The man sitting across from me in the cafe smiled cheerfully, the corners of his eyes crinkling. A few droplets of his latte lingered in his mustache. “So, Dawn, tell me why you’d like this job.”

I’m desperate for money to help my boyfriend Luke with the rent, and making cappuccinos is one of the few things within my skill set. I plastered a smile on my face. “Well, my best friend, Holly, has been telling me how much she loves her job at the Cafe du Monde. How lovely it is to work in Harvard Square, and it sounded like the right place for me, Mr.—” He hadn’t actually told me his name.

He waved a hand. “Oh, no need for formality. You can call me Greg. Or N.B. All my close friends call me N.B.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Does that stand for something?”

Blotches of red appeared on his cheeks, and he ran his finger over the hair on the back of his knuckles. “Naughty Biscotti. Just an old joke.”

I swallowed hard. I really didn’t want to know. “Let’s just go with Greg.”

“Oh, it’s not as bad as it sounds. I just cheat on my low-carb diet sometimes, sneak a biscotti here and there. A little naughty. The cherry-chocolate ones are really to die for. Not too often, mind you. You don’t get to look like this without a lot of discipline and work.” He gestured at his thin, hunched form.

I smiled. “Right.” I had the feeling that his comment had been an invitation to compliment his physique, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. So far, this was the strangest job interview I’d ever had.

He frowned, suddenly all business. “Have you ever made a latte before, Dawn?”

“I have, yes. I worked at the Coffee Connection.”

He snorted. “They don’t know what they’re doing. Bunch of instant-coffee hacks. Have you made a cappuccino?”

“Yes.”

“An Americano?”

I nodded. “All the coffees, really.”

Greg narrowed his eyes. “Tell me the difference between a latte and a cappuccino, succinctly.”

“They’re the same thing, but—”

He wagged his finger. “Ah. No. They’re not the same thing.”

I cleared my throat. “But a latte has less foam.”

He steepled his fingers, eyeing me carefully. “It’s not just about the foam, Dawn. People always think it’s about the foam. That’s a major oversimplification. It’s also about the milk-to-coffee ratio. It’s about the meaning of froth. It’s about the coffee drinker’s fantasies. We’re selling fantasies here, Dawn, not just coffee. It’s okay. You’ll learn from me.”

Please stop talking to me. Smile plastered on face, Dawn. “I’m a fast learner.”

“Mmm-hmm.” He tapped his fingertips together. “Where are you from, Dawn?”

“Northington, Massachusetts. Just like Holly.”

“Mmm-hmm.” He peered down at my resume. “I don’t see a college degree on here. You had a 4.2 GPA in high school, a million extracurriculars. And then… no college. Tell me about what happened there.”

Well, my dad left my mom before I was born, and I have no idea who he is. Mom came from old money, but she spent her savings during several psychotic episodes. I pretty much have to be on call to deal with her psychiatric and legal problems at all times, and I have no money for things like textbooks.

My hands tightened into fists below the table, and I tried to smile again. “I think I’m just on a different path than most people. You know, everyone has their own journey.”

Greg smiled back. “Me too. I like that, Dawn. I have a good feeling about you. All you need to do is accept the wisdom I have to offer you, and you’ll be well on your path to greatness. Just like me.”

Smile, Dawn, smile. “Sounds wonderful.”

He thrust out a hand. “Welcome to the team. Your journey into the wonderful world of the Cafe du Monde begins today.”

* * *

After Holly and I locked the cafe doors, I dipped the mop into the bucket of muddy water, sloshing it over the tiled floor. I tried not to let any of the water splash on my handmade dusky rose dress that I’d labored over for hours.

Fifteen minutes ago, someone had spilled an iced coffee over the floor and tracked it to the door, along with the mud and grime from their shoes. The new girl—me—had been left to clean it up. Of course.

My feet ached a bit from standing all day in my heels, but at least I was now gainfully employed.

So my life had veered wildly off track in the past few years—but I was sure that things would work out eventually. Just a few more years of washing coffee stains, and I’d be sitting in a wood-paneled lecture hall, learning about Freud and Jung. Dawn Geddes did not give up easily.

But for the foreseeable future, I guessed I’d be spending time with Monsieur Naughty Biscotti.

As I squeezed out the mop in the bucket, I grimaced at the thought of him. Twice today, I’d caught him stroking a biscotti lasciviously before putting it back on the shelf.

Behind the glass counters, Holly was restocking the muffins. “I’m so happy we’re working together. It’s amazing how it’s all worked out, isn’t it? You found me an apartment, and I found you a job. I know N.B. is super weird, but he’s not awful. Plus, we can hang out when we have the same shifts, right?”

“Absolutely.” I smiled. “I’m excited to have a paycheck. Now I can actually take some control over my life.”

“Yeah!” she agreed brightly. “Independence is exactly what you need. When you and Luke break up, you need to be able to stand on your own two feet.”

I sighed, wiping the back of my hand across my forehead. “You know my favorite thing about you? Your relentless optimism.”

“I’m just saying. He’s weirdly controlling.” She leaned over the countertop. “Maybe it’s time to meet other men.”

I shoved the mop back in the bucket and rolled it behind the counter, glancing at myself in the mirror. I winced at the milk spatters all over my pink dress. My cheeks looked flushed, and wisps of my pale hair stuck to my face. As he had proudly told me earlier, N.B. did not believe in air conditioning. You see, sweat was a natural body secretion.

I frowned. “Luke is working on the controlling thing. He says he’s just protective.”

She crossed her arms. “I’m just saying that someday you might find out he’s a bit entitled and thinks the world revolves around him. And if you do come to that conclusion, you can move on.”

“Understood.” I was desperate to drop the conversation. My legs ached. I leaned against the counter, my elbows resting on the glass.

The setting sun slanted sharply through the windows, and I watched the silhouetted figures moving outside. As if drawn to the light by a magnetic pull, I crossed to the window, peering out. As I pressed my palms against the glass, I recognized my neighbor, and my pulse began to race.

He was the man Holly and I called ‘the Lord of Cambridge’—a newcomer to our neighborhood. He’d moved into one of the remote Victorian mansions across the street. I hadn’t failed to notice his Rolex or his Porsche, his cashmere scarves or Valentino suits. I’d had that kind of lifestyle once. Luke hated him for reasons I didn’t understand. Said he was some kind of psychopath, but never gave me any details.

“What are you doing?” Holly called from across the room.

“Staring at the Lord of Cambridge.”

He must have been about six foot four, with dark hair and brown eyes. He wore a white shirt, crisp against his tanned skin. His chiseled features seemed to draw the gaze of every woman who walked past him. If I had to guess, I’d put his age at around thirty-three.

Holly hurried over to the window. “Why just stare at him? Why not go talk to him?”

“What would I have in common with him? Isn’t he a professor or something? At Harvard?”

“So? You read books. Anyway, men don’t really care if you’ve read books. You need to flirt with him. Like, draw attention to your breasts. Trace your fingertips over your cleavage. Look at his crotch so he thinks you’re thinking about his penis. It’s not hard. Men are not complicated.”

From this vantage point, I could see why Luke reacted to him. With the rigid set of his jaw and his powerful build, he seemed to exude pure, dangerous masculinity. The way he scanned his surroundings, I sensed something primal about him. My pulse began to race. “I’ve had a bad feeling about things lately, Holly. Like something bad is about to happen.”

“Bad things have been happening,” she said, her tone grim. “Have you been reading the news?”

Lately, the violence in Massachusetts had begun spiraling out of control. Serial killings, shootings, random assaults… I didn’t even want to think about it.

Holly tutted. “Anyway, there’s nothing you can do about that, is there? Just go out and be a normal, friendly neighbor and say ‘hi’ to the super hot guy, and then touch your boobs.”

No sooner were the words out of her mouth than we witnessed something utterly unexpected. Another man was approaching the Lord of Cambridge—one I recognized. My pulse quickened at the sight of the dark tattoos snaking over muscled arms. “Well, well, well. Raphael Valis. From the cemetery.”

Holly let out a low whistle. “Is he the one who saw your tits?”

There, in the golden sunlight, Raphael Valis was sidling up to the Lord of Cambridge, hands in his pockets, blue eyes glinting in the sun.

“That’s twice you’ve seen that man,” she said. “It’s a sign.”

I forced myself to pull my eyes away from the pair. “Forget it. I already have a boyfriend. Let’s just go home and relax, okay? We can drink some of that delicious screw-top wine and watch a movie.”

I crossed behind the counter to grab my bag but was unable to stop myself from casting one last glance back at the window.

The two men had disappeared, as if they’d never been there at all.