There isn’t one, but it doesn’t matter, because he ignores the question and thoughtfully picks up one of the mint tins from the bowl. “Eight dollars for a tiny thing of mints.”
The mildness of his tone is more insulting than a snide intonation would have been. “They’re one of our best sellers.”
“I’m sure.” He sets the tin back in the bowl carefully. “Does the profit margin cover the cost of the fancy bag?”
He can’t know it, but his question hits me right in the deep, dark, endless hole of worry that I reserve for those 3 a.m. anxiety attacks.
Or maybe he does know it, because his gaze is level and steady. He sees too much. Almost as though he knows the margin on the mints is next to nothing, and the cost of pretty white bags that are sturdy and well made enough to entrust a hundred-dollar bottle of champagne is astronomical. And no, not covered by the mints.
I channel my older sister’s snootiness and look down my nose at him, which I secretly think is rather impressive because I’m five two and he’s at least six feet. “Little luxuries are a crucial hallmark of the Bubbles brand.”
“I’m sure. And profit? Long-term viability? Your own financial security? Are those hallmarks of the Bubble brand as well?”
I’m not particularly prone to anger, but I feel an unmistakable bite of indignation at his condescension. “You overstep, Mr. Andrews.”
He concedes the point with a nod. “I do. I apologize. But brick-and-mortar stores are rapidly becoming a thing of the past in all industries, Ms. Cooper. There’s no shame in admitting that this shop will never make you rich.”
“I would never be ashamed to admit that,” I say quietly. “In fact, I say quite proudly that there are more important things in life than being rich.”
He doesn’t ask what things? but his expression tells me he’s thinking it.
Those unfairly beautiful eyes cut to the fresh bouquet I was holding when we first met, before I realized he was a shark in a really smart suit.
“Enjoy your flowers,” he says, somehow managing to make it sound like a parting shot as he turns and strides toward the door.
The bell tinkles with his departure, and I stare blindly at the beautiful blooms, hearing everything he didn’t say.
Enjoy your flowers. But they won’t save your shop.
To Sir, with plausible deniability,
Do you think a good maiming is ever justified? Kidding, mostly.
Lady
* * *
My dear Lady,
She has a dark side! Consider me intrigued. Noisy neighbor? Cheating boyfriend? Toxic relative?
Yours in the cone of silence,
Sir
* * *
Workplace frustration. Some people are so… so… there are no words.
Lady
* * *
Ah yes, something I understand all too well myself. The word you’re looking for is actually two: utterly provoking. Some people are utterly provoking.
* * *
Yes! That is it exactly. This individual has me utterly provoked.
* * *
Same. Same.
Five
My sister, Lily, is one of those beautiful people. As a kid, I’d been unaware of it. As a teen, I’d been a little jealous. As an adult, I’ve learned there are more important things than outer beauty.
Just kidding! Rarely do I look at her without thinking damn you, gene pool, you didn’t play fair!
Don’t get me wrong, I’m just fine with what I see in the mirror. My hair’s a little on the thin side, but I’ve learned that if I don’t let it grow beyond my collarbone, I can keep it from looking scraggly. Naturally it’s somewhere between light brown and blond, though I lean into the blond with a little help from CVS hair dye. I got my dad’s strong chin and my mom’s blue eyes and petite stature.
But then there’s Lily. She also got Mom’s blue eyes, but with Dad’s dark brown hair and insanely thick lashes. Hers are the sort of eyes described as “startling,” whereas my high school boyfriend once described my eyes as “bluish?” I think the question mark at the end had been the most insulting part.
Lily’s also tall, curvy, and has that sort of commanding presence where she owns a room just by stepping into it. The current room being Bubbles & More.
“Hey!” I say in surprise, looking up from my laptop where I’m reviewing our numbers for the week. They’re not good.
I shut the laptop and go to hug my sister. “I didn’t know you were stopping by.”
“I had to pop into Bergdorf’s,” she said, inspecting my summer display. Her nose wrinkles just for the tiniest moment, and she straightens the cocktail napkins into a tidy stack, unaware of the fact that I’d fanned them out just so for a reason.
I feel a flicker of irritation, but I let it go. It’s much harder to push aside the flicker of hurt that the only reason she’d stopped by was because she was already in the area.
What happened to us?
Lily and I have always been different, but we were also close. She’s seven years older, fourteen when my mom died, and in a lot of ways, she fulfilled the mom role in those early years. It was Lily who put mac and cheese on the table when my dad worked late, helped me muddle through long division, and stroked my hair after a nightmare.
Even after she married her high school sweetheart and moved out of the apartment, we talked daily, and she still helped out at Bubbles on weekends. But by the time I was well into my twenties, both Lily and Caleb had moved on with their own lives. I’d been the lone Cooper kid helping Dad with Bubbles, and neither sibling had questioned whether or not I wanted to be there.
“How are things going?” she asks.
“Great!”
Lily studies me closely, the same way she used to when she’d ask how my social studies tests had gone.
I’d lied back then too, and she’d always known it.
She scans the shelves of sparkling wine. “You switched Italy and Spain.”
“Cava’s been having a moment,” I say with a shrug. “Though if it were up to Robyn, anything that isn’t real champagne would be in the back of the store, behind a black curtain.”
She sets her chic black bag on the counter and heads into the back corner to look at the art. “You’ve expanded the art selection.”
I shrug, feeling a little self-conscious. “Lots of tourists popping in on weekends looking for souvenirs to take home. It was getting a little crowded.”
“That’s so great!” she says enthusiastically, picking up one of my more recent pieces—a tiny pink fairy using a ladle with a bow on it to sip champagne from a coupe.
“I always forget how talented you are,” she muses. “You could always draw, but these are… remarkable.” She scans the handful of works. “They’re all yours?”
“Yeah. I tried bringing in other artists’ work, but…”
Lily’s smile is smug and proud. “They didn’t sell as well as yours?”
I spread my hands and grin. “What can I say? I’m a marvel.”