I TIPTOE WITH EXAGGERATED care into our dark bedroom. It's well past midnight; Vic's alarm is due to go off in less than 6 hours (ugh) and Angel's portable crib is parked in our room (again) while her father plays truth kamikaze with her other father in Montreal.

I peek in on her as I creep toward the bed. She is sleeping with that particular abandon only children are capable of — arms thrown back, mouth agape. I smile goofily down at her even though she's fast asleep. Boy, I would love another baby, I catch myself thinking. So cute. So snuggly.

Then I remember that I've been coated with maple syrup and nearly burned alive over the course of my short stint as a substitute parent this week.

Maybe not.

I climb quietly into my side of the bed, shivering against the shock of cold sheets. My husband's furnace-y warmth is emanating from the other side so I inch toward him with cold hands outstretched like he's an apres-ski bonfire. I try to slip myself into a spoon position without waking him but my cold legs make him jump. Since he's already disturbed, I take the opportunity to snake my icy hands around his torso.

"Get off," he mumbles in his half-sleep.

"But I'm cold," I whisper against his bare shoulder blade.

He physically shakes me off and pulls the duvet between us. "Quit it. I'm sleeping," he says before his breath immediately goes back to a regular, deep rhythm.

Rude, I think.

I lie in the dark with my cold hands shoved into my armpits and look up at the (slightly spinning) ceiling crack which is still there, and still an indication of nothing or something, and wonder if Meghan Markle ever gets the shove from Prince Harry for having cold limbs.

I'll bet not.

Unable to sleep and squiffy from too much wine, I reach over for my phone and send @JosstheBoss a reply.

WALKING THROUGH THE DOORS of the green logo-ed chain on the main street feels like a betrayal. I haven't been in one of these since our own cafe opened. I tell myself this is a fact-finding mission and step into the snaking lineup (social distancing not being enforced, I notice).

I can't believe how busy it is in here. Every table is taken and a literal crowd has formed at the barista's counter with people patiently waiting for their name to be called. Customers with phones flashing cut through the waiting crowd to retrieve drinks they didn't have to wait for thanks to the wonders of mobile ordering.

When it's finally my turn at the cash register, I greet the young man with a neighbourly hello.

I can't tell if he even smiles back under his mask, but he clearly has no time for pleasantries.

"What can we get you today?"

"Ummmm.... " I say, just now talking a long, slow look up at the menu behind his head.

He drums his fingers just lightly, frizzing with the anxious energy all teens have when they're not locked into their phone screen. I don't take it personally.

"I'll try a large vanilla latte, please," I say finally.

"We don't have large. Grandus or Venuti?"

"Pardon?"

He rolls his eyes and reaches for two empty cups. One gigantic and the other enormous.

"Oh," I say and point at the merely gigantic one.

"Do you have oat milk?" I say smugly, feeling certain that they won't be ready to cater to my edgy request.

"Of course. Two dollars extra."

Two dollars extra? I never charge extra for a special milk request. That's smart, actually. I make a mental note.

I shrug and he writes all over the gigantic cup.

"Name?"

"Alice," I respond begrudgingly. He writes Alyssa on the cup, but I don't bother correcting him.

"$7.95. Are you paying with the app?"

"I don't have the app. Can I pay cash?"

The woman behind me in line who is standing right at my shoulder says "Oh, you should get the app. You can get free drinks."

I squint at her and pull a $10 bill out defiantly.

The boy behind the cash says "We're not accepting cash due to covid. You can use your debit or credit."

"Why?" I ask because I'm in the mood to be difficult.

He just shrugs at me.

"Fine. Credit I guess." I take my card out of my wallet.

The woman behind me says "You know, you can use your phone as your credit card now."

I give her a chilly look as I wave my card over the reader and move away from her toward the waiting crowd.

Nearly 10 minutes later, someone shouts "Alyssa!" and I elbow my way through the circle of bodies to grab my gigantic paper-mufflered cup.

I turn to survey the tables. An older couple seems to be gathering up their belongings, so I swoop over to lay my claim. After a moment of hovering, it seems like they were just looking for a pen with which to begin a massive newspaper crossword. I look for another table. Nothing. Everyone seems firmly entrenched. The only available seats are at a table already occupied by a hipster and his MacBook. He has oversized headphones on and seems oblivious. I scoot over there with my cup, latte splashing out of the plastic mouth-hole.

"Hi, would you mind if I shared your table?" I say, standing over him. "I'm supposed to be meeting someone and there's nowhere else to—"

Without looking up, he gestures at the table.

"Okay, thanks," I say, but am greeted with stony silence.

Cool.

I sit with my back to the wall so I can see the door. I can't believe I suggested meeting here. I just thought it would be better here. Truthfully, I don't want Natalie even knowing about the conversation I'm about to have. So I chose one of Joss Carvil's places. It may give him home turf advantage, but it seems infinitely less fraught than the bar he originally suggested when I'd reached out.

My text had been curt and to the point.

His reply had been warm, charming and humorous, inviting me to have the discussion over dinner and drinks at the Royal Yacht Club members' lounge where, he promised, I wouldn't get accosted by a young Russian super fan. Maybe an old, pervy one, he said, but he could guarantee at least that they wouldn't have seen my TikTok.

I didn't want to risk anything that could be construed as eagerness, so I suggested this place instead.

Fair enough, he'd replied, and we agreed on a time.

Which he is now 15 minutes later than, I note as I consult my phone. I sip my latte which tastes like chemically sweetened dishwater. Yuck.

I decide to text Vivian, who is watching Angel for me so I can be here. Vivian's not the maternal type.

He's late. Of course. U ok with the little terror?>

Three typing ellipses appear, then her response:

<She threw a bowl of porridge at me. She's a beast. Oats down my bra.

Gah, sorry. I should have warned you. She does that. Feel free to use the laundry.>

<Already did. Vic showed me where everything is. Lent me a clean shirt. Need to go pick up clothes from my old place at some point.

I'm just about to reply when the air around the table changes. The subtle, masculine scent of wood shavings and cumin battles with the fake vanilla from my cup. I look up to see Mr. Awfully Good Looking himself standing above me, phone clamped to his ear, delivering a piercing stare to the hipster beside me.

MacBook guy must also have smelled the shift in the air because he looks up and takes Joss Carvil in.

"Sorry," Joss says either to the person on his phone or to the bearded hipster beside me. "I'm meeting with someone important."

The hipster looks lost for a moment, then decides to shut his laptop and gather his many cords, vacating the table without a word.

Joss wipes at the seat across from me and sits down.

"Okay," he says into his phone this time. "Good to hear from you."

I wait patiently while he wraps up his call, toying with sugar granules on the sticky table.

"I'm talking to you," he says.

I look up. "To me?"

"No, just book the suite. The one with the walk-out terrace. Over the ocean. Yes."

"What?" I say.

"Not you."

Okay, not me then. I take a sip of my awful drink and try not to grimace.

"That bad?" he says.

Now is he talking to me?

"Doesn't matter. I want the best." He says with an air of someone who always gets the best.

"Look, are you talking to me, or..." I whisper across the table.

He puts his finger up to shush me.

"Yes. One minute. Okay. No. Yes."

I'm mentally exhausted just trying to follow his circuitous conversation and decide that while he may be talking to me in some part, I'm not going to pay any more attention to it on the whole.

He slides his phone into his pocket.

"Sorry about that. Gran Venduti Hotel. Sicily. We're planning our big corporate retreat there next month, only the volcano seems to be rumbling again. Some nonsense about closing the cliff-side rooms as a precaution. I'm not taking a mountain view room, I can tell you that."

I shrug helplessly, never having been anywhere as fabulous as Sicily and having no capacity to understand the apparent devastation of having to endure a non-ocean view suite.

"Never mind," he says, smiling now. "Maybe by then, you'll be one of us. I'll get you a cliff-side room too. You'll see. Wonderful views."