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bred. He’dgrown up with the espresso culture and was suspicious of anyone who didn’t share his love of fine coffee, or worse, anyone who pronounced espresso “expresso.” Our kitchen was home to eleven French presses, a percolator from nineteenth-century Italy, two traditional coffeemakers, and an espresso machine that cost more than most people’s cars.
    “So he’s tried to convert you?”
    “Yes,” I said. “Ethan just doesn’t understand why I can’t get into coffee.”
    He handed me a brimming mug, artfully swirled with cinnamon-dusted whipped cream. “For you,” he said, grinning. “And for the record, I don’t think there’s anything shameful about being a connoisseur of hot cocoa.”
    I smiled, slurping a generous mouthful of whipped cream. “I like the way you put that,” I said. “‘Connoisseur of cocoa.’”
    Pascal purred at my feet before sauntering back upstairs. I eyed the old brick fireplace across the room. The mortar crumbled in places, but a painted tile just above the hearth caught my eye. I squinted to get a better look, but couldn’t make out the scene painted on the ivory-colored placard. Funny, all the times I’d visited the café, I’d never noticed it. I made a note to inspect it more closely on my next visit.
    “So what if it’s not a good business venture?” I said. “It’s the coolest café in town.”
    Dominic gazed around the little room and nodded. “It is a special building, isn’t it?” he said, grinning. “It’s actually kind of shocking that someone didn’t gut the place and turn it into a Starbucks.”
    I smiled, glancing at my watch. “Well,” I said, “look at me, keeping you like this. I better get back out there and brave the weather. I have an editor who needs a story.”
    “Where are you headed?”
    “To the
Herald
building on Alaskan Way,” I said. “If I can get there.”
    “Let me walk you,” he offered, a little self-consciously. “At least until you find a cab.”
    “I’d love that,” I said, and together we made our way out to the snowy streets.

    Despite the blizzard churning outside, the newsroom bustled as if the thermometer registered a balmy seventy degrees. It didn’t surprise me, though. Newspaper reporters rarely play hooky. Dedication is in their blood, which is why I wondered if I was really cut out for the job. So much had changed since last May, since…I wondered if I still had what it took.
    “There you are!” I turned to find Abby approaching my cubicle. The paper’s research editor, she had a sense of humor I’d warmed to immediately. On my very first day at the
Herald
, she had walked up to my desk after my first staff meeting, looked me in the eye, and said, “I like you. You don’t wear pointy shoes.” She then inhaled the air around my desk. “But do you smoke?”
    “No,” I said, a little stunned.
    “Good,” she replied. Her face told me I passed her friendship test. “I’m Abby.” At that moment, I knew we’d be instant friends.
    Abby had a knack for finding obscure facts about anything or anyone. The color of the former mayor’s daughter’s hair, for instance, or the soup served at a now-defunct restaurant on Marion Street in 1983—you name it, she could find it. She had come to my rescue more than a few times in the past few months when I was on deadline but lacked the material I needed to pull together a decent story. “Frank’s looking for you,” she said with a knowing smile.
    I rubbed my forehead. “Is he chewing on his pencil?”
    “Yes,” Abby replied. “Sound the alarms. I believe I saw pencil chewing.”
    “Great,” I said, shrinking lower into my chair to avoid being seen above my cubicle walls. Abby and I both knew not to cross Frank when he chewed his pencil. It signaled a fire-breathing editor on the loose.
    “Do you know what he wants?” Abby asked, sinking into my guest chair.
    I turned on my computer and watched as my monitor slowly lit up, illuminating a photo