He nodded, a tight smile on his lips. “Well, yes, and no. It’s primarily a café. A very successful café. The location, the aesthetic, the food offering, has all been curated carefully to cater not only to the businesses surrounding, but to draw clientele from further afield who are looking for a specific experience.”

Our drinks arrived, the girl’s hand shaking enough as she placed mine down that a little spilt out of the mug and onto the saucer.

“Sorry!” she mumbled.

“That’s fine,” I replied, unable to even glance in her direction. The faster she left, the better. That bubble of nerves I’d felt when she took our orders earlier solidified into recognition. I only hadn’t realised who she was immediately because … well, I was seeing her from a different angle this time … and clothed. And seven years older.

But clearly, she had immediately recognised me. And if she was here, and the art on the walls was, in fact, what I suspected …

I wiped my clammy palms on my dress, shivering in my cardigan. How could Joe have thought this would be a good idea?

Oh, because he’d never bothered to ask the details of why my final year at university was horrific and why I never completed my degree.

“The owner of this place is also the artist. He realised that selling his art was not going to pay his bills, so he took out a loan, hired a chef, and he and his girlfriend created this place. A business that is financially successful, and doubles as a gallery space for his art.”

I took a ridiculous gulp of my coffee, searing my tastebuds. Through sheer act of will, I managed to swallow the scalding liquid. It burned all the way down, making my already queasy stomach feel even more hot and uncomfortable.

“That’s good for him,” I managed, my voice a strangled rasp. Partly because of the damage I’d just done to my throat but mostly because I had a very, very bad feeling about where this was going.

“He was smart, Jemma. He recognised that his passion wasn’t enough to sustain him, so he found a compromise.”

“Yep!” I said, popping the P.

Joe leaned across the table, his eyes icy. “Are you ever going to take life seriously?”

“I do, Joe!” I adjusted my glasses—a nervous habit that I’d managed to wean myself off in all situations except ones involving my brother. “But I think that my idea of serious is different to⁠—”

“Joe?”

The words died in my throat. That voice was far too familiar. It was also a voice that I’d hoped never to have to hear again.