Our eyes lock together, and I say, “Beautiful. I was going to say beautiful.”

“Oh.” Cringing, she seems to lose some of the composure she was holding on to seconds prior. Ah, fuck. She blushes, and I know I’m done for. “Um, that’s very nice of you to say. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Story.”

“Don’t go wearing it out now.”

God, I’d love to wear it out.

Her laughter dances around us, keeping smiles on both our faces. She’s utterly breathtaking. “What’s your name?” she asks.

“Story?” Some guy calls out to her from across the café, redirecting her attention to him.

“Be right there, Lou.” She turns back to me but thumbs over her shoulder. “Louis. He’s a handful around finals.” Snapping a pen and pad from her apron, she asks, “The soup and sandwich?”

“How can I resist?”

“Good choice.” With a wink, she walks away but backs up and returns. “And to drink?”

“Coffee. Black is good.”

I don’t expect a smile in return for my order, but I get one anyway. She’s easy to admire. Pretty, like her name. It’s not one thing specifically, but how her features work together with the heart shape of her face that makes her so appealing. She taps my table with her pen. “I’ll be back.”

“Hope so.”

She backs away, still looking at me, but then runs into the chair of another patron. “Oh, sorry.”

The guy has no patience for her and grumbles something under his breath that makes me want to teach him some manners with a punch to the face. I let it go this time, though, and get back to why I’m here in the first place.

“I’m right here,” Story says tableside.

“What?”

She drags her free hand under the mug for effect. “Your coffee.”

“Oh, that.” I rub the side of my neck. “Right. The coffee.”

Setting it down, she says, “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

“Sometimes life does that.”

“When you least expect it,” we say in unison and then break into laughter.

She rests a hand on the opposite chair and tilts her head like she plans to stay awhile. I can’t say I’d be upset by it. I’d rather spend time with her than work on this fucking paper. “I use that quote all the time, and no one ever knows what I’m talking about,” she says.

“Maybe we were the only two who saw the film?”

“Could be.” Her eyes widen and capture the shine from a nearby lamp. “There was only one other person in the theater when I watched it at the Pantheon.”

“Two o’clock showing?”

“Yes,” she replies, her smile growing by the second. “Did you know it only played for one day?”

Snapping my fingers, I then point. “The girl with the pickle?”

She bursts out laughing before she quietens and looks around. No one dares to give Story a dirty look. Me, on the other hand, I get three. They’re just jealous.