Every week day, Monday through Friday, the hottest guy I’d ever seen came into my sister’s coffee shop. Seven-thirty to be precise. The only thing more attractive than his punctuality was his square jaw and the dimple in his chin. He ordered the same thing without fail. One chocolate muffin with peanut butter chunks, and a large black coffee with a shot of espresso. I waited by the cash register, watching the hands of the clock over the display of fresh bakery items, counting down the seconds until he arrived. My sister, Jo, smiled indulgently from her place behind the counter.

“Don’t worry, sis. He’ll be here. He’s always here.” Her words offered little comfort.

“You don’t know that,” I replied. In my experience, life threw curve balls, often and unannounced.

The bell over the door dinged, and he walked in. I exhaled the breath I’d been holding and tried to calm my racing heart. He eased into a seat by the window, the same location he always claimed. He was so tall that his long legs barely fit beneath the small bistro table. Sparks of red, mahogany and auburn threaded through his rich brown hair. A navy suit of the finest Italian wool stretched across his broad shoulders.

“Bronte.” Jo lifted an eyebrow and jerked her head in the direction of Suit Guy.

I forced my feet to move. He was too beautiful for words, which was a good thing because I’d gone mute. My fingers twitched with the urge to sketch his profile and capture the straight nose, the high cheekbones, his deep-set eyes. Smoothing my apron over my thighs, I stood in front of him and waited while he studied the menu. Like he hadn’t seen it thirty-two times already. I knew, because I counted each of his visits.

“Can I take your order?” I asked.

Gray-blue eyes brimmed with kindness, crinkling at the corners. Full lips curved into a smile. “I’ll have the usual. Thanks, Bronte.”

“You’re welcome.” I turned and walked to the counter, where Jo watched me with raised eyebrows. “He’ll have the usual.”

“Did you say good morning?” she asked.

“No.”

She sighed. “What have I told you about being nice to the customers? It wouldn’t hurt to make a little conversation now and then. Especially with the hot ones.”

“We had a conversation.” Her statement perplexed me in a couple of different ways.

“Oh, Bronte.” She rolled her large brown eyes. “That’s not a conversation. It wouldn’t kill you to ask how he’s doing or if he’d like to try the special today.”

“Of course not. Words never killed anyone.” I tilted my head and watched her pour his cappuccino, trying to decipher the subtext behind her suggestion. My IQ qualified me as a genius, but simple things like sarcasm and innuendo defied my logic.

While she placed the steaming cup on a tray, I retrieved the muffin from the glass case. Around us, customers bustled in from the street. Conversation hummed through the small room. The other employees chatted with the people, making small talk, laughing and smiling. I envied their carefree spontaneity. Unlike me, their words flowed easily instead of sticking in their throat.

Suit Guy stared out the window, his expression pensive. He sighed. His gaze flitted to the empty chair across the table then returned to the busy street outside. What made him so melancholy? No one ever came to the shop with him. His phone never rang with incoming calls or texts. I shrugged and went back to business. Maybe he silenced his phone before breakfast. Or maybe, like me, he didn’t enjoy talking on the phone.

When Jo had topped off the coffee, I carried the tray to Suit Guy and placed his order on the table. He glanced up, his brow furrowing like he’d been deep in thought. The walls of my throat constricted, but I managed to choke out, “How are you doing today?”

His eyebrows lifted. They were glorious eyebrows, thick and perfectly arched, the same rich color as his hair. “I’m fine. How are you?”

Now, don’t get me wrong. I wanted to answer. More than anything in the world. But I just couldn’t get my lips and tongue to cooperate. For the last six weeks and two days, I’d dreamed of chatting with Suit Guy. In my head, we conversed about fun things like Game of Thrones and Schrodinger’s cat, and the words flowed from my mouth like water from a pitcher. Some dreams, however, weren’t meant to come true.

“Um,” I said. Heat rushed up my neck and into my cheeks. He cocked his head, his eyebrows arching higher. I turned and fled to the backroom. On the way, I tripped over the chalkboard easel next to the register and sent it crashing to the floor.

Thirty seconds later, Jo appeared in the broom closet where I’d taken refuge. She looked like our mom, chestnut hair, heart-shaped face, standing in the door with her hands on her hips. Pain flashed through my chest at the thought of Mom. At times like these I missed her quiet voice and soothing touch.

Jo shook her head. “What are you doing?”

“He asked me a question.” I buried my face in my hands.

“Oh, that’s horrible.” Her gentle laughter echoed off the mops and buckets. “And what did you say?”

“Nothing. I couldn’t say a word.” I groaned into my palms. “This is your fault.”

“My fault? Don’t blame this on me.” The latex of her gloves snapped as she removed them.

“You said to make conversation.” I peeked at her through my fingers. “You didn’t say anything about answering questions.”

She settled on a stepladder to my left and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Questions are a part of conversation. It’s perfectly normal. You know that. What’s with you lately?”

My breathing slowed at her comforting touch. Jo always knew what to say. I wished I could be more like her. “He probably thinks I’m an idiot.”

She peeled my fingers away from my face. “No one thinks you’re an idiot. Don’t talk like that. Ever.” The tone of her voice turned steely. “Did he say something?”

Her protectiveness warmed me from the inside out. It reminded me of all the times in school that she’d defended me from bullies—which was a lot. I put a hand on her arm to keep her from charging into the dining area and giving Suit Guy a piece of her mind. “No, no, of course not.”

“Then what’s the deal? You don’t usually have problems talking to people.”

Anymore, I added silently. Through the years, I’d learned to overcome the crippling shyness, the irrational fear of strangers, and most of the obsessive-compulsive behaviors, but now and then the old phobias crept back. Especially around guys who looked like him. “He’s so hot. Like, center-of-the-sun, incinerating, hot.” As if she didn’t already know. Everyone knew. How could they not? “Whenever I try to say something besides, ‘Can I take your order?’ nothing comes out but ‘Um.’”

“So? He’s just a guy.” Jo got to her feet and extended a hand to help me up from my overturned bucket. She tucked a strand of my hair back behind my ear. “Now, get back out there and pretend he’s ugly.”

We both laughed. Jo always knew how to make me feel better. I pushed through the swinging doors to find Suit Guy’s table empty. My shoulders drooped in disappointment. On the bright side, he’d left a five-dollar tip. I folded the money and stuffed it into the pocket of my jeans to share with Jo later. I sprayed the tabletop with disinfectant and wiped away the crumbs. I didn’t know why I let this man get me so worked up. At the end of the day, he was just another hot guy, and I was still the ugly, weird girl.