To Sir, with Love - Lauren Layne Page 0,20

that goes by the name of Sebastian Andrews. Symptoms include nausea, extreme annoyance, and random surges of anger.”

“Sis!” Caleb sounds delighted. “Is this ire I’m hearing from Snow White? Did you finally encounter someone who doesn’t fit into the fairy tale?”

Yeah. I haven’t exactly hidden my fairy tale–junkie status from… anyone.

“No, no,” I say, popping the rest of the cheese into my mouth. “He actually has a starring role. As the villain.”

“A villain with a great butt,” May adds.

I pivot to look at her. “You’ve never even met him.”

“I googled him,” May says pragmatically. She tips her head back to take a sip from her flute, her neon-blue guitar earrings swaying.

“And you searched for ‘Sebastian Andrews’s butt’?” I ask.

What results came up? I don’t ask. But I want to.

“I don’t care if his ass rivals J.Lo’s,” my brother interjects. “I hope you told him to go to hell, Gracie.”

“I actually did tell him exactly that!” I say, feeling rather proud.

“Good,” Lily says firmly. “I’m glad we’re all on the same page about keeping Bubbles in the family.”

My brother nods, but I feel May’s gaze on me. “Gracie?”

“What?” I pick up another cheese, mostly to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes, even via a screen.

“Are you all on the same page?” May persists.

“Of course we are,” Lily says indignantly. “The store’s more important to Gracie than any of us. She’s the one there all the time.”

“What choice did I have?” The words pop out before I can stop them, and both my siblings look bewildered.

I take a deep breath. “I didn’t mean it like that,” I say. “Bubbles is important to me, of course. It’s just sometimes I feel like I’m doing all of the hard stuff, all alone.”

May squeezes my hand. Go on. I squeeze back and smile, grateful to have an ally. I take a deep breath. “I’m not saying we should sell. I’m just saying I could use some help.”

“Crap.” Caleb drags a hand over his face. “I feel like a jerk.”

“Well, yeah,” Lily says. “How many times has she asked you to fix the website?”

“Oh, and I’m sure you’ve been falling all over yourself to stop by and help her restock inventory in between your weekly manicures,” he shoots back.

“Guys,” I say in my gentle but stern middle-child voice.

“Okay,” Lily exhales. “Okay. What do you need, Gracie?”

I need to double the numbers.

I decide to start with something less intimidating. “Well, I know neither of you were thrilled when I changed things up. You hated the new bags, protested the addition of & More.”

“Only because Dad wouldn’t have wanted it,” Lily says, and Caleb nods in agreement.

Oh sure. On that they see eye to eye.

“I get that,” I say softly. “But as the one who does the books, I can tell you that that’s when things started to turn around. And we need to turn them around even further. The mom-and-pop model our mom and pop subscribed to just doesn’t cut it anymore. I’m open to ideas—”

“A new logo,” Caleb cuts in, ever the graphic designer. “I know I protested that last time you suggested it, but you’re right. The one we have now looks tired, and you can never underestimate the power of a good rebrand. I’ll get to work on some mockups for that and the new website.”

“You know,” Lily says, “the other day I went to a cooking class with a couple of girlfriends, and they had wine pairings with it. I wonder if we could do something like that with champagne…?”

“Yes!” I say excitedly, pulling out a notepad to write it down. “My friend Keva actually teaches cooking classes. I bet she’d help. These are good. What else…”

Thirty minutes later, I have a sizable list of ideas to save Bubbles and feel the lightest I have in months.

Watch out, Sebastian Andrews. I’m coming for you.

My dear Lady,

Do you ever sense a storm is coming but can’t quite figure out the direction or the source?

Yours in severe weather predictions,

Sir

* * *

To Sir, with umbrellas,

Absolutely, though I confess I’m having one of those glorious days where I am the storm.

Lady

Eight

“Open.” I open my eyes and stare into Keva’s dark brown gaze as she gives my face a critical study. She waves her makeup brush in command. “Close.”

I close my eyes as she resumes blending the eyeshadow on my right eyelid.

“Are you sure I shouldn’t borrow one of your red dresses?” I ask.

“Not unless you can make these quadruple in size in the next hour.” She unceremoniously thumps the