I said usually.
He asked your favorite muffin.
I told him blueberry.”
I stared at him.
“My muffin was intelligence?”
“Very low-level intelligence.”
I tried not to smile.
Failed.
Then I noticed the empty table beside my usual seat.
No Luca.
I told myself that was exactly what I wanted.
The café door opened at 7:17.
Every muscle in my back tightened.
It wasn’t him.
Tuesday, he didn’t appear either.
Wednesday, there was still no tailored coat, no double espresso, no unsettling pair of dark eyes.
By Friday, I hated that I noticed.
At 7:20, Mr.
Lynn placed a blueberry muffin beside my coffee.
“I didn’t order this.”
“Damaged,” he said.
“Missing blueberry?”
“Tragic accident.”
I broke it in half.
“Has Luca been here?”
Mr.
Lynn became very interested in wiping the counter.
“Mr.
Lynn.”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
My heart gave one humiliating little jump.
“Why?”
“He asked if I had apologized to you.”
“That’s all?”
“Then he told me not to give him your schedule again.”
I stared down at my coffee.
“He said if he comes back, it should be because you invited him.”
That was annoyingly decent.
I spent the next week working harder than necessary.
I photographed handbags, shoes, jewelry and three models who were somehow capable of looking elegant while standing in a freezing loading dock.
At night, I went through my street photographs.
That was when I found him.
Not a portrait.
Not even a photograph I’d intentionally taken of Luca.
He was in the background of an image from Monday morning, visible through the café window before we’d held the door for each other.
He was looking away from me.
That mattered.
It meant Monday truly had been accidental.
I found another frame taken moments later.
This time he was looking at me while I adjusted my camera strap.
The expression on his face wasn’t powerful or threatening.
It was curious.
I stared at the photograph longer than I should have.
Then my phone rang.
Zoe.
“Before you panic,” she said, “I’m calling about work.”
