“Why not?” Lorelei frowns.
“I have a little bit of info—stuff like her name, age, and hair color—but she died when we were both pretty young,” I say.
“How do you know?”
“The uncles hired a private investigator when I was a teenager, not long after my adoptive mom died. I didn’t even care, but they wanted to know more. And Uncle Stavros thought I might want to know someday. He knew a guy who was doing a lot of business in Russia, and he knew a guy who was doing research for other adoptive families,” I explain. “There’s a letter, tucked behind one of the drawers in my old bedroom. They sent a copy of her death certificate.”
“Well, crap,” Lorelei sighs. A moment later she mumbles, “So much for the fantasy that we’re secret descendants of the Romanov clan.”
“You didn’t really think that, did you?” I laugh.
“No, but I had a therapist who tried to convince me that I did.” Lorelei smiles with her eyes closed. She reaches out and squeezes my arm. “We may not be bona fide princesses, but I think it’s just as much of a magical miracle that we’ve found our way back to each other.”
* * *
After I drop Lorelei back at the guesthouse, I go straight to the diner. As tired as I am, I need to be there. I need to inspect my espresso maker, check the stock, and make sure everything is okay.
I leave my suitcase at the apartment, which Lorelei has left spotlessly clean, and pull on my barista apron. I’m in such a hurry to get out the door and get to work that I almost don’t notice all the new equipment on my desk out in the hallway. My old, sticker-covered iPad is still there, but it is leaning up against a large-screen Mac desktop. On the surface below it is a sleek, white box with a brand-new laptop. There’s a sticky note on the box.
I didn’t know which one you would want, so I just got you both. Also, I know you mentioned the camera you wanted, but then Noah printed out a comparison of all the different models and I wasn’t sure if you might want to check it out before you order something. Look under the box.
I tip up the computer box and pull out a folder with a cost and feature comparison report. There’s a generous gift card and another note,
Just get whatever damn camera you want.
I can’t accept all this!
I shoot a photo and text to Lorelei.
The hell you can’t. I’m not having my photo taken with the dog camera. Plus, a deal’s a deal.
* * *
When I finally arrive at the diner, the lunch rush is over. It’s the afternoon lull. There’s nobody behind the counter. I assume Carlos has dashed off to use the restroom.
“I’m back!” I call out, reveling in all the familiar smells and more than a few familiar faces at the tables. In the back corner, at a round booth, I spy three-quarters of theLit Lovers’podcast crew. Jackson Porter is sitting with his sister, Chelsea, and Emily Romano, as well as an unfamiliar-looking redhead. I duck behind the counter to grab a pot of freshly brewed coffee and head over to refill their cups.
“I didn’t know you were away,” Emily says, waving away my offer of coffee. “No thanks. I’m holding out for a London fog when the machine is fixed. I know you said to try the mocha macchiato the other day, but I’m afraid it just wasn’t me.”
Lorelei talked Emily into a macchiato? What had she been thinking?
“I can whip you up a London fog with the frother. I don’t need to use the espresso maker for that,” I say cheerily. “It’s no problem, and it’s on me.”
“Oh, really? Well, then, I’d love one of your special drinks, too,” says the redhead. She’s got a British accent and warm, curious eyes. They are framed by hot-pink glasses that are further embellished by a colorfully beaded chain. “You must be Kenna. I’ve heard all about your magical, psychic, drink-matching abilities.”
“Well, she isn’t always right,” Jackson points out. “Case in point—macchiato.”
“Anyone can have an off day,” the redhead chastises him. “I’m Isla, by the way. Emily and I met in Rome.” She takes my hand and holds it, waiting dramatically. “Are you getting any kind of read on me?”
“Apricot tea with honey, frothed oat milk, and a ginger shot,” I say confidently.
God, it feels good to be back. But a moment later, I see the waitress carrying a plate of fairy pancakes to another table, and my heart hurts. Hurts. How am I going to get over Rafe? And not just Rafe. Orly and Naomi, too. I miss them so much.
But they were never really mine.
“That is so uncanny!” Isla lets my hand go and claps her hands together. “Now I cannot think of anything I would rather drink more.”
“Power of suggestion,” smirks Jackson.
