Annika took a sip of her wine; it was cool and crisp, exactly what she needed. “I don’t know who I’d be without my business. You know? It’s like a calling. Maybe that’s silly to say if you aren’t, like, a doctor or nun or something, but—”

“No, I totally get it,” Alesandro said earnestly, one hand around his wine barrel. The back of his hand was covered in black hair. “I’ve known I wanted to own a Greek bakery ever since my parents got me a play kitchen when I was three.”

Annika laughed. “That’s amazing. What sorts of things did you bake in your play kitchen?”

“Oh, I made the best imaginary baklava and basbousa, hands down. I even got stellar reviews from all the big critics—you know, my mama, my baba, my pappous.”

Annika grinned. “But of course. I’d expect nothing less.” Feeling a little pinch of hurt, she said, “They must be so proud of you.”

Alesandro’s expression got somber. “I lost my pappous a decade ago, and my parents died three years apart when I was in college. It’s just me now. That’s why I do so many marathons. Most of them are charity runs for the things my family struggled with: strokes, heart disease, Alzheimer’s.”

Annika leaned forward. “I’m so sorry. That’s terrible. I know a little of what it’s like to lose your family—I lost my mom to cancer when I was a baby. My dad raised me by himself.”

Alesandro gazed into her eyes. “So you know,” he said softly. “You get it.”

Their hands were close together on the table, and Alesandro made a move to touch his fingertips to hers. This was as real, as romantic, as connected as first dates got.

But Annika found herself moving her hand to smooth back an invisible strand of hair. Disappointment flashed across Alesandro’s face, and Annika coughed to distract from the ruined moment.

Alesandro cleared his throat. “Excuse me a moment—restroom,” he said, giving her a small smile as he scraped back his chair and stood.

Annika watched him go, feeling a thump of disappointment—not at the ruined moment, but at herself. She was always pining after that rosy relationship glow, always stressing about how her first dates never went anywhere. Well, here it was—a great first date, handed to her as if on a platter, and she’d basically just knocked the platter to the floor. What was wrong with her? Alesandro was handsome and passionate and kind and it seemed like they had a lot in common. And yet … she felt nothing. Not the tiniest spark, not even a lukewarm ember.

Oh, come on, Annika. Not every relationship is going to start off with a sizzle. It’s not always going to be fireworks and breathlessness, goose bumps and pounding hearts. Give it a chance. Make an effort.