“Hey, that’s great,” I say, ignoring the swipe at May. “I’m glad that picture found a good home.”
She shrugs. “How can you possibly know it was a good home? They could have been murderers.”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s the hallmark of murderers. Buying leopard-print-themed watercolors while out shopping with their friends.”
“I didn’t really get it,” she says, missing or ignoring my sarcasm. “Drinking out of a patterned cocktail glass is almost as bad as drinking out of a patterned wineglass. You can’t properly assess the color, and if you can’t assess the color, your nose doesn’t know what to expect.”
I glance at my watch. “Isn’t it your lunch break?”
“Past,” she says, grabbing her purse. “May couldn’t be bothered to check the schedule, so I had to cover.”
“I’ve got this,” I say, because really, it doesn’t take much to run a shop with zero customers. “Take an extralong one and enjoy the sunshine. It’s a lovely day.”
“I’ll be back in exactly one hour,” Robyn says.
“Fantastic.”
I pick up my phone, settling on the stool with the intent to write to Sir when the bell jingles.
Praying it’s a customer and not Robyn back to inform me that it’s not a lovely day and that she doesn’t enjoy the sunshine, I stand, ready to offer assistance if needed.
The man stops to inspect the Bargain Bubbles bin at the front of the shop. Usually people rummage a bit to see the different labels and prices, but he studies them without moving.
Then he turns toward me, and my welcome, customer! smile freezes before it can start, because I find myself staring into a familiar pair of aqua eyes.
My dear Lady,
Where do you fall on serendipity? Fate? Destiny? Or is it all mere coincidence?
Yours in inquiry,
Sir
* * *
To Sir, with careful consideration,
Hmm. I don’t believe in coincidence…
But I’m learning the hard way that while serendipity may be real, it’s not always pleasant…
Lady
Four
You found me, is what I think.
“You,” is what I say.
The surprise in his eyes tells me he’s as shocked to see me as I am him. The slight line between his thick dark brows tells me he’s not quite sure what to do about it. He looks around, as though wanting to verify he’s where he’s supposed to be. “Hello. I’m looking for the owner.”
Ugh. You don’t own a shop without quickly learning that “I’m looking for the owner” almost always means a complaint or a tacky sales pitch.
Still, I force a bright smile. “I’m the owner. How may I help you?”
The line between his eyebrows becomes a full scowl. “You’re a member of the Cooper family?”
I try to hide my surprise. Some of our longtime regulars know we’re a family-run shop, but it’s not something we advertise. And this man is definitely not a longtime regular.
Maybe if we were, he’d be married to me instead of dating that other woman, and we’d have aqua-eyed babies…
Oh dear, Gracie. Pull it together.
I keep my smile in place and nod. “I’m Gracie Cooper.”
He stares at me a minute longer, and something like disappointment flickers in his eyes before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a white envelope—the long, skinny, official-looking kind, not the cute just thinking of you! greeting card variety that we sell in this very shop.
“I came to deliver this in person,” he says. “It seems the ones we’ve sent by mail have gotten… lost.”
The second I see the envelope, recognizing the discreet navy logo that’s become the bane of my existence over the past couple of months, I roll my eyes. “You can take that right on back to your boss.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “My boss?”
“I’m assuming you work for Sebastian Andrews?” I say, irritatingly familiar with the name that’s been the signatory of every letter.
The man stares at me coolly before replying. “I am Sebastian Andrews.”
No doubt the man delighted in surprising me with his name as much as I enjoyed surprising him, but make no mistake: it is a surprise.
In fact, for a moment my entire world seems to tilt sideways in denial. How can it be possible that in the span of an hour I went from thinking this man was the love of my life to learning that he represents everything I hate about business?
Sebastian Andrews works for the V. Andrews Corporation, the company we lease the Bubbles space from. For the past three months, they’ve been making repeated, unwelcome offers to buy out the five years remaining on our ten-year lease, each version of the letter colder and more stern than the last.
“Of all the men,” I mutter. “It had to be you.”
Mr. Andrews blinks his remarkable eyes. “Pardon?”
Oops. “I said that out loud?”
“You did. You weren’t aware?”
I wave a hand. “I thought I’d outgrown my tendency to blurt out everything I’m thinking, though thoughts are really a bit of a revolving door, don’t you think?”
“Hardly.”
“Shouldn’t they be though?” I persist.
“Shouldn’t what be?” he asks warily.
“Wouldn’t life be more interesting if everyone was a bit more open?” My question’s rhetorical, but this stiff man in his formal suit seems to consider it seriously.
“Actually, I disagree entirely. If everyone spouted their every thought to every person, you’d remove the unique joy of getting to know one person in particular.”
It’s a wonderfully valid argument, and my opinion of him goes up fractionally, even as my annoyance with him increases tenfold.
“Is there something I can help you with? A nice bottle of Tattinger to celebrate your girlfriend’s new dove-gray boots?” I say with my best customer service voice.
His eyes narrow in warning. “I’m not here to purchase anything.”
“Just what all shop owners love to hear.”
“You received my company’s letters,” he says. It’s not a question.
“I did, yes. Very high-quality stationery.”
“Did you open them?”
“Some of them.”
His jaw tenses. “And the rest?”
“Went to a very special in-box.”
Mr. Andrews looks weary. “Let me guess. The trash bin?”
“No!” How very insulting. I gesture him around the counter, and with a sigh, he complies.
I regret my decision immediately, because it’s a small space, and it brings him near enough for me to smell his cologne, something smoky and masculine.
I point down to the paper shredder we keep beneath the counter, indicating the pile of crimped white scraps. “We only use this for the most special of papers.”
Unamused, he turns his head toward me and our eyes lock. Again, I feel that strange pull I felt on the sidewalk, that whisper of white doves and happily-ever-after. Only now that pull is also laced with frustration, both that he has a girlfriend and that he’s a corporate robot who seems to think nothing of trying to bully a beloved forty-year-old family shop out of business.