To Sir, with Love - Lauren Layne Page 0,60
thought our parents said no?”
“They’re parents. They’re supposed to say no, and we kids are supposed to do the opposite of whatever they say.”
“I don’t think that’s how it works.”
He leans his elbows on the counter. “That’s because you never went through a rebellious stage. Lily either.”
“You went through enough for the three of us.”
“You’re welcome. Drink your beer. It’s the champagne of the people.”
“Is that a saying in New Hampshire?” I take a sip of the beer. Not my favorite, but not bad.
“Nope, just a fact. Lily text you back about dinner?”
I pick up my phone. “She did. She made reservations at some place in the West Village for seven thirty. She also sent about four other texts regarding your disregard for schedules and your lack of concern for other people’s lives. Also, she’s excited to see you. And she said not to tell you she cried when I told her you were in town.”
He smiles but looks a little guilty. “Damn. I didn’t realize I was the pillar of the family.”
“Hardly. We just miss you. A lot. And I’m not lecturing.” I lift my hand to reassure him. “But you did basically vanish into the night. We barely had a chance to register you were leaving, and then you were… gone.”
“Yeah. I’m not proud of that,” he says on an exhale. “Amanda gave me hell when I told her that story.”
“Ah yes. The girlfriend I’m not allowed to talk about.”
“You’re allowed to talk about her, just not to her.”
“Hey, for the record, I think it’s completely normal for older sisters to go through their little brother’s phones looking for their new girlfriend’s number.”
“For the record, it’s completely not. Do I harass you about your love life?”
“No. You never even ask.”
He wrinkles his nose. “Do you want me to ask?”
“I want you to care,” I say a little quietly, pulling at the corner of the beer bottle label.
Caleb puts down his beer with a thunk and straightens. “You did not just say that.”
I laugh. “I know, I know. You care.”
“I care. I care a hell of a lot. I just don’t really want to know who you’re boning unless he’s a creep I need to beat up.” He narrows his eyes. “Is he?”
“No. Mostly because I’m not boning anyone.”
“Thank God.”
We sip our beers in silence for a second, and I look up. “We never did really talk about it though. Why you moved, I mean.”
He sighs. “To be honest, it was something I’d wanted to do for a while. I like New York fine, but I don’t love it the way you and Lily do. Even as a kid, I only ever wanted to go camping on spring break, remember?”
“I do. And when you got your way, it was the worst.”
Caleb smiles. “Anyway, I mentioned it to Dad once—just that I was thinking about it—and I got some big lecture about family and loyalty and how he wasn’t going to be around forever…”
“He did give a mean guilt trip,” I say.
“Totally.” Caleb looks thoughtful. “That why you took over the shop? Guilt trip?”
“A little, I suppose. I take responsibility for my decisions though. On some level I must have wanted to run Bubbles.”
Or was too scared to pursue something that might matter more.
“I still feel like a shit for leaving it to you, all while making a bunch of noise about keeping the family business alive.”
“Water, bridge,” I say, making a sweeping motion with my beer bottle. “I’m just happy you’re happy. I’m hoping to get in on some of that myself.”
There’s a knock at the door, and since I haven’t bothered to lock it, someone walks in.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I call out. “We’re no longer open for business.”
“Yeah, I’m sure the completely empty space didn’t spell that out,” Caleb says.
I swat his head as I pass by to see who’s just entered the shop, thinking it might be a lost tourist or a former customer who didn’t get the memo.
It’s neither. A man I don’t recognize is studying the empty space with a curious, assessing eye, and he continues to stroll around the room as though he’s supposed to be there.
“May I help you?” I ask.
He turns, and I’m certain I’ve never met him. He’s tall and reed thin, with a receding hairline, wire-frame glasses, and an intensity that’s not aggressive or unfriendly, but very purposeful.
He tilts his head, brown eyes looking at me for a long moment. “Gracie Cooper?”
“Yes? Do I know you?”
“About to,” he says, reaching