Now he’s pouring me a mug of coffee, and it’d be useless to even try and tell him I didn’t ask for it.

He plunks the mug next to the Danish and gives me a hard look over the case.

“You’re awfully short,” he says decidedly. “It’s the sugar. No charge, missy. Val’s orders. She said your tab for the remainder of your stay is to be on the house.”

“Thanks,” I say, reaching into the pocket of my jeans for cash. “But I can pay.”

“Did you hear what I said, missy? These are Valerie’s orders, not mine. Have you met Val?”

“Yes, sir,” I say. “We met last night.”

I mean, obviously. I slept in her guest room.

“Well, if you think it would be productive to argue with her, the sugar epidemic is worse than I thought.” With that, he grumbles away to the small back room attached to the café.

I take a seat far from the strollers and eye the coffee. One sip raises the hair on my arms and makes my eyes water, and I stuff a piece of Danish into my mouth, hoping to quell the sudden urge to leap out of my skin. I let out a short, desperate cough, trying to rid myself of the acidic landslide in my throat, and am answered by a low woof from the mouth of the stairs.

“No,” I say. “Absolutely not.” Wally’s tail is already wagging, and he’s prancing in place with excitement. “No,” I repeat firmly. “Wally, don’t you dare.”

His long legs tear across the carpet to my corner table, immediately launch up to my shoulders, damp paws eagerly scraping at my clean shirt, tongue joyously reshaping my eyebrows.

“Wally, stop it. Stop it! Get down.”

The stroller brigade has stopped talking, its members holding their coffee mugs prettily with both hands and staring at Wally and me with slightly open mouths.

After I finally manage to bribe Wally with a piece of Danish to sit at my feet, his tail still thumping happily against the leg of my chair, Mr. Larson comes to my table with another cup of coffee.

“Thanks, Mr. Larson, but I have plenty of coffee.” And I don’t want to smell like burnt tar.

“It’s not for you. This is Wally’s daily brew. Here you go, boy.” He sets the mug down in front of Wally, who stops licking my pant leg long enough to let his huge tongue plop into the cup.

“I thought caffeine was bad for dogs,” I say.

“My coffee is good for anyone and everyone,” Mr. Larson says, and I can’t tell whether his tone is proud or defensive. “Walter here has been drinking this coffee every morning and he’s had no side effects, except for maybe a little extra pep in his step.”