’s now also an upscale gift shop—the type of place you pop into on your way to a dinner party, bridal shower, or birthday gathering to get a bottle of celebratory bubbly and a little something fun for the host or guest of honor.

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