e's a year or two older, and not from the island. It's not that he looks like a typical tourist, but he's not a native, either. He's got this rough edge about him, and he's wearing a black t-shirt and jeans in this heat.

His hands are still on my shoulders when he says, "Are you always this cheerful?"

I'm a second away from telling him he should try being cheery when he's just been dumped, but instead, I smile sweetly. "No, it's just your lucky day."

This seems to amuse him. He lets go of my shoulders and flashes a grin, revealing the dimple in his cheek. He's got one of those faces that is handsome, but not perfect. His left eyebrow is crooked, raised a little higher to give him a constant sarcastic look. While his sunkissed skin is smooth and relatively unblemished, he's got the tiniest white scar on his chin.

"I'm Jordan," he says, his voice deep and warm. "Nice to meet you."

I turn to the trash can, aim, then slam dunk the cola can like it's a basketball. When I turn back to face him, I fold my arms and squint in the sun. "Did you know it's nearly one hundred degrees today, Jordan?"

He furrows an eyebrow and looks at the sky. "I guess?"

"And you still decided to wear jeans?"

When he turns back to face me, his pale eyes look colorless in the glare of the sun. "I'm not really a shorts kind of guy."

"What," I say, "they don't wear shorts where you're from?"

"Chicago," he says, suppressing a smirk, "and they do, I just don't like them."

"You'd rather just get heatstroke."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Are you always this welcoming, Evvy?"

I wonder how he knows my name, then realize it's on my name badge. I clear my throat and flash my best smile–he's right, after all. "Welcome to New Wave island. How can I be of service, Jordan?"

He steps forward now, his gray eyes alight. "I'm glad you asked. I'm looking for Big Fish Cafe."

"You found it." I indicate to the small picket sign Kali hammered into the grass, which now reads, ig ish. "The sign has kind of worn off, but this is it."

Jordan looks around now, unable to hide his distaste. "Are you sure?"

Suddenly, I feel defensive. "I know it doesn't look like much, but it's actually pretty great inside. Come on." I lead him around to the front, showing him a seat by the window. "Is this your first time on the island?"

"Not exactly," he says, picking up the menu. "I used to visit my grandpa when I was younger, but it's been a while." He puts down the menu and looks out the window. The harbor looks incredible right now: the sun is angled in such a way that it reflects off the water, making it glisten. The yachts look impressive, fancy and white, and on the line of the horizon, where the water meets the sky, there are faint outlines of fishing boats.

I smile a little. Part of the reason I like the tourists is that I get to see this island through their eyes. It's easy to forget about the beauty around me when I'm caught up with life, but every so often, they force me to stop and take a look.

"I bet you don't get views like that in Chicago," I say, but the truth is, I don't actually know if there are views like this in Chicago–I have never left the island.

Jordan steals his eyes from the window to rest them on me. "Not quite." He glances at the window again. "I'm surprised this place hasn't been turned into a resort by now."

"It can't," I say, somewhat proudly. The best thing about this island is that there were laws put in place to protect what is here. High heels can't be worn so as not to damage the streets, and the buildings can't reach more than two stories so as not to ruin the view. "There are laws stopping people from trying to change it too much, though that doesn't stop some of the local piranhas from trying."

He nods but keeps his gaze on the window. Right now, a mix of locals and tourists are walking along the harbor. Some taper off into the locally owned stores, stopping for ice cream or groceries. But mostly, they gather on the benches and stare at the ocean, enjoying this sun-drenched island.

"Well, you're going to love this cafe," I say. Now that we're out of the glare of the sun, I see his hair isn't as light as I'd thought, it's more of a chocolate brown. "It was once owned by a renowned fisherman. A long time ago, before the new settlers came and took over the island, people used to come from afar just to eat his spicy conch fritters. This cafe has a long history on the island."

The legend goes that this cafe was one of the first on the island, ran by a fisherman called Bootleg Benji. He'd go out each morning on a fishing boat named Lola, and he'd hand catch the fish he served at the cafe, which made him famous with the locals.

"I know," Jordan says, lowering his menu. "I own it."

It's not often I'm rendered speechless, but right now, I am. Then his words sink in. I admit I tend to get carried away, and I'm already thinking about what this will mean: it will mean a new ceiling, for one. It'll mean that we can smell saltwater again instead of mold from the pipes. It'll mean being able to turn this place from a dumpster into a gem; maybe this isn't the worst day, after all.

I turn back to Jordan like he's the next Messiah. "I'm so glad you came," I say. "There are so many ideas I have about this place. I mean, first, there's the leak we need to fix and the draining system, but after that–"

"Easy there," Jordan says, and he puts his hands up to stop me.

I slow down, thinking maybe I'm talking a little too fast, but then I notice his eyes have cooled. He's about to speak, but his phone starts to ring and he pulls it from his pocket, sighing when he looks at the screen.

"I need to go," he says, getting to his feet. "I'll probably be back tomorrow." He looks at me now and flashes a grin that makes my heart flip. "Thanks for your help, Evvy."

I can't keep the smile off my face. "You're welcome." I get back to cleaning, but all I can think about now is how, finally, my dreams are about to come true. Jordan might not want to change the big things, like the menu or the decor, but it's the baby steps I'm focused on. Once the problems are fixed and the holes filled up, I can work on the other stuff.

Lina walks past me and nudges me again. "Think you've just found your rebound."

I give her a look, watching as Jordan makes his way down the street. "That's not my rebound," I say. "That's the guy who is going to save this place."

I hope.