My chest falls. The man is known for punctuality. I scan the white bakery case and the five round iron tables, but he’s not here. When I spin around and survey the bookshelves, my heart nearly leaps from my chest. He’s in the . . . Oh my fucking God, he’s waiting for me in the . . . I bring my hand to my mouth, and I want to run, to leap into his arms. When he sees me, his blue eyes twinkle with mischief. I am a teapot about to whistle. I am a dog dancing before dinnertime. He taps the shelves and holds up a book. A pregnancy guide.
