"The whole town needs a hobby."
"You are the hobby. You and Captain Gorgeous and his runaway dog."
"His name is Ranger."
"The dog or the captain?"
"The dog." I pull a book off the shelf without looking at it. "I don't know the captain's name."
"Liar. It's Dean Mercer. Maggie told me."
Of course Maggie told her. Maggie tells everyone everything, wrapped in maternal concern and delivered with a side of unsolicited advice. The woman is a one-person intelligence network disguised as a diner owner.
"Maggie should mind her own business."
"Maggie said he couldn't stop talking about you." Sophie plucks the book from my hands and examines the cover. "She said he sat in his booth for an hour after the burger was gone, staring out the window like a lovesick golden retriever."
"That's ridiculous."
"Is it though?" She holds up the book I grabbed. The cover features a shirtless man in a cowboy hat and the titleRiding Hard. "Interesting choice for someone who claims she's not thinking about men."
I snatch it back and shove it onto the shelf. "I was looking for mysteries."
"That's three aisles over and you know it."
Behind the counter, Carla Nguyen—Sophie's part-time barista and full-time silent observer—doesn't even pretend she's not listening. She's got a textbook open in front of her, but her eyes keep flicking up, tracking our conversation like it's better entertainment than whatever she's supposed to be studying.
"Don't you have customers to help?" I ask her.
Carla shrugs. "It's a slow afternoon. This is way more interesting than organic chemistry."
"I'm not interesting."
"You had a hot pilot chase his dog into your clinic and now you're in the romance section pretending you don't know what attraction feels like." Carla takes a sip of her own coffee, utterly unbothered. "That's objectively interesting."
Sophie points at her. "I'm giving you a raise."
"You can't afford to give me a raise."
"I'm giving you extra espresso shots, then."
I abandon the romance section—which I was not browsing intentionally—and head toward the café counter, hoping physical distance will end this conversation. It doesn't work. Sophie follows me like a stylish, persistent shadow.
"He's cute, right?" she presses. "Maggie described him and he sounds cute."
"He's... adequate."
"Adequate. Wow. That's the most enthusiastic endorsement you've given a man in all the years I've known you."
"I've endorsed men."
"Name one."
"The plumber who fixed my sink last month. I said he did adequate work."
Sophie stares at me. "That's not the same thing and you know it."
She's right. It's not the same thing. But admitting that means admitting other things—like the fact that I haven't stopped thinking about his eyes and a sheepish grin since yesterday afternoon. Like the fact that I dreamed about flight suits and stupid call signs and woke up annoyed at my own subconscious.
