To Sir, with Love - Lauren Layne Page 0,35
it.”
“I love it. It’s enchanting, as your stuff always is, but it’s a little sexy too. Plus, the eyes on that guy.” She gives a sexy shiver. “Can you imagine if they made eyes that color in real life? You’d have to hose me down on the regular.”
The eyes? I frown and glance over at my painting, then toss the sandwich I’ve just picked up back onto the plate, appetite gone.
I’ve made the man’s eyes aqua.
So much for my art helping me forget about men.
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