Heart galloping, Evie could hardly believe what was happening. After finishing his hot chocolate, Hugo took a bulky Apple MacBook and a leather-bound notebook out of his satchel and was soon typing away, his expression one of deep concentration.

Evie tilted the cover of Mila 18 towards him ever so subtly and pretended to read it, thinking, Oh my god I am so close to Hugo fucking Hearst.

After a while, with Hugo still intent on his typing, Evie decided to grab a newspaper in the hope he’d notice her as she came back to the table. Her hair was out, mindful of him saying in a Vogue interview, ‘There’s nothing sexier to me than long, bed hair.’ And while Evie’s hair wasn’t particularly long, her messy fringe had helped her perfect the ‘bed’ look.

As she headed back to her table with a copy of the Guardian, Evie sneaked a casual look at Hugo. His dusty blonde hair was more unruly than she was used to, but he held himself with the same confidence, and his eyes looked even more piercingly green than they appeared on screen. He was also a little lankier and less ‘built’ than he’d become over the last decade.

She felt his eyes on her as she sat down and pretended to read Mila 18 again, butterflies in her stomach.

‘Another … ?’ a waiter asked her, collecting her empty mug.

‘I know this may sound a little childish,’ Evie said, louder than necessary, ‘but can I please have a hot chocolate? Hold the marshmallows,’ she added, remembering Hugo’s response to Conan O’Brien asking him what his coffee order was.

As the waiter walked away, Evie noticed Hugo staring at her. She smiled at him politely, then resumed her faux reading.

‘Excuse me, sorry to interrupt, but you just asked for my exact order,’ Hugo said, his words toppling over one another in that gorgeous way of his.

‘Really?’ she replied, still smiling, then looked back down at her book.

‘Excuse me again,’ he said hesitantly.

Evie looked up, feigning mild annoyance. I deserve an Oscar for this performance!

‘You’re reading Mila 18,’ he said.

‘Yes, it’s my favourite.’

‘It’s my favourite too. What are the chances?’ He smiled, though his tone remained the same—not so much surprised as amused. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who’s read it.’

‘You’re pulling my leg,’ Evie said with a laugh.

‘I can assure you, I’m not,’ he said. ‘I love your accent. Are you an Aussie or a Kiwi?’

‘A ridgy-didge Aussie. Have you been?’ Ridgy-didge? Evie cringed.