Page 4

“What’s wrong, Lina?” I ask, turning back to her.

“He forgot this.” She holds up a sleek black leather wallet, the edge of his credit card still peeking out from a slot. “He was in such a rush to stop them, he just left without it.”

Crap. The one decent guy in the group is about to discover he has no ID, no cards, and no way to get back into his hotel. He doesn’t deserve this. “Maybe I can still catch him!”

I pluck the wallet from her hand and rush toward the door. I’ve only taken three steps when a sharp twinge shoots through my ankle, reminding me I’m supposed to be taking it easy. But I ignore it.

I reach the door and shove it open. The crowd on the sidewalk has swelled in size. There’s a thick ring of tourists about six people deep with their phones held high, filming the misfits.

“Max!” I shout, trying to wedge my way through the bodies. But it’s like trying to push through a brick wall. Nobody is willing to budge and ruin their video.

I rise onto my toes, waving my arms over my head. I yell his name again, but my voice is swallowed by the final booming notes of their song and the general roar of the street.

Seeing it’s a pointless exercise, I retreat a few steps toward the restaurant’s entrance to get a better vantage point. Just then, a sleek black SUV glides up to the curb, hazard lights blinking. The crowd parts for a split second. Just long enough for the guys to pile inside with a chorus of cheers.

The door slams shut, cutting off the music. I stand there with the wallet clutched in my hand, watching the red taillights of the SUV merge into the steady stream of traffic and disappear.

A tiny part of me is disappointed I won’t get to see Max again. But maybe it’s all for the best.

When I head back inside, the restaurant feels unnervingly quiet after the chaos. Lina and Theo have stopped chatting near the register and look up as I approach. “Any luck, cara?” Lina asks, her eyes searching mine.

“No. There were too many people,” I say, exhaling a breath of pure frustration as I hand the wallet back to her.

“I wouldn’t lose sleep over it, Katie. I’m sure he’ll realize it’s gone soon enough,” Theo says.

“Yes,” Lina nods. “He won’t get very far without his ID or credit cards. I’ll lock everything up in the safe until he shows up.” She gives me a small, knowing smile before nodding toward the soggy disaster at table one. “Now,” she says, her tone shifting back to business-owner mode. “If you wouldn’t mind grabbing the mop, we have a swamp to drain.”

“Sure, Lina,” I say.

She nods again, already reaching for the bucket, and I head back into the kitchen, pushing all thoughts of Max and his pack of hyenas aside. Cute British strangers are not on tonight’s checklist. Finishing my shift is.

Two

As I’m sliding the first tray of ciabatta into the oven, I hear a tapping sound. Pausing my music, I preen my ears.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Nope. I wasn’t imagining it. Somebody is definitely knocking on the front door.

I groan as I check the clock. The produce delivery is twenty minutes early, and I’m only halfway through the morning prep. I’ll have to pick up my pace if everything is going to be ready for the lunch rush.

I wipe my hands on my apron, leaving a few white streaks across the dark fabric, and walk out to the front. The dining room is a graveyard of chairs flipped upside down on tables. The morning sun cuts through the long slats of the blinds. It still smells like Pine-Sol and marinara sauce.

Mentally, I run through the checklist of what we’re expecting: three crates of Roma tomatoes, two flats of fresh basil, a sack of Yukon Gold potatoes—for the gnocchi, of course—and enough garlic to ward off every vampire in Central Florida. That is if the sun doesn’t.

I reach the door, ready to launch into a “you’re early” lecture, but the words die in my throat. Because the guy with his nose pressed against the glass isn’t the produce guy.

It’s Max.

My breath hitches as he catches sight of me and offers a tentative wave. I quickly redo my messy bun and open the door.

“Hiya,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets. He’s dressed as if he may have just rolled out of bed in a plain white T-shirt, black sweats, and a pair of white tennis shoes. His brown hair is still slightly damp from the shower. The ends stick up at a few odd angles. It’s a look I know well, since that’s usually my vibe in the mornings.

“Sorry to be a pain,” he starts. “But I realized this morning that I misplaced my wallet last night. I was hoping—well, I was praying I’d left it here and not in the Uber.”

“It’s here,” I say, stepping back to let him into the foyer. “Lina tucked it into the safe. Come in, I’ll go grab it for you.”

A look of relief washes over him. “Thanks, Katie, you’re a lifesaver.”