You complained that my restaurant was too expensive and then ate the top off your muffin while telling me commercial photography was boring.”
“I did not say boring.”
“You made a face.”
“That’s different.”
“It was very expressive.”
Zoe looked between us.
“I cannot believe this is becoming charming.”
That pulled me back to reality.
“It isn’t.”
I looked at Luca.
“You liked that I didn’t know who you were, so you made sure I kept not knowing.”
The softness disappeared from his face.
“Yes.”
“That’s not romantic.”
“No.”
“And if Zoe hadn’t recognized your name?”
He was silent too long.
I had my answer.
I handed him his card.
“I’m leaving.”
He took it without touching my fingers.
“Will you let me have someone drive you home?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then I won’t ask again.”
That was the first useful thing he’d said.
I hugged Zoe, ignored Luca, and walked out of the gallery.
No one followed me.
I checked twice anyway.
For the rest of the weekend, the story replayed itself in my head.
The door.
The espresso.
His smile.
The card.
The two men moving when he nodded.
What bothered me most wasn’t that I’d been attracted to him.
It was that I’d been attracted to a version of him assembled from carefully selected facts.
Monday morning, I almost avoided Mr.
Lynn’s café.
Then I got angry at myself.
It had been my café for seven years.
I wasn’t surrendering blueberry muffins because a handsome liar had discovered my schedule.
At 7:13, I pushed open the door.
Mr.
Lynn looked up, saw me, and immediately stopped smiling.
“Chloe.”
“You told him what time I come here.”
His shoulders sank.
“I thought he liked you.”
“He does.
Apparently enough to schedule himself.”
“I am sorry.”
Mr.
Lynn looked genuinely miserable.
I sighed.
“Did he ask you anything else?”
“Only if you came every morning.
