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For one ridiculous second, hope flutters in my chest.

Could it be Roman?

He knows my full name. I said it the night we met.

But knowing my name doesn't mean he's secretly watching my Instagram.

I can't turn every strange account into Roman just because I want it to be him. That's how people end up on true-crime documentaries.

The November sun does little to take away the chill. I pull my wool coat tighter as my heels click on the sidewalk, leaves skittering around me in the breeze as I hurry toward Bramble & Bean’s entrance.

I'm not looking for Roman.

Or so I tell myself.

I'm here for coffee. One of their festive drinks I can’t make at home.

The bell jingles overhead as I step inside. My gaze immediately sweeps the room. Disappointment hits.

No Roman.

Goddammit. I’m already doing it.

Gracie looks up from behind the counter. “Hey, Callie.”

“Hi.”

Walter sleeps in his bed near the register, wearing a sweater that says “Security.”

I point at him. “Finally hired some competent help?”

Gracie laughs. “He demanded benefits.”

“I hope you're paying him fairly.”

“Two treats an hour.”

“Unionize, Walter.”

His tail thumps once, his eyes still closed. He stretches, climbs out of bed, and slowly heads toward me.

I order an iced coffee, then lift Walter into my arms, scratching his ears with one hand as I lean against the counter.

“You find him yet?” she asks, making my drink.

I don't have to ask who she means. “No.”

“I'm sorry.”

I shrug. “It's fine.”

It isn’t, but it will be.

She slides my drink across the counter. “I've still been keeping an eye out.”

Something in my chest squeezes. “Thanks.”

“And Agnes was in yesterday. She asked if you'd found him.”