Nick and I visit the booths of lots of coffee roasters and try about one million samples, some better than others. We sample biscotti, muffins, and cookies, and Nick maintains that everything I bake is ten times better (I agree, but it’s nice to have the confirmation). We even attend a couple of workshops, including the one on coffee roasting, which I fall asleep during (although Nick seems to find it fascinating).

It’s a long day, and by early evening I’m full of nothing but sugar, caffeine, and anxious energy. I need real food and a long soak in a hotel bath.

“Hey, do you want to go to this networking party thing?” I ask Nick, pointing to my schedule. “There’s supposed to be food, and I feel like there’s a ninety-five percent chance they’ll have pigs in a blanket.”

Nick snorts. “I’m not going to that. I came here to learn things and try coffee, not network.”

I stifle a laugh. “You don’t have to say the word like it’s a communicable disease. You know, there are benefits to meeting new people. In fact, some of us enjoy it!”

Nick meets my eyes. “I already know all the people I want to know.”

I’m about to keep arguing with him when a cute, redheaded woman approaches us. She has on a lanyard that identifies her as the representative of some coffee company, and she’s looking at us expectantly.

“Um, can we . . . help you?” I ask her.

“I’m really sorry to bother you,” she says with a nervous smile. “But are you, um . . . are you the people from the movie?”

Oh, no. I should’ve worn a disguise, sunglasses or a fake mustache or a large, face-obscuring hat, anything that would’ve disguised me. I’m looking as Chloe as I’ve ever looked (hair in an elaborate bun decorated with a tiny butterfly pin, a blue-and-white striped dress and my yellow cardigan, bright red lipstick), and obviously a room full of coffee enthusiasts is going to have at least a passing interest in a movie called Coffee Girl that’s set in a coffee shop. What was I thinking?

“Nope,” Nick says as I wince and say, “Yeah, that’s us.”

She squeals. Like, the response you might give if you were a teenage girl in the late ’90s and the Backstreet Boys walked into the room. And listen, I’m no Brian Littrell. My eyes dart around nervously and I cross my arms, trying to make myself as small as possible and hoping no one else is paying attention.

“I can’t wait to see the movie. I’m so excited and it makes it so much better that you guys are dating in real life.”

“Ohhhh, no, sweetheart,” I say, gesturing between me and Nick. “We’re not together.”

Her face falls. “You’re . . . not?”

“Nope. No way. Uh-uh.” I shake my head, wishing I could teleport myself to my hotel room bathtub. I know the last thing Nick wants is extra attention, and I certainly don’t want strangers commenting on my lack-of-love life. “It’s just a movie. In real life . . . I mean, yeah, there’s some sexual tension, okay? People have picked up on it. But we’re not acting on it. Or maybe we did, but that was a onetime thing. It was a mistake.”