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Murphy’s Law, the combo coffeehouse/café/bookstore owned by Lily’s grandmother. Not only is the woman a saint, but she makes killer Cuban espresso and apple empanadas that taste so good they’d make a nun cuss. There was only one downside to the location.
    When I’d suggested Murphy’s Law the night before, I’d been too flustered to consider that Lily could be present during the meeting. I was saved from having to develop a plausible story to tell her when I ran into her on the sidewalk, heading away from the building. She had her camera bag slung over her shoulder.
    “Lily! How did the shoot go?”
    She faced me but continued walking backward. “Pretty well. Except for the bats the boss failed to mention. That and the film crew. At least I was only hit on by one production assistant this time.”
    “Wow, just one guy? You must be losing it.” Lily’s boss sometimes worked in conjunction with documentary filmmakers. She claimed most of them displayed more entitlement issues than the whole of the English monarchy. And most of them thought they were entitled to her.
    “Losing it? We can only hope.” She reached into her camera bag, fumbling around before pulling out a huge blueberry muffin wrapped in a napkin and taking a bite.
    “Are you in a hurry?” I asked, trying to be nonchalant. I tilted my head toward her camera bag. “Another shoot?”
    “Clean up from last night, maybe a little Photo-Chop.” She stopped walking and looked at me. Her eyes widened along with her mouth, and she treated me to a glimpse of chewed-up bread. “Look at you, all sexy first thing in the morning. Where are you going? How did the party go?”
    I mentally debated telling her about Michael. There was no way I really could without giving her the whole story, and Lily was mostly in the dark about my … visions.
    “Nowhere really. And you didn’t miss a thing.” Except a jazz trio, some broken glass, and the most gorgeous guy who ever drew a breath. “Go. We’ll talk later.”
    Lily raised the hand that was holding the muffin to look at her watch. She hated being late, but I could see the desire to interrogate me in her expression. I hoped manners would beat out curiosity.
    “You’d better,” she said over her shoulder as she ducked down the side street that led to the photography studio.
    Close one.
    Pausing in front of the coffeehouse, I placed my palm to my stomach, trying to quiet the butterflies fluttering inside. I couldn’t decide if I was anxious because of the upcoming discussion or whom I was about to see. I pushed through the front door, setting the bell attached to the doorframe jingling, breathing deeply to inhale the rich scent of brewing coffee. And to calm my nerves.
    Michael sat near the back, reading a paper in something that looked like Spanish. After I ordered I joined him, tucking my backpack under the table and pulling out a chair. He had a day’s worth of stubble and was dressed almost exactly like me in a black T-shirt with a well-worn pair of jeans. I took a moment to appreciate the snug fit of both. The boy’s muscles had muscles.
    “Are you really reading that, or are you just trying to show off?” I asked, lowering myself into the seat.
    He looked over the paper, opened his mouth, and a torrent of foreign words flew out.
    “Okay, sorry, just asking. Wait, how many of those were curse words?”
    Michael laughed, flashing white, even teeth. It was a good sound, comfortable, like he did it a lot. I wished I could laugh like that. His smile distracted me just as much as it had the night before.
    “What language was that?”
    “Italian.”
    “How did you learn Italian?”
    “My grandmother.” Michael put the paper down and leaned across the table toward me, unexpectedly intense. “What do you want?”
    “I already ordered an espresso,” I answered, reflexively leaning back.
    “No, I mean what do you want from life?”
    “Good morning to you, too. Isn’t it a little early for