To Sir, with Love - Lauren Layne Page 0,40

all the cooking help I can get.

Partially because I can’t let Sebastian Andrews know that for a split second on a Manhattan sidewalk, I’d thought he was that guy.

Thirteen

Sebastian and I stare at our sad excuse for a strawberry parfait.

“I thought she said it would be easy,” Sebastian says, sounding vaguely accusatory.

“I thought she said we couldn’t possibly do worse than the crab cake,” I add.

He hands me a spoon. “Together this time?”

I take it reluctantly. “Do we have to?”

“It’s just berries in some orange gunk and cream whipped with almond flavor. How bad can it be?”

I sigh and take the spoon.

“One,” he counts as our spoons tip into the parfait glass in unison. “Two…”

We lift the spoons to our mouths.

“Three—”

So bad. So so so so bad, that’s how bad it can be.

He hands me my water glass, then reaches for his own. “Jesus.”

“Yeah, in case it wasn’t clear, you guys get an F,” Keva calls over her shoulder as she heads toward the front door, arms full of cooking equipment.

Sebastian looks affronted. “I’ve never failed anything in my life.”

“I have,” I say cheerfully, a little loose from the champagne, though I was careful not to have too much. Lowering defenses around this man feels… dangerous.

“What’d you fail?” he asks curiously.

“Psych. Freshman year of college. It’s not worth the long story, but short version: you’ll get over it.”

Since Sebastian and my cooking efforts were among the worst of the group, most everyone else had cleared out before us. Grady arrived with his catering truck, and all but two of the wheeled kitchen island stations had already been moved out of the space. Still, there’s plenty of cleanup to be done to get the store back to rights before opening tomorrow, and I begin to gather the champagne flutes on our station. Since we’ve rented them for the night, they just need to be rinsed and put back into the crate.

Robyn comes out of nowhere and takes them both out of my hand. “I’ve got this.”

I blink at her. Never, in the nearly two years she has been working here, has she initiated helping with the more menial tasks around the store.

“That lipstick really suits you,” I say, referring to more than the way the color lights up her face.

“Thanks!” she says brightly. “Keva says it’s a tad too warm for my complexion, so we’re going shopping on Saturday for something with more blue undertones. And how did you not tell me she knows the somm from Blago over on Third? He’s gorgeous, single, and Keva’s going to try to set us up.”

I can only blink at her, wondering where the Robyn I’ve known—and let’s be honest, suffered through—for almost five years has gone.

I’m also increasingly aware that Sebastian is still here, the only nonemployee in the space. And that it doesn’t feel weird. Maybe because I know he’s the landlord of sorts? Though shouldn’t that make it more weird?

I feel Robyn’s gaze flick between me and Sebastian, her speculation clear, and when I try to pick up our failed strawberry parfait, she blocks me. “Why don’t you head out for the night, boss. You’ve been setting up all day for the class.”

“We all have,” I argue.

“Yes, but you also did the planning and the organizing and lost enough sleep for all of us.”

“I didn’t lose sleep!” I did. I definitely lost sleep, because everything we do in the store seems to matter too much. One slip, one bad sales day, one slow week…

But the most alarming part is that there are moments when I wonder if the store failing wouldn’t be a blessing in disguise.

Hands full of dirty dishes, Robyn heads toward the front of the store, and I glance at Sebastian. He’s already removed his apron, making me realize I’m still wearing mine. I tug the string around my waist and lift my arms to pull the thing over my head, then yelp as I inadvertently tug the baby hairs at the back of my neck.

Wordlessly, Sebastian moves behind me. “You’re tangled,” he mutters softly. “Hold on.”

He pushes my hair over my shoulder to better see what he’s doing. I don’t move a muscle as his warm fingers brush the sensitive skin on the back of my neck. I feel the ever-so-slight scrape of a short nail as he works, feel the heat of his body in the too-warm room.

“There we go,” he murmurs, lifting the apron over my head. No tug this time.

“Thank you,” I say, not quite