To Sir, with Love - Lauren Layne Page 0,59

stuck.”

I tilt my head curiously. “But really, how’d you know they were mine? I don’t tell many people.”

He shrugs. “I’m not sure. I’ve suspected, I think, for a while. The look on your face when I called them cutesy. It was more than professional pride. It was personal. Then, when you mentioned that night at the park that you wanted to be an artist, it sort of confirmed it.”

I lift my fingers in a little salute. “Hats off, Sherlock.”

He shifts a bit on the stool and waits until I look back at him. Which I do, warily.

“They’re good,” he says. “The paintings.”

I roll my eyes. “He says, after realizing he put his foot in his mouth earlier with the Cutesy Tinker Bell comments.”

“They’re good.” His voice is firm. Warm. Confident.

I want to accuse him of groveling, of trying to save face or digging himself out of the hole he dug, but he doesn’t speak like a man trying to gain ground or backpedal. He sounds like a man speaking the truth.

And it means a lot. To have someone who’s not related, who’s not a friend, compliment my work.

I wipe an imaginary bit of nothing away from my mouth to do something with my hands, then finally gather the courage to look at him. To really look at him, because he’s looking right at me.

“Thank you.” My voice is quiet. Not a whisper, but close.

“You’re welcome.” His voice is quiet too, and for a moment, his gaze drops to my mouth.

He finishes the rest of his glass with a large swallow that probably has my dad rolling in his grave. “I should probably go. Let you finish up here.”

“Sure, yeah. Thanks for the food. Your spidey sense was right. I did need it.”

Or maybe I needed you.

I shove that thought away.

“Thanks for sharing your right moment champagne with a guy who put you out of business.”

“What can I say, I guess I’m a sucker for irony,” I say with a little smile, unlocking the door to let him out.

“Yes,” he sounds distracted as he steps outside, but then he turns back at the last minute so we’re standing nearly toe to toe, and I have to tilt my head all the way back to look at him.

“This guy of yours, the complicated one,” he says, eyes latching on to mine. “He’s the one?”

My breath catches at the question. I want to look away, but his eyes seem to hold me still. “I don’t know,” I admit quietly, to myself for the first time. “I thought so, but now… I’m not so sure.”

His eyes gleam with something that looks like satisfaction, and his response knocks everything inside me off balance.

“Good.”

Nineteen

“I still can’t believe you came. And you didn’t tell me,” I say, hugging my little brother for what’s probably the hundredth time since he knocked on the front door of Bubbles—or what was Bubbles—earlier that afternoon.

“What can I say, I thrive on surprises,” Caleb says, picking up the box I slide across the counter and carrying it to the small stack near the front door.

It’s two days after we closed, two days after my night, or whatever that was, with Sebastian. Technically, we have the space for a couple of more days—through the end of the month. But now that we’re done, I’m ready to be… done.

After doing a walk-through with an uptight Andrews Corporation woman in a pantsuit and a severe bun, I just needed to gather the last odds and ends and check the drawers for forgotten items—where I’ve found four of May’s earrings, one of which I’m fairly sure is a testicle.

I was holding it when my brother walked through the front door, and he confirmed, 100 percent: testicle.

“What’s left?” he asks.

“Just the fridge,” I say, nodding toward the cave. “I don’t even know if it’s ours or if it came with the building. It’s just always been there.”

“Anything in it?”

I shrug. “A couple of beers. I’m not sure where they came from.”

He strolls toward the door to the cave, in his work boots and faded jeans and a long-sleeve green Henley. He returns with two bottles of beer and uses the side of the counter to expertly pop the caps off.

“Can we drink beer in a champagne shop?” I whisper.

“Dad?” Caleb says, glancing toward the ceiling. “Mom?”

He looks over at me with a rueful expression. “Damn. They said it’s not appropriate.”

Then he hands me one and clinks the neck to mine before taking a long drink.

I smile. “I