To Sir, with Love - Lauren Layne Page 0,23

pointing, as though he’s already scoped it out.

“You were spying on me?”

“Yes,” he says sarcastically. “I hurriedly stashed my telescope in the closet just before you got here.”

His mention of Bubbles & More reminds me why I’m here, and shifting into business mode, I pivot and walk back around his desk.

“No pictures?” he asks with what might be a tiny fraction of a smile, but it’s hard to know. I’ve never seen him smile.

“Can’t afford it,” I say sweetly. “Not with my outdated business model and ‘cutesy Tinker Bell paintings.’ ”

If it was a smile I saw on his face, it’s gone now.

“Ms. Cooper—”

I gesture for him to sit, even though it’s his office. “May I speak?”

“Of course,” he says, his tone as stiff as his posture as he resumes his place behind his desk, less man, more… suit.

I take a deep breath. “I was wrong to put your letters in the shredder without response. You were at least due a reply, a confirmation of receipt. I’d like to apologize for my lack of professionalism and respect for your time.”

He’s silent for a moment. “I appreciate that.”

“You strike me as the type of man who doesn’t act without first doing his research, so I expect you know that Bubbles is a family business.”

“I do. I know your parents opened the store before you were even born.”

I nod. “And both my parents are gone now. Bubbles isn’t just a business for me, it’s part of a legacy. My legacy. And it’s one I plan to protect.”

“Protect against big bad businessmen like myself,” he says, leaning back in his chair as one palm rests on the desk, those long fingers ready to drum in irritation. The other rests on the arm of his chair, casual, but in a practiced way, as though he’s studied how to look relaxed.

“I understand legacy, Ms. Cooper,” he continues. “I understand family business. And because you strike me as the type of woman who’s done your research, I’m sure you know that this is a family business as well. Do you have any idea what your stubbornness is standing in the way of? The magnitude of it, the number of people it would serve?”

“I too did my homework, and I know this company builds high-rises. I also know that the last thing this city needs is another soulless skyscraper.”

His jaw tenses in frustration. “And you’re in the position to speak for the city?”

“Are you?” I shoot back.

“I’ve done my market research.”

“I’m sure you’ve got a PowerPoint presentation bursting with graphs, but have you actually talked to people? Did you ever ask the people walking along Central Park South—right outside your window there, admiring the horses and carriages, delighted in their hot dogs—what they wanted from the New York City experience? Did you ever sit down with Jesse Larson or Avis Napier? Do you even know who they are?”

His aqua eyes flash with anger as he replies, his voice clipped. “This project won’t have any ill effect on the horses, or the hot dogs. And yes, Ms. Cooper, I know Jesse Larson, former owner of Little Rose Diner on Central Park South, now owner of Little Rose Café in the East Village, recently written up with praise in the New Yorker. Avis Napier, former owner of The Central Park Spa, is now happily living in a brand-new beachfront condo in Florida, just a five-minute drive from her daughter’s family.”

A knot of unease has formed in my stomach, but I stand my ground. “Who are you to say Avis is happy? You bought her out and now you’re just telling yourself whatever it takes to help you sleep at—”

He leans forward suddenly, all pretense of chill gone. He’s all heat and anger. “Avis’s daughter’s name is Kathleen. She’s married to Barry. Their son, Jon, just turned four, and their daughter, Monica, was born on the Fourth of July. When I spoke to her last Friday, she was out shopping for a birthday present for her grandson and leaning toward a talking microscope. As for Jesse, I highly recommend the mushroom and thyme scramble, though he’s also recommended the ricotta French toast. And I intend to try that next time I go there for brunch, which will likely be this weekend.”

He leans back in his chair, his posture relaxing slightly, but his intensity still crackling. “Yes, I talk to people, Ms. Cooper.”

I keep my hands pressed to my lap, afraid that if I move them, they’ll start shaking, because I feel