Miles is among them. He wears an Adidas track jacket (black, with two white stripes down the sleeves and two red stripes at the cuffs) over a soft-looking, gray pocket tee and skinny, dark blue jeans that cling to his fit body. His face is clean-shaven, and his hair is damp and dripping from the rain.

In short, he’s cute AF.

An observation I’ll be taking to the grave.

He runs a hand through his thick brown locks, pulling them away from his eyes and inadvertently giving himself a side part.

Stop looking at him, I order myself.

The floor’s slippery and the last one in, an older woman whose glasses are fogged up, almost takes a spill. Miles holds his arm in front of her like a bar so she can steady herself. She nods gratefully to him and he nods back, guiding her ahead of him in line.

Hmm. Downright chivalrous. Quite the opposite of his behavior with me. Which one is the true Miles? Angry shouter, or courteous caregiver?

The café is so crowded now that every table may as well be the Big Table—they’re all coveted, and tension fills the room as it dawns on the customers in line that soon, there will be nowhere to sit. They can’t go back outside, though. Orders and names are shouted, hot drinks are dispensed, and the air vibrates with the hum of people shifting into and around one another, arguing about where to sit. Any second now a fight may break out.

“. . . But I’m waiting for a friend,” a middle-aged woman protests when a soaking, uninvited guest plops down in one of the few unoccupied seats remaining.

“When they get here, I’ll leave,” the interloper snaps. “But there’s nowhere else to . . .”

“Double up, folks. Make it work,” Evelynn booms, hoisting a gallon of oat milk onto the counter.

Instinctively my gaze swings back to Miles. I stare, hard, and wait for him to meet my gaze. When he does, I jerk my chin toward the chair opposite me. He’s not nearly as wet as the latecomers, and since I’m being forced to double up I’d rather it be with a mostly dry person.

Miles peers behind him and from side to side, unable to fathom a universe in which I would invite him over. He points to himself, a questioning look on his face.

“Yes, you,” I shout.

He wastes no time bringing his drink over and depositing his annoying messenger bag made of tarp. Today it probably saved his computer.

“Thanks.”

“Better ‘the devil you know,’ right?” I ask. “Besides, I’m in a good mood today.”

He glances at my plate of biscotti and I yank it closer to me. “Not THAT good a mood,” I clarify.

He rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t going to—”

“My generosity extends as far as my paycheck.”

“Starving artist?”

“Sort of. You too?”