“I’m—” he says, but a voice interrupts him.

“Excuse me, miss,” says the woman I just made the caramel macchiato for.

“Excuse me for a second,” I say to him and go over to see what’s going on.

“We asked for an almond milk macchiato, and I believe this is regular,” says the woman.

“I apologize,” I say. I’m usually good at remembering orders, not sure why I’m so flustered. “I’ll make a new one and bring you our pastry of the day. On the house, of course.”

“This will be just a few more minutes. I need to redo this,” I say to the man. “Sorry,” I add, for the tenth time in five minutes.

“It’s OK,” he says.

I make a new macchiato. “I’ll be right back,” I say as I pass him on my way to the table.

When I hear the sonar ringtone, I close my eyes and clench my jaw, and I know I’m turning red. I can’t believe I forgot to switch my phone to silent.

Everyone’s head snaps toward the counter. A man rolls his eyes, a woman gives me the stink eye, and the green-eyed man turns around and leaves.

I reach the counter in one move and reject the call. It was David. It figures!

Celine returns soon, and the rest of the day is thankfully uneventful.

“Any word from your brother?” I ask Celine as we’re closing for the night.

She shrugs. “I called him a few times and left voicemails, but no word.”

We decide to skip dinner and jump straight to wine and the pretzels Celine kept telling me about, but we’re out of both, so Celine goes to the store while I jump in the shower.

It’s maybe ten minutes or so later when I hear the doorbell. She must’ve forgotten her key. It happened the other night too, when she went to the front gate to get the pizza; that’s when I found out our door locks from the inside when you close it behind you.

I wrap myself in a towel and rush to open the door.

With one hand holding the towel and the other on the doorknob, I freeze.

Thirty-Seven

My mind is feverously working at three hundred miles a second, processing. Why is he here? How does he know where I live? Did he follow me? Is he some nutcase?

“Hello,” he says, and I open my mouth and close it like a fish. No words come out.

“I’m Ethan,” he says. “Celine’s brother.”

“Ethan,” I say and feel my face is burning up. “You’re—you’re Ethan.”

I can’t believe it. The customer from earlier is Ethan. Oh my God!

How can this be him? He doesn’t look like his author photo at all; except for the shape of his eyes and the jawline. His hair is wavy, and down to his cheeks, he has no beard, no glasses, and his arms look like he’s spending all of his time in a gym, not writing books. Plus, the massive tattoo. Where’s the Steve Jobs look I expected?