I glance up.
A woman steps through the door.
And everything stops.
Not slows. Stops. The espresso machine. The traffic outside. The waiter halfway to the counter. All of it — gone. Just her.
She's tall — five-nine, maybe more in the heels. Long legs that move with purpose, not performance. She walks like she knows exactly where she's going and doesn't need anyone to confirm it. Platinum blonde hair falls past her shoulders in loose waves.
Her eyes scan the room as she enters. Blue-green. The color of shallow Mediterranean water where the sand shows through. Bright, quick, aware. She's reading the café the way I read a café, deciding if this place deserves her time.
She wears a blouse tucked into high-waisted trousers. Simple. She carries herself the way women do when they've learned that beauty is a tool and they've decided to use it on their own terms. Her hands are expressive — one holds her phone, the other pushes the door closed behind her with a gesture that is both careless and precise.
She smiles at the waiter. Full, easy, warm. The kind of smile that makes the person receiving it feel chosen. The waiter straightens. Smiles back. Of course he does.
I know that smile.
I know that walk. I know the way she tilts her chin up when she enters a room, the slight lift that says she belongs here even if she's never been here before. I know the platinum waves and the blue-green eyes and the hands that never stop moving.
That's Amanda Catherine.
That's not possible. Amanda lives in Chicago. She's Vittoria's best friend.
But the woman standing at the counter, ordering an espresso in English with hand gestures that make the barista grin — that is Amanda Catherine. In Milan.
My hand rests on the table next to my phone. I don't move. I don't look away.
Amanda
Finally.
Two hours of Giada's clipboard. Two hours of broken zippers and wrong lens filters and a lighting director who keeps asking me questions Giada should be answering.
I need coffee. I need air. I need five minutes where no one needs me to fix something.
The café is small. Warm wood. I smile at the waiter because his face is the first face I've seen today that isn't wearing a headset.
"Un espresso, per favore."
He grins. Says something fast in Italian I don't catch. I laugh and gesture at the case of pastries.
"And one of those. The one with the— yes. That one."
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Vittoria.
I slide into a booth near the window before I answer. Drop my bag on the seat. Kick off one heel under the table because my feet are screaming.
"Babe."
"How bad is it?" Vittoria's voice is warm and tired at the same time.
"On a scale of one to nightmare? A solid six. Giada keeps asking me what she should be doing. I'm the talent wrangler, not the producer. Why does she have a clipboard if she doesn't know what's on it?"
"So a normal day."
"So a normal day." I sigh. "Milan is gorgeous though. I'm now at a café. Everyone on this street looks like they're in a perfume commercial. Even the old men. Especially the old men."
