The same day I graduated college, I called my second job and told the manager my new availability. She promptly started scheduling me twenty to thirty hours a week. Sunday through Wednesday I work retail, and Thursday through Saturday I work nights at Al’s.

It’s hell, but it keeps me busy. I like busy. I need busy. Besides, my student loans aren’t going to pay themselves.

At least my retail gig smells a lot better than Al’s. I sell vegan products for the body, face, and home at a tiny boutique on Santa Monica’s famous Third Street Promenade. Sandwiched between two retail giants, Veritas is a narrow, closet-like space that becomes claustrophobic if more than five customers come in at the same time.

Sundays usually start off slow, and today is no exception. My manager, Lucille, is taking advantage of the lull by doing next month’s schedule in her cramped office. I spend the first hour and a half of my shift cleaning the glass shelves with our signature vegan multipurpose cleaner—that leaves streaks if I’m not careful—and humming along to mellow indie music.

I still study every blonde woman I see walking outside, but the multitasking helps me stay focused on the present.

When there’s nothing left to clean or dust, I stand near the front door and smile at passersby. Another distraction is in order, and customers will fit the bill nicely.

I discovered early on that friendliness goes a long way in sales. If I talk to people like they’re more than just wallets, they pretty much buy whatever I tell them to. Which means I win employee contests and take home free products. Not a bad arrangement, all told.

Around twelve thirty, two repeat customers are browsing the store while I linger in the doorway chatting with an elderly couple. Joy and Marvin walk the promenade every day around lunchtime with their two Pomeranians, all four of them dressed in matching Hawaiian shirts. They’re always good for a laugh and are currently arguing about which of them guessed last night’s Wheel of Fortune final puzzle first.

While they bicker, I tune them out and feed vegan treats to the dogs. I’m cooing and scratching the chin of Twinkles—or is it Chuckles?—when Joy’s age-spotted fingers snap in front of my nose. Looking up, I see her head twitching back and to the right. She’s blinking oddly, fast and unsynchronized.

I straighten, eyeing her worriedly. “Are you okay?” I ask, glancing at Marv, who merely rolls his eyes.

Out of the corner of his mouth, he whispers, “She can’t wink.”

I bite my lips on a smile.

“Oh, Jesus,” mutters Joy. With an aggravated huff, she stops twitching and points sharply over her shoulder. “Two o’clock. There’s a boy who’s been staring at you and he’s quite a looker.”

I glance in the direction she indicated. There’s a kiosk selling cellphone cases, but no one standing around it besides Franco, the owner. Franco and I are friendly, and he’s married with six kids, so I highly doubt Joy’s referring to him.

“I don’t see anyone,” I say, then glance into Veritas to check on my customers.

The two women are chatting near a display of essential oils. I stick my head inside and ask if they have any questions even though I know they don’t. Between the two of them, they own every product in the store.

They wave me off with smiles.

“Oh, there he is again!”

At Joy’s words, the back of my neck crawls with the sensation of being watched. My head jerks toward the kiosk. A family crosses before it, angling toward a nearby coffee stand. When they pass, I see Franco again.

This time, he’s talking to someone.

I let my gaze wander down from the stranger’s reddish-brown hair, over a face that needs a shave in all the best ways, and along a jaw that could cut glass. Broad shoulders and a trim torso fill the jacket of a charcoal suit so perfectly it has to be custom made. His shoes are dark and shiny, reeking of labels like Handcrafted and Made in Italy.

He’s way out of my league.

And looks oddly familiar.

When I look back at Joy, her smile is smug. “Told you.”

“That’s definitely not a boy.”

She giggles. “At my age, they all look like boys. You should wave him over. Tell him he can buy you a drink.”

“Uhh—”

Marvin clears his throat. “Time for us to scoot. Twinkle and Chuckles need to potty, and I need lunch. Eden, wonderful as always to see you.”

I smile at him in gratitude. He winks—properly, with only one eye—and touches the brim of his cowboy hat. Joy, already on to the next adventure, waves over her shoulder.

I watch them depart in a flurry of yipping dogs and lime-green Hawaiian print. As I turn to reenter the store, I can’t help another glance toward the kiosk.

The stranger is gone.