If Austin was a snack and a half, Bowie was a fun-size treat—made in Britain.
Since taking over his grandmother’s tea shop, Bowie had turned Althea’s into a staple amongst tea lovers across Los Angeles. Until recently, when her designs had started taking off, Leighton had worked here full-time. The soft-spoken, short king would always have a special place in my heart because along with a job, he had offered my sister something else: friendship. A family, really. It was a small relief to know that long before I’d moved to L.A., Leighton had already had some family nearby.
“Actually, you’re not paying me at all,” Leighton said, smiling sweetly. “I volunteered.”
When Bowie had mentioned that he was short-staffed for the holidays, Leighton had offered to fill in as needed. Unfortunately, one of the shifts had coincided with our arranged time to look through the box of family photos, and because we were both swamped with work, she’d insisted I just tag along. That was fine by me—there were worse things than spending the afternoon chowing down on Bowie’s teacakes and crumpets.
“When you’re finished pouring over”—Bowie paused, eyes widening when his they landed on a photo of a bare-assed baby Leighton waving around a wooden spoon—“baby bums andBarney, could you please clear the dishes from table three. We’ve got a book club coming in at two.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” I interrupted. “If you and Mom make me read another historical Highlander romance for book club—”
“But those are my favorites.”
“I can’t understand what they’re saying. Not even when I read it.”
Bowie chuckled. “Don’t worry. My mums live sixty kilometers from Edinburgh and none of us can make out what they’re saying either.”
She held another photo out to me, which I covertly slipped to the side. We had been pouring over our memory boxes for going on two hours now, separating pictures into three piles—yes, no, and maybe. Thankfully, Leighton had yet to realize I had a super-secret fourth pile of my own, the “burn immediately so they never see the light of day again” pile.
“What about this one?” Leighton asked, turning a photo, first toward me and then Bowie. It was a picture of the two of us, along with our family dog, Murphy, on the porch swing at our parents’ house. “Could we borrow your porch swing for a few hours, Bo?”
“And your dog?” I added.
He heaved a sigh. “This feels like a trick question. Like when Nora tells me she doesn’t want anything from In-N-Out, but really she’s expecting Animal Style fries.”
Leighton gently smacked his chest. “Always get the fries, Bo. Always.”
His lips tipped up on one side. “Fine.” His blue-tipped finger jutted out, reminding me that I was desperately in need of a manicure. The Bubble Yum pink had chipped off three of my fingers. “I like the one with the two of you by the Ferris wheel.”
“Me too!” I exclaimed. Some of my fondest childhood memories had come from spending spring break at our AuntHolly’s house in Ocean City, New Jersey. My first kiss had happened on that Ferris wheel.
“We can take it at the Santa Monica Pier.”
“Works for me.” A lightbulb went off while I polished off the last of the teacakes. “Mm, what about high tea?”
“As in cannabis and chamomile? Count me in.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Although, I was willing to revisit that idea at a later date. Leighton had indulged in what our grandmother referred to as the “devil’s lettuce” for years, mostly to ease her PCOS, and she had finally convinced me to try it out when I’d moved to L.A. The first and only time we’d smoked together had ended with me passing out in a lawn chair in hers and Killian’s backyard.
“I meant for my office holiday shindig. There’s a hotel in Pasadena that does a Victorian-themed high tea event for the holidays featuring a string quartet and an appearance from Queen Victoria herself.”
Or whatever actress they hired off Central Casting to play her.
“Sure,” she said, drawing out the word. “That could be fun.”
Uh-oh.I knew that tone. It had haunted me ever since the summer when I’d trimmed my own bangs. She might as well have said, “I told you so.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. That’s not your ‘nothing’ face.”
She shrugged. “It’s just a little . . .”
“Elegant?” I supplied when she trailed off. “Classy, luxurious?”
