The first time I saw her, she was reading Sands from the Beach.
It caught me off guard. Most people scrolled through their phones or wore headphones like armor. But there she was—shoulders relaxed, fingers curled around a worn paperback, completely absorbed.
I smiled before I even spoke.
"Hey," I said, stepping beside her table. "I know that book."
She looked up, curious. "Really?"
"Yeah. Sands from the Beach by Tom Rawlings. One of my favorites."
Her face lit up—not in a big way, just this subtle pleased expression, like I'd just passed a quiet test.
"So you do know the book," she said, almost teasing. "I love his writing. I started this one last month and it's already one of my favorites."
"Yeah, his stories are that good."
We both laughed. Not forced. Not awkward. Just easy.
"I'm Barry," I said, offering a hand.
"Grace," she replied, shaking it gently. Her hand was warm. Her name felt like a soft place to land.
Before I could say more, the barista called out, "Flat white for Barry!"
I glanced at the counter, then back at her. "Can I get your number before I go?"
She blinked, surprised but smiling. "Sure."
I typed it in as she recited it, double-checked I had it right. "I'll make sure to text you," I said.
She nodded. "You better."
⸻
Later that Day
Work felt lighter than usual.
The office buzzed about a new client I'd managed to lock down—one of the best deals our team had closed in months. I let them talk. Smiled. But inside, I was still back at that café, watching her smile behind that paperback.
That night, as the city lights hummed outside my apartment window, I finally pulled out my phone and typed:
Hey, it's Barry. The guy from the café this morning.
Sent.
Then I stared at the screen like it was about to answer something I didn't even know I was asking.