“This is either charming or evidence of a town-wide footwear problem.”
“Both.”
A hostess recognizes Cole and greets him like a man who does not come often but is always noticed when he does. She finds us a small table near the back, against a wall, with a clear view of the entrance. I notice that too. Cole notices me noticing.
“Habit,” he says.
“I wasn’t judging.”
“You were a little.”
“I was professionally observing.”
He gives me a look. I smile before I can stop myself.
Over coffee and a plate of lemon-ricotta pancakes I absolutely plan to reverse engineer, I almost feel normal. Cole orders eggs, fruit, and turkey sausage like a man determined to make breakfast behave. I threaten to order him a biscuit in self-defense. He says biscuits are acceptable. I tell him that is the lowest possible praise.
He listens more than he talks, but not in a way that feels empty. When he does speak, it matters. He tells me the Salty Spoon owner started the flip-flop wall after a drunk groom lost one shoe before his wedding brunch. I tell him about the time my producer tried to garnish soup with edible flowers that tasted like perfume.
He laughs at that. A real laugh this time that’s deep and resonates right through me.
Halfway through breakfast, a teenage girl near the register notices me. Her eyes widen. She whispers to her mother, who glances over, then immediately tries to pretend she hasn’t.
I know the dance.
“It’s okay,” I say softly to Cole. “I suppose she recognizes me.”
His gaze moves to the girl, then the room, then back to me. “Your call.”
“She’s just excited.”
When the girl approaches with a phone and trembling hands, Cole shifts slightly. Not between us. Not blocking. Just close enough that I feel the line he draws without anyone else seeing it.
“Could I maybe get a picture?” the girl asks. “I love your videos.”
“Of course.”
Cole’s voice is calm beside me. “No location tags until later.”
The girl blinks up at him.
Her mother nods quickly. “Absolutely. No tags.”
He smiles, but there is steel under it. “Appreciate it.”
The picture takes five seconds. The girl leaves glowing. Her mother mouths thank you.
I sit back down, oddly touched and unsettled.
“You did that without making her feel bad,” I say.
“That was the goal.”
“I’m used to managing it myself.”
“I know.”
“But you’re going to do it anyway?”
