When people ask how we met, I always smile, because it still feels like a scene from a romantic film.
It was a rainy Tuesday afternoon, and I had ducked into a quiet little café near my office. The place smelled of cinnamon and coffee beans. I ordered a latte and a slice of carrot cake, and while I waited at my table, a tall, kind-eyed man placed a cup in front of me.
“Here’s your cappuccino,” he said warmly.
I looked up, puzzled. “I ordered a latte.”
He glanced at the cup, laughed softly, and apologized. “Looks like I’ve stolen someone else’s drink — and probably their cake too.”
