Roasted chestnut latte? How can that be a bad thing?

Alexis Blake shuffled forward in line as two of the three customers ahead of her finished paying for their beverages. The only person left now in the chasm between her and coffee stepped up to place his order. A defensive linebacker–sized guy with espresso-colored hair curling over his collar. Alexis caught sight of the chalkboard boasting the Caffé Tlazo breakfast special of the day. Wild mushroom and crispy shallot quiche. Not her typical organic yogurt and blueberry quick-fix breakfast. And not what she expected from an unpretentious café in an unpretentious town along the western shore of Lake Michigan.

Algoma. She rehearsed it in her head for the sake of any sensitive locals: Al (as in Pal) GO-muh. The town might have shared Lake Michigan with Chicago more than two hundred miles to the south, but it had little else in common with the metropolis. Alexis hadn't seen much more of shore-hugging Algoma than what edged the road that brought her to town. The highway wove through farmland and orchards, slowing her down with interspersed villages clustered around a cheese factory, winery, or connection to the "Old Country."

She'd sat at the stop sign in Algoma too long where Highway 54 decided it was done, the highway creators as startled by the view as she was, apparently. The road teed with a wide-sweeping vista of Lake Michigan and the curious, skinny, red lighthouse at the tip of the breakwater. Turning south at the tee would have taken her toward Kewaunee by way of Alaska. The town, not the state. North led to the heart of her destination, home to the most important client she'd never met. Would soon meet. Right after Alexis signed the contract with the videographer.

After a flood of email exchanges, she was about to meet the local videographer who could either propel her career forward or ruin it.

While she waited for the linebacker to finish gabbing with the barista, she checked the clock on her phone. Fifteen minutes. She had fifteen minutes to place her order and get settled before George Langley arrived. Not much breathing space, but the drive from Green Bay, across the stubby base of Wisconsin's thumb, took longer than expected. As had picking out an outfit that said "confident but approachable." She unbuttoned her wool coat. Late October. Too warm for wool. Too cold for a lighter jacket.

Alexis scanned the customers already seated. As eclectic a mix as the artsy décor. Nobody matched the description of the George Langley she'd seen on the website, a man with silver hair, distinctive bushy eyebrows, and sparkling deep-water eyes.

The chatty guy in front of her turned after slipping a dollar into the tip jar and headed toward the small, mismatched tables scattered throughout the compact café. A room that looked as if it had lived an earlier life as a screened-in porch held additional tables and chairs — slate-topped wrought iron, patio-style.

No. No, no, no. The ex-football player chose the one table he couldn't have, the one by the windows in the southeast corner. The spot where she and George were destined to plot out the next eight weeks of her life, and maybe longer. Maybe the next eight, ten, twenty years, if the audition video went well. No. This guy could not have that table.

She corrected the details of her fumbled order — her fault — focused on the task at hand, added more to the tip jar, and launched herself toward the corner table.

"Excuse me, sir. Would you mind moving to another spot? I'm meeting someone here." She tapped the slate tabletop with her index finger. "Here."

"No can do."

Nice smile. Nice try. "I'd really appreciate it. I've never met the man before and ..."

"Blind date, huh? Breakfast blind date?" He nodded as if contemplating. "Uncommon, but not unwise."

A waitress set a blue-green and chocolate brown pottery mug in front of the irritant. The foamed milk on top sported a design that looked like a cross between a heart and a fern leaf. Classy touch.

"It's a business meeting," Alexis said, pulling her laptop case off her shoulder as if that would convince him.

"Me, too. Here. Right" — he tapped with his index finger — "here."

"Couldn't you just —" She surveyed the room. "There's an empty table in the other corner."

"Yes. I'm sure you'll be completely comfortable there for your 'business meeting.'"

Was it so hard to believe she was a professional? Well, on her way to becoming a professional? She removed her coat and slipped it over the back of the chair she wanted. The chair she intended to occupy. That ought to convince him. Her "confident yet approachable" black suit jacket and sweater paired with her favorite copper statement necklace ought to let him know she was there for serious discussion, not romance.

The linebacker leaned forward. "You connected with him on the Internet, didn't you?"

"Technically, yes. But not in the way you're thinking. He's —"

The man shrugged. "Sometimes it works out."

Was he trying to cheerlead for her dating life? Or volunteer to be her life coach?

"And sometimes," he said, leaning back, "you wind up with a man totally different from what you expected." He sipped his coffee drink and dabbed at the resulting foam mustache with the cloth napkin. It was still wrapped around his eating utensils.

Alexis sighed and glanced at the entrance. No one matching the face, age, or graying hair of the videographer had arrived yet. She still had time to —

"Why don't you wait here?" He pulled out the chair draped with her coat. "I don't have to move. You can still connect with what's-his-name. Win-win."

She stood her ground, weighing the idea.

The barista approached with her roasted chestnut latte. "Where do you want me to put this?"

"Miss Blake is joining me here." Moustache Man tapped the table. "Right here."

That smile. That "is he serious?" smile — wait. He knew her name? Oh. The tag on her laptop case. "Fine. Yes. I'm sitting."

She took a third chair rather than the one offered and wrapped her hands around her mug, seafoam green with a drizzle of coppery glaze near the lip. Handcrafted mugs. Interesting. If the coffee was as good as it smelled, she might find this a frequent stop during her term in Algoma. But first —

"You're not George Langley." Definitely not. But those eyes. She'd seen them before.

"He's my dad."

"That's who I'm meeting. I'm Alexis Blake. I'm hiring him to do a project for me." The dot-to-dot connecting lines swerved between points. "I don't have to tell you that, do I?" Not the smooth introduction she'd planned. "He's coming, isn't he?" So much hinges on this. Please tell me he'll be here any minute.

"No." He took another sip of his coffee and made room for the server to set down his meal order, and a duplicate of the plate in front of Alexis.

Quiche. The man eats quiche.

"My dad is unavoidably detained."

Oh, no.

"For the next three or four weeks. Maybe six."

"What? What are you saying?" The production schedule couldn't afford a three-day delay, much less three weeks.

He sat with his head bowed a moment, then said, "Blew out a disc in his back last night loading camera equipment into the van. We didn't know how bad it was until he called from the...