Page 16 of Set to Love

“Do you want to find a place with real food?” I ask. “It’s mostly pastries here, and I don’t think that’ll hold you.”

Max’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he shakes his head. “No, this is fine. On long days, I tend to keep breakfast light. I’ll do a proper lunch between performances to refuel.”

I nod. That sounds exactly like my pre-match ritual. If I’m scheduled for a morning or early afternoon match, I stick to eggs or an omelet. Something with enough protein to sustain me without making me feel sluggish or heavy on the court.

“Let’s see, what looks good here?” he says.

“I usually go for the London Fog latte,” I say, pointing to the fancy script on the board. “But I’ve heard the lavender one is a close second.”

Okay, that’s a bit of a stretch. I don’t technically have a “usual” here. The six-dollar drinks at the Glass Arboretum don’t exactly compete with the free coffee at Lina’s. But if I did come here often, that’s absolutely what I’d order.

Max squints at the board, reading the description under his breath. “Earl Grey, cream, honey, and milk.” His expression brightens. “That sounds brilliant, actually. I’m a creature of habit. My go-to order is an Earl Grey or a black coffee. But if you’re recommending the London Fog, I’m in. I trust the resident expert.”

We place our orders, both settling on the same drinks. I add a ham and Swiss cheese breakfast sandwich while Max opts for avocado toast and a Greek yogurt bowl topped with berries and granola.

We grab our wooden number block and weave through the greenery to a small table tucked against the glass wall, where the sunlight filters through the ferns in jagged patterns.

“So, um . . .” I start, twisting my napkin between my fingers. “Have you done anything interesting since yesterday?”

Max leans back, a lopsided smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he studies me. “Not unless you count seeing you.”

Right. I saw him less than twelve hours ago. My eyes dart instantly to the barista behind the counter, suddenly fascinated by the steam wand on the espresso machine. I clear my throat, swallowing down a spike of nerves. “When’s your next day off?”

“Monday. And it can’t come soon enough.”

“Oh, do you have big plans?”

“Me? Not really.” He shakes his head. “Most of the cast will head to Disney or Universal.”

“But not you?”

“Nah. It’s too busy, too expensive, and a bit of a trek. Maybe if we were at the beginning of the tour, but I have a couple of ankle issues I’m trying to manage.” Max lets out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping. “We’re already down a handful of cast members this week, so it’s looking like I’ll be covering more tracks than usual. It’s the one drawback of having been a swing before I moved up to dance captain.”

If we’re using baseball analogies, a swing is basically the ultimate utility player—the theatrical equivalent of a guy who can pitch, catch, and play shortstop all in the same game. But add the “dance captain” title on top of that, and you’ve got a player-coach. Not only does Max have to know everyone’s part, but he’s also the one running rehearsals and keeping the ensemble in sync. If I were the director, I’d keep him wrapped in bubble wrap until closing night. He’s the real MVP.

“Ankles are the worst,” I blurt out.

Max’s eyebrows lift. “Tell me about it.”

“I’m lucky I have Zoe to keep an eye on mine. She’s a PT, though I’m pretty sure she was a drill sergeant in a past life.”

“That’s handy, having a physio as a best friend.”

“Totally.”

The server arrives with our orders, providing a much-needed buffer for me. For a few moments, we both go quiet.

“I think I read in your bio that you collect postcards?”

“I do.” His eyebrows lift. “I’m impressed you actually read my bio.”

Warmth prickles at my cheeks. “Maybe I did a little light research,” I admit.

“Should I be worried?”

“Only if you have something to hide.”

He laughs, shaking his head.