The first sign that Mira's peaceful little town was about to become a disaster was the coffee machine.
It exploded.
Not in a dramatic, building-shaking way.
In a humiliating, sputtering, hiss-and-splatter way that sent lukewarm foam across the counter and directly onto the front of a very tall, very smug, very unfamiliar stranger.
The café went silent.
Mira froze with the milk jug in her hand.
The stranger blinked down at his soaked shirt.
Then up at her.
Then smiled.
"Well," he said, "this is one way to say hello."
Mira dropped the jug.
"I, I'm so sorry, " she began, then stopped. "Actually, no. I'm not. That machine has been threatening me all morning."
The stranger laughed.
Not a polite laugh.
A real one.
The kind that made people in the café glance over.
"I'm Rowan," he said, offering his hand like they were meeting at a party instead of a foam crime scene. "And I think your coffee machine just declared war on me."
Mira shook his hand automatically.
