To Sir, with Love - Lauren Layne Page 0,41

looking at him. “Apparently I don’t know how to work aprons, but good thing you’re handy with them.”

“A waste of a skill considering the result,” he says, pointing at the melting parfait that looks like a foamy chem lab experiment gone wrong.

“I hope everyone else had better luck,” I say a little glumly. “I’d hate to think we charged people three hundred bucks for food they can’t even eat.”

“Pretty sure we were the only ones who were three for three on inedibility. Everyone else seemed to be having a great time, and at least got fed.”

“You really think so?” I look up at him. I tell myself his approval matters for professional reasons, but the way my heart thumps says otherwise.

He shrugs. “Sure. Yeah. Nobody seemed to be leaving hungry.”

“Nobody but you.”

He smiles slightly. “I confess, I’m a bit peckish.”

“Is that a nice way of saying you’re starving? Because I so am.” I tilt the basket of crackers toward me, but it’s long empty, the only thing I’ve eaten since the burrito I had for lunch while setting up.

Sebastian had rolled up his dress sleeves while we worked—and no, the distraction of his toned forearms had nothing to do with my cooking mishaps, why do you ask?—but he’s rolled them back down now and is rebuttoning the cuffs in a gesture so effortlessly masculine my mouth goes a bit dry.

“So feed me,” he says simply, reaching out and picking up the suit jacket he’s folded over the back of a chair, out of range of our cooking disaster.

“Sorry?” I ask, still distracted, as he shrugs on the navy jacket. At some point during the evening he’d loosened his tie, just a little, and unbuttoned the top button. I wait for him to button it, to tighten the knot, but he does neither. This is a more relaxed Mr. Andrews.

This is Sebastian, I realize.

“Feed me,” he says with a slight smile. “I want my money’s worth.”

“You had excellent champagne. Hardly a rip-off.”

“True. But I did sign up for a cooking class. I believe the website indicated a three-course meal was included.” He reaches for his phone. “I could check…”

“Oh my God, fine. I’ll refund you 50 percent. Which is more than fair, since you did drink the wine, and that was the most expensive part.”

The light in his eyes dims. “Forget it. I wasn’t asking for a refund.”

“Then what—”

Now he does button his shirt. Tightens the knot of his tie. “Thanks for the interesting evening, Ms. Cooper.”

I feel my heart sink. That brief glimpse of Sebastian the man is gone, and just like that, he’s back to being the buttoned-up Mr. Andrews.

He strides away without looking back, pausing at the front door and stepping aside to make way for Keva and Grady’s reentry, then exits into the night.

I feel something thwack against my chest, glance down, and see my purse and May’s magenta nails. “Gracie. We’ll clean up. Go feed that boy.”

There are plenty of things I could and should say. That the cooking class was my idea, and I’d clean up. That they should go home and I’ll take care of the rest.

That Sebastian was hardly a boy.

That he wasn’t mine to feed.

That he wasn’t mine period.

Instead, I give her a quick hug of gratitude, then find myself out on Central Park South, looking both right and left as I realize it’s unlikely he’d return to the office at this hour, and I have no idea if he lives on the East or West Side.

Luckily, the street’s relatively quiet at this hour on a weeknight, and I catch sight of his broad shoulders moving toward Broadway. He’s got a long stride, so I have to speed walk, and even then, I can’t quite catch up to him unless I run. And my clunky sandals aren’t going to cooperate with that.

“Mr. Andrews!”

He doesn’t turn. Or even pause.

“Sebastian!”

He halts and slowly pivots toward me, waiting as I close the distance between us. He looks down at me, those aqua eyes questioning, maybe a little wary.

I smile. “I can’t afford fancy. But how do you feel about Halal?” I tilt my head toward the circle of food stands in Columbus Circle.

Something warm and wonderful happens to his face that takes my breath away.

I keep babbling to disguise my reaction. “It’s a little overpriced since it’s in tourist central, but their gyros are pretty great for absorbing excess champagne.”

“Speaking from experience?” he asks as we walk toward the food stand in silent agreement.

“I was