I take a deep breath and head toward the back of the restaurant. As I pass the occupied booth, the guy glances up and smiles briefly at me. Right away, I realize he’s about my age—maybe a year or two older. He has wire-rimmed glasses, darkly tanned skin, a strong jawline and, when he smiles, straight, white teeth and dimples.

He’s cute.

Very cute.

I smile back without thinking, flashing him the big grin I reserve for charming TV hosts during interviews. It works every time, and I fully expect the guy to blush or fumble the pen in his hand or stutter something embarrassing.

But instead, as I glide gracefully past him like the good little pop star I am, all he does is go back to reading his textbook. He doesn’t even give me a second glance as I sit down two booths away. I frown.

What was that?

I’ve never experienced a complete nonreaction from a guy.

Is this what life as a noncelebrity is like?

Wow.

I mean, it’s great that he doesn’t recognize me. But what’s with him not even noticing me? And why is it bothering me so much?

“Good morning,” says a voice above me. The dark-haired woman who poked her head out of the kitchen a moment ago is now standing beside my booth, peering down at me. I wonder how long she’s been standing there, watching me watch the back of the dark-haired guy’s unresponsive head.

“Uh, good morning,” I stammer, trying to sound casual.

“Here’s a menu,” she says, handing me a small laminated book. “Breakfast is on the first page. I’ll be back in a moment.” She turns and starts to walk away. “You need coffee? Orange juice?”

“Yes,” I say. “Um, both please.”

“Coming right up,” she says cheerfully over her shoulder as she makes her way toward the kitchen. As I begin reading the menu, I notice the dark-haired guy glance quickly over his shoulder at me and then back at his textbook. My heart leaps for a second and then sinks again as I realize his gaze didn’t linger on me for more than an instant.

I know I should feel relieved. But instead, I just feel uneasy.

“Know what you want?” the waitress asks without looking at me as she reappears with a silver carafe and pours coffee into a white mug with a blue rim.

I glance down and quickly settle on the bacon, eggs and hash browns combo.

“White toast or wheat?” she asks, jotting down my order.

“Wheat,” I say, thinking of my dietician, Jacques. Then I shake my head. Jacques isn’t here, is he? “White,” I correct myself. “With extra butter.”

The waitress stops on the way back to the kitchen at the cute guy’s table. She says something to him, and I can see him nod. He laughs as she walks away.