I’m not sure why I’m surprised. Despite what film and music would have women believe, these guys are all hopeless when it comes to the female orgasm. They learn sex from watching porn, where giving the camera a good view is the goal and no one really cares if it works for the girl, because she’ll pretend it’s awesome regardless. Sex happens up close, and inside, not at camera’s length. Guys seem to forget that.

My heart rate has yet to return to normal, and the couple in front of me is ordering at a snail’s pace. He wants to know, “What’s good for someone who doesn’t like coffee?”

Probably not a coffee shop, I want to snap. But I don’t, and remind myself that it’s not this particular man’s fault that all men are clueless, that I’m frustrated and cranky.

I swear I’m not usually prone to dramatics. I’m just having a bad morning, and I need to breathe.

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. There. Better.

I step away and scowl at the pastry case while contemplating my choices. And then I stop, blinking twice before narrowing my eyes and peering more closely at the case. Or, rather, at the reflection in the glass.

Is that... no... Finn Roberts... standing behind me?

Leaning forward, I can see that visible beside my own reflection, and in line just behind me is, indeed... Finn. My brain does the immediate mental pat-down. Why isn’t he in Canada? Where am I? Am I awake? Am I having a Finn Roberts nightmare in Toby Amsler’s twin-sized water bed?

I convince myself it’s a trick of the light. Maybe my brain has finally shorted out on the one morning I’d give my left arm for an orgasm—of course that would make me think of Finn, right?

Finn Roberts, the only guy who ever managed to dodge my convenient guy-category strategy—Finn Roberts, the notorious ex-husband-of-twelve-drunken-hours-in-Vegas, who was good with hands, lips, and body, and who made me come so many times he told me he thought I passed out.

Finn Roberts, who turned out to be an asshole, too.

Trick of the light. It can’t be him.

But when I chance a tiny glimpse over my shoulder, I realize it really is him. On his head is a faded blue Mariners cap pulled low over hazel eyes lined with the longest, thickest lashes I’ve ever seen. He’s wearing the same hunter green T-shirt with his family company’s white fishing logo as when I surprised him in his hometown only a little over a month ago. His arms are tanned, muscled, and crossed over his wide chest.

Finn is here. Fuck. Finn is here.