“Maya,” I say. “Although I like Parisian girl too.”

She laughs. “Maya. So nice to have a name to go with the pretty face,” she says kindly. “Thank you for coming back,” she adds.

“I’ll just have a coffee. Double shot espresso with regular milk,” I say, looking up at the menu written in chalk and then, gazing at the display fridge on my right, I’m tempted. “Can I also have a brie and avocado sandwich?”

“Sure,” she says, then scours the café, “Look, a table just cleared. I’ll clean it up for you in no time,” she says. There are now ten, maybe twelve people in line behind me.

There doesn’t seem to be anyone else working here, which seems crazy to me given how busy this place is. Is Ethan’s sister a scrooge? Shocker. She’s obviously overworking this poor woman. It’s a bustling café. I doubt one person can handle all this madness and keep their sanity or physical health.

I hear some grumbling behind me, and I know the other customers are not happy that she just left and went to get a table ready. The pretty woman must’ve heard it too, because she turns toward the line, as she’s wiping my table, and with a big smile says, “I’ll be just a minute. Thank you for your patience.”

The grumbling continues though.

It’s not the same as being outside in the sun and looking at passersby, but I’m enjoying my lunch and the atmosphere, nevertheless, despite the crowds. Good music, a shelf of books, one with newspapers and magazines. I wonder if living in Carmel feels like you’re always on vacation or if it’s just the summer and the tourists that are making it seem that way.

With its people and its bohemian vibe, this town fascinates me now just as much as it did last year, and I realize how much I’ve missed it.

I’m staring absentmindedly out the window when I see a man parking across the street and getting out of his car. My heart skips a beat. Is that a Lift sticker on his window? I’m not surprised I’m having this reaction here in Carmel—where Max probably works and lives—but remembering I reacted the same way in New York makes me cringe. There was no point doing it there, obviously, but I just couldn’t help it. I lean to the side to see better. It is a Lift sticker; I didn’t imagine it. The man crosses the street and walks straight to the café’s entrance.

I freeze.

He’s about the right age—or so I think. He’s in his mid-thirties maybe, good-looking. Not that it was a pre-requisite, but he is. He’s now standing in line and I shamelessly stare. Not too tall, average build, which means the wind won’t blow him away but you won’t find him in the gym every day either. He’s tanned and has light-colored hair. He kind of reminds me of David with that surfer look but that’s where the similarities end.