And of course, of course, it’s the asshole again. To prove his point, he moves around the other side of the table and makes a show of lifting the messenger bag off the bench and plopping it in the middle of the table.

I pick up my coffee. “All right, geez. I’m going.”

Evelynn squints at us and I refuse to make another scene, so, with as much dignity as I can muster, I slink off to another table. He’d better not stay there long. He probably doesn’t even need it—he’s just one of those people who has to have the “best” of whatever’s available. It’s clearly the king table of Crudité, the rest of them surrounding it like peasant-subjects. The others are so tiny they don’t have room for my laptop and purse.

I wouldn’t be this angry if I hadn’t been in the middle of another shit morning in this shit city, or if my script were going well, or if I weren’t so hungry for both food and clients, and, okay, if he were average-looking. With his scruff cranked up to eleven, his deep brown eyes, his slim frame, and his thick hair, he’s ridiculously attractive, which means he’s never had to work on his personality, so he probably goes through life showing up anywhere he wants and people just give him stuff. Well, not this girl. I come from the land of models-slash-actors, so his exterior means nothing to me.

It’s the first time someone’s snatched the big table from me, but I’ll just have to wait him out. There’s no way I can work from my rathole; and there are no other cafés within my self-defined comfort radius.

* * *

It’s been forty minutes and he’s still there, lollygagging, his long legs stretched out within tripping distance of anyone who comes near. My coffee’s gone and I need to pee.

Leave, I order him telepathically. Leave! I get up to use the restroom, willing him and his stupid hair to be gone by the time I get back.

He’s not, though. When I return, he’s typing madly on his laptop. He’s got the look of somebody who’s settled in for, like, the duration. I open my laptop (perched on my actual lap for the first time in its existence, probably giving me thigh cancer) and log in to Best Foot Forward’s—I mean, Sweet Nothings’—portal and get the dreaded message: There are currently no ghostwriting jobs. We are working to attract more clients. Your patience is appreciated. While you’re waiting, why not add a line to the Drop-Down Database? Smell you later!

Beneath the message is the familiar logo of a sexy woman’s foot in a high heel. Guess they haven’t finished “scrubbing” the portal of all references to the prior name yet.