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I never realized how tall the redheaded man is. He’s always sitting and reading when I see him. I also never realized he came to the café on other days. He’s here almost every Monday—but Fridays, too? Who knew?

“I’m sorry,” he says, though clearly this collision was my fault. “Are you hurt?” His eyes crease, and he looks genuinely worried about me.

I’m not sure why, but his worry dissipates mine, calming the tremors inside of me.

“No,” I say, my voice breathy, somewhere between a laugh and a cry. “I’m okay. I’m pretty sure I ran into you. I wasn’t watching and⁠—”

“It’s fine.” He smiles, and while it’s genuine, it’s also sad.

Hmm, that’s something I understand.

“Do you want to sit?” He swallows, his Adam’s apple lifting in one dramatic bob.

“Umm…” I look, but I don’t see the blonde or her baby anywhere. “Is there anything open on the patio?”

“I’ve already got a table out there.” The redhead’s cheeks warm with a blush.

Broad, deliciously handsome, six-foot-something, and nervous. Huh. Who knew there was such a thing? It makes me think I already like the redheaded reader. Not to mention, Gram is going to love hearing about this.

“I’m Zev. By the way.” Another sad smile.

“Zev? Is that⁠—”

“Hebrew.” He gives a tilted nod.

“Very cool.” I study him. Zev with the Hebrew name and great shoulders and charming blush is a miracle worker. I almost feel normal. It’s like he’s absorbed all of my nerves.

He clears his throat timidly. “And you are?”

“Oh.” I shake my head, honestly just thankful he had to ask. “Rosalie. I’m new in town.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “Sort of new. I know you’ve seen me here for a few months—” Why did I say that? Just because I’ve noticed him doesn’t mean he’s noticed me. But then, hasn’t he? He bought my breakfast. Still, presumptuous, Rose! “Or maybe you haven’t. I don’t know what you’ve seen. You aren’t looking.” Now I’m putting words in his mouth. “Or maybe you are. I don’t know. The point is, I’ve only been here a few months.”

“I have seen you,” says tall, handsome Zev, his hands fisting at his sides. “We must be on the same schedule.”

I nibble on my bottom lip—okay, maybe his nerves are contagious. Or my brain is broken and it can’t decide if it should panic or relax. “Yeah. We must be.”

“My table is right over here.”

My eyes drop to the book in my hands. This is weird. This is so weird. I am about to sit with a stranger when I should be leaving before I have another panic attack. And yet, I say, “I’ll follow you.”

Thankfully, there is no blonde with a baby on the patio. Whew. I walk behind Zev, who might equal two of me in size to his regular table in the corner. My regular table, two down from his, is taken.

“The café is busy today.” My small talk is lacking.

“Yeah,” he says. “Friday afternoons are the busiest.”

“Do you come here often?”

His jaw flexes. “I do.”

“I love their⁠—”

“Scones.” His expression tightens. He might be more nervous than I am.

I smirk. “You, too?”

Zev folds his hands together, resting them on the table. “Yeah.”

There’s a short awkward silence, and then we speak at the very same time.