by Lauren Layne
To Sir, in shameless prying,
I know you ended up on this app as a mistake, but I’ve found myself wondering—why did your friend set up a profile for you on THIS app? It’s hardly the most popular—and the idea of being matched with someone you’ve never seen is not everyone’s cup of tea.
Lady
* * *
My dear Lady,
Fair question. At the bachelor party in question, the groom and his fiancée had met on this very dating app. And I hope I don’t cause offense here, but I expressed blunt disbelief that this method of courtship could be effective. I was too much of a traditionalist to believe in falling in love over the Internet, much less with a person whose face I’ve never seen.
I believe the creation of this account without my knowledge was in direct retaliation to my blunt skepticism.
Yours in curiosity, hopefully abated,
Sir
* * *
To Sir,
No offense taken, though I would have to note that this is one area where you and I will not agree. I too am a traditionalist, which is why I would argue that there’s something lovely about two souls connecting over words alone. Though, that being said, it could be argued that you have the stronger case, actually being in a relationship with someone you met in person, whereas I haven’t had any luck finding love on this blasted thing.
Lady
* * *
My dear Lady,
Not so much as an advantage as you may think. The relationship you reference has run its course. And the fact that you haven’t had any luck finding love, well, I’ll confess to finding that regrettable.
Sir
Twelve
My love life may be a hot mess, but professionally, things have never been better. Or more hectic. In the weeks following the champagne tasting (which Robyn’s blogger friend had described as “a welcome touch of old-world charm”), I’ve launched a weekly raffle where customers can drop off a business card or jot their name and number down for a chance to win a gift basket.
We’ve had a guess that grape happy hour, where we open a bottle of something fun and let people try to identify the grapes in exchange for little gift items.
Even Robyn’s gotten into the innovative spirit and is taking the lead on a champagne trivia night. But it’s Lily’s original idea, a cooking class, that has required the most planning, and that I’m most excited about.
We decided to cater to couples for the first version in the hopes that there’s a market for fresh date-night ideas. There’s no chance I could have pulled it off if I didn’t happen to have a best friend and neighbor who works at a catering company. Without Keva and Grady graciously lending me some of their equipment—for free—and donating their time, also for free, I’m pretty sure it would be a financial loss.
Instead, the only things Bubbles is paying for outright are employees—May, Josh, and Robyn are all working tonight—and the grocery bill, which may I just say is… not cheap.
But then, neither were the tickets. Which worried me at first. In order to cover the food and the champagne and make a profit, I’d had to charge three hundred per couple.
May’s been managing the reservations, and not only did we fill all twelve seats, but there was a wait list of people asking to be called if there were any cancellations, which so far there haven’t been.
It feels a bit like a miracle, though not as much a miracle as the fact that Keva and Robyn, two people who strike me as oil and water, have become instafriends over the process of planning the menu and wine pairings.
Ten minutes before the class is set to begin, I’m checking to make sure all the stations have the right glassware when I glance over to see Keva with something in her hand, going for Robyn’s face.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Robyn is saying, shaking her head rapidly as she grabs Keva’s wrist. “Gracie, tell her I can’t pull that off.”
Closer now, I can see the object in hand: Keva’s trademark Dior red lip lacquer.
“Tell her she has to wear it,” Keva insists. “I can’t take one more minute of looking at that dead brown.”
“It’s matte black cherry,” Robyn says stubbornly, defending her own signature lip look.
“It’s terrible,” Keva insists. “Gracie, tell her.”
I will do no such thing, though I agree that Robyn’s black cherry isn’t exactly a look I can get excited about.
“Keva, leave her alone. Also, I’ve been begging you to let me try your lip color, and you’re forcing it on her?”
“Honey, no. This is all wrong for you,” Keva tells me, still focused on Robyn’s mouth as though plotting how to sneak attack her.
Robyn nods in agreement. “Definitely all wrong. It’d wash you out.”
“Really?” I ask her. “I just defended you against Keva’s lipstick bullying.”
“Just try it,” Keva says, her attention still on Robyn. “If you hate it, I’ve got makeup remover wipes in my purse and you can go back to looking like a corpse from the nineties.”
A skeptical-looking Robyn narrows her eyes on the sleek black tube, then sighs and holds out her hand. “Fine.”
“No, no.” Keva bats her hand away and steps forward, grabbing Robyn’s chin and forcing her mouth into a pucker. She applies the red lacquer and steps back.
I blink. In the span of ten seconds, Robyn looks like an entirely different person.
Keva tilts her head. “What do we think, Gracie? It’s a little orange, but I’m into it.”
“You look…” Alive. Friendly. Nice. “It looks really good on you,” I tell Robyn.
She looks doubtful, and when she opens the compact Keva hands her to inspect her look, her expression betrays nothing. She snaps the compact shut and hands it back. “I like it.”
“I know,” Keva says with a shrug.
“So glad that’s sorted,” I say. “Now about the fact that we have twelve people arriving any minute—”
“Uh-uh.” Keva lifts a finger. “Remember what I told you? No fussing. I’ve taught dozens of cooking classes, so a simple three-course meal is no biggie. And Rob’s got the wine notes covered. The English sparkling wine she’s paired with the crab cakes is going to blow your mind. Now”—she waggles her fingers in dismissal—“I have to practice my opener.”
“You have an opener?”
“I’m an entertainer.”
Robyn nods in solidarity, and I shake my head, unsure if I’m annoyed or delighted by their alliance.
The couples start to trickle in, quiet and a little unsure at first, but the noise level slowly rises as the welcome sparkling wine Robyn’s selected begins to work its magic and couples claim their stations.
The supplies may have been loaned for free, but setup hadn’t exactly been a breeze. In order to make room for six wheeled chef counters topped with induction burners and cutting boards, we’d had to move several racks, and some of our floor inventory had to be placed temporarily in the cave. Still, Bubbles is good-sized for a Manhattan brick and mortar, so with a little creativity, not only did we get all six stations to fit, we were also able to space them out so each couple would have their own little section.
It’s a pretty fantastic date night, if I do say so myself. Not that I can, because I haven’t had one in forever.
Also? Sir is single.
I repeat. Sir. Is. Single.
I’m torn between elation and disappointment that he hasn’t expressed any interest in meeting, or transitioning our relationship from whatever we are to something a little more intimate.
Then there’s also the annoying fact that I’m a tiny bit relieved, because I can’t seem to get a certain aqua-eyed businessman out of my head.
“All good?” I ask May, who’s been handling check-in on the store’s iPad. Her earrings are shaped like gummy worms tonight, one red and yellow, the other green and yellow.
“All good. Though, station six is a half show,” she says, pointing in the direction of the art corner. My wate
rcolors are always carefully wrapped in plastic, but I’d moved them all out of reach to the upper shelves tonight, just in case.
“A half show?” I ask.
“Only half the couple showed up.”
“Oh.” My heart twinges a little for the solo person. “That’s a little… sad.”
“Exactly,” she says ushering me forward. “Which is why he needs a partner.”
“No way,” I say, trying to dig in my heels, but May’s built like a bull, and the poor single male is the red flag being waved in front of her.
“It can’t be me. I’ve got to oversee—”
“Nonsense. Your girl Keva is in charge, Robyn’s second-in-command, you’ve got me and Josh here to take care of the unexpected, and Lily’s on call. If we need you, you’ll know.”
She maneuvers me to the table, picks up the plain black apron Keva had provided, and thrusts it at me. “Have fun,” she says with a wink.
Sighing, I turn to apologize to the paying customer who I’m pretty sure has no interest in cooking alongside the shop owner all night.
He turns to face me, and all seems just a little bit more right in the world.
Sebastian’s face betrays nothing as he looks down at me. “Ms. Cooper.”
“Mr. Andrews.” I swallow. “Where’s your date? Is your mystery woman meeting you here tonight?”
I’m more than a little curious about the mysterious, complicated woman responsible for him ending things with Genevieve.
He lifts his shoulders. “I’m solo tonight.”
I wait for him to elaborate, and when he doesn’t, I narrow my eyes. “Mr. Andrews. What are you doing here?”
“Learning what sort of food pairs with champagne.”
My eyes narrow further. “First the champagne party. Now this. You’re spying on me. Hoping I’ll fail, so you can swoop in with your offer the second I do.”
“Yes,” he says mildly. “Spending three hundred dollars tonight is a stellar example of monetary sabotage.”
Josh appears, carrying a tray of flutes filled with the welcome wine. We’re apparently Josh’s last stop, because there are only two glasses on his carefully balanced tray—he’d spent all afternoon practicing with plastic cups filled with water—and Sebastian takes both of them, handing me one before I can protest.
“It’s a German Riesling Sekt.” Josh carefully enunciates the word that was unfamiliar to him until Robyn’s coaching yesterday. “A fun, spirited sparkling wine with relatively low alcohol, a Bosc pear greeting, and a creamy vanilla finish that is requisite.”
I carefully hide a smile at his perfect recitation of Robyn’s note card. “Thank you, Josh.” I start to hand him back the glass, but my shy employee is already rushing back to May.
Sebastian takes a sip. “It’s good.”
“Of course it’s good. It’s how we run a successful business.”
I place just the slightest emphasis on successful to let him know that Bubbles & More is no closer to being bullied into closing.
Since the glass is in my hand, I take a small sip and study Sebastian, who seems strangely at ease for a single man in a room full of couples.
“Why not bring the other woman?” I ask.
“I’m sorry?”
“At the tasting you said you and Genevieve broke up because of someone else.”
He glances down at the glass. “Is that what I said?”
“I—” Wasn’t it? “Yes?”
“There’s nobody here but you and me, Ms. Cooper.”
As if I need the reminder. Every time I’m with the man, the rest of the world seems to fade away, and the Frank Sinatra songs in my head seem to be getting more and more intimate.
On the current playlist: “I’m a Fool to Want You”
Indeed, Frank. Indeed.
Thankfully, Keva’s loud, booming voice takes command of the room as she introduces herself and Robyn, as well as the structure of the class.
I don’t want to interrupt or call attention to myself, so I move farther back into the corner, glancing over in surprise when Sebastian hooks the neck of the apron I set on the table on his index finger and holds it out to me, a clear challenge in his gaze.
I set my wine on the counter and snatch the black apron out of his hand, ignoring his smirk as I loop the thin tie over my head. I’m fumbling around for the back ties when I feel a hand brush mine. His hand.
I stand perfectly still as Sebastian ties a knot at my waist, his movements methodical and efficient. I turn my head to mutter an under-the-breath thank-you when his fingers drop to the side of my waist. My breath catches. His finger slips gently under the string—untwisting it, I realize—but then it stays just a moment longer than necessary. I feel his warmth, even through the fabric of my thin sweater, and I must have gulped my wine faster than I realized because I feel a little light-headed.
His hand slides away and he clears his throat slightly, picking up his flute once more and fixing all of his attention on Keva, who’s explaining the first course—a smoked salmon blini, which she explains is a ten-dollar word for a tiny pancake, earning a laugh from the group—as Josh and May silently move around the room handing out baskets filled with all the necessary ingredients.
“Okay, for real. Why are you really here?” I ask Sebastian once Keva’s given us the instructions to get started. “Looking for a fire hazard? Violation of liquor license?”
“I like champagne, and I’d like to learn how to cook,” he says, pulling a jar of capers out of our basket and studying it.
“You can’t cook?”
“Not really. Can you?”
“No,” I admit. “Well, sort of. Growing up, my brother, sister, and I all had to take care of dinner one night a week. My sister sometimes used an actual cookbook and put together something passably good, but my brother and I mostly embraced boxed pastas and jarred sauce.”
“Did you have a specialty?” He hands me the package of smoked salmon.
“I make a pretty impressive Hamburger Helper, and my Chef Boyardee skills aren’t bad either. You?”
“Delivery. I’m really, really good at ordering delivery,” he replies.
I smile a little. I think maybe he does too.
Once our ingredients are laid out, Keva walks us through the next steps, encouraging those of us without a clear view of her table to come up for a closer look, which Sebastian and I do. She dices the red onion and salmon, grates a little lemon peel, mixes the blini batter… She makes it look easy.
Twenty minutes later, Sebastian looks over from the metal bowl he’s stirring and inspects my cutting board. “It looks like you’ve just dissected something, and not very well.”
“Yeah, well.” I go on my toes to peer into his mixing bowl. “That looks like brain matter. Did hers have so many bubbles?”
Our eyes meet for a second. “Switch,” we say at the same time as he hands me the bowl and moves behind me to take my place.
Ten laughing minutes after that, we sip the Deutz Millésime Robyn’s selected and stand before the ultimate jury. Keva is standing in front of our counter, hands on hips, staring at our finished plate. She has yet to say a word.
Sebastian and I look at each other out of the corner of our eyes, and he rolls his lips inward as though to keep from laughing. I’m less successful, and a giggle bubbles out as I look again at what can only be described as a massacre. Somehow our pancake has managed to be both burned and completely raw, the salmon has been overworked to the point of looking like mush, and Sebastian got way too into grating the lemon, so there’s a fine film of bright yellow covering the entire plate in a very neon-mold-type fashion.
Keva looks up and shakes her head at me. “How have you learned nothing from me over the years?”
“Okay, now hold on,” I say, still trying not to laugh. “It doesn’t look pretty, but it tastes good. You always say that it doesn’t matter how food looks, as long as it’s tasty.”
“I’m a professional caterer. I have lite
rally never said that,” she says. “But you know what, go ahead and test that theory.”
She hands us each a fork and lifts her eyebrows. Sebastian and I tentatively accept them. “You first,” he says under his breath.
“Chicken,” I mutter, and gingerly scoop a small bite onto my fork and lift it to my mouth.
“Oh God.”
“Good?” he asks, taking a bite of his own. He makes one chewing motion then stops. “Oh God.” He echoes.
I manage to chew and swallow the one bite, but I do not go for seconds, and neither does he. It’s too salty from the capers (we added extra), weirdly crunchy from the lemon seed we accidentally got in there, and just all-around way too mushy.
Keva only shakes her head and walks away, looking bemused.
“We’ll do better on the next one,” I say, gulping water.
“We certainly can’t do worse,” he says, drinking his own water.
Robyn explains the next wine—the sparkling from England Keva was raving about earlier—and we wait as she and Josh wander around the room, filling glasses before we get started on the crab cake course.
“Seafood was a gutsy move,” he says. “Aren’t you worried about the shop smelling like a fish market tomorrow?”
“Keva assures me it’s only bad seafood that smells, and that fresh seafood like she’s selected has no smell at all as long as we take out the trash immediately after.”
“You believe her?”
“Not particularly.” I pick up a cracker, which is the only edible thing on the table. “But I comfort myself knowing that if we go out of business because it smells like fish, the building owner will be the one who has to deal with it. Oh wait—you’ll just tear it down.”
His expression has been light and easy all night, but he tenses at that, and I actually regret it. On one hand, I want to remember that he’s the enemy, why he’s here in the first place.
On the other hand… I’m sort of enjoying myself. Too much.
“How about a work truce?” he says. “Just for tonight, no discussion of business.”