The digital clock's red numbers accused her of indulgence: 9:17 a.m. She wasn't due at Granger's until eleven, but Ann had planned to arrive early, to ensure everything in her section would be perfect when—if—Marcus appeared. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her toes curling against the cool hardwood as images from yesterday replayed in her mind—his steady gaze tracking her movements, the way his presence had filled her awareness even when she wasn't looking directly at him, the deliberate way he'd promised to return.
Ann stood before her closet, suddenly critical of options she'dnever questioned before. The standard black pants and white button-down that comprised Granger's unofficial uniform seemed insufficient now. She pulled out three nearly identical pairs of black pants, laying them across her unmade bed, scrutinizing each for subtle differences. The first was slightly faded at the knees. The second had a loose thread at the hem. The third—her newest pair, worn only a handful of times—hugged her hips more closely than the others. She selected these, holding them against herself as she studied her reflection in the full-length mirror attached to her closet door.
"This is ridiculous," she whispered to herself, the same words she'd spoken to her reflection in the rearview mirror while driving home the night before. But she didn't put the pants back. Instead, she spent another fifteen minutes selecting a white shirt—choosing one that was slightly more fitted than her usual preference—and her most comfortable black flats.
In the bathroom, Ann leaned close to the mirror, examining her face with unusual scrutiny. She opened her makeup bag—typically only used for special occasions—and began applying foundation with careful strokes. Her hand trembled slightly as she lined her eyes, a thin smudge of brown rather than her usual bare lids. Mascara next, two coats, then a tinted lip balm that enhanced her natural color without looking obvious. Professional enough for work but more polished than her everyday appearance.
Her hair, typically pulled back in a simple ponytail, received similar attention. She spent precious minutes with a round brush and blow dryer, coaxing it into soft waves that framed her face. When she finally stepped back to assess the full effect, the woman in the mirror looked like a more vivid version of herself—still Ann, but Ann with the contrast turned up, the details sharpened.
The clock read 10:27 when she finally grabbed her purse and keys. She was cutting it close now, especially with the morning traffic. Tom expected servers fifteen minutes before their shift to review the daily specials and prep their sections. Being late wasn't an option, not when she needed everything to go perfectly today.
Ann's car started with its familiar rattle. As she pulled out of her apartment complex, she found herself humming happily.
Traffic moved sluggishly, every red light seeming to last an eternity. Ann drummed her fingers against the steering wheel, checking her watch, calculating minutes. She was cutting it too close. Ten minutes to get across town. She'd need to be lucky with the lights.
When the traffic signal ahead turned yellow, Ann made a split-second decision. She pressed harder on the accelerator, her car surging forward through the intersection just as the light shifted to red. A flash of guilt mixed with triumph as she cleared it—technically legal, but pushing the boundaries of safety.
The brief satisfaction evaporated as red and blue lights flared in her rearview mirror. Ann's stomach dropped, her mouth suddenly dry. She eased her car toward the curb, heart hammering against her ribs as the patrol car pulled in behind her. This couldn't be happening, not today of all days, when she was already running late and needed everything to be perfect for when Marcus arrived at the restaurant.
Through her side mirror, she watched a uniformed figure emerge from the patrol car. The morning sun caught on something metallic—a badge pinned to a broad chest. Ann's breath stopped in her throat as recognition dawned. Even at this distance, the officer's posture and build were unmistakable.
Marcus.
Ann's hands gripped the steering wheel, her palms suddenly slick with sweat. She watched his methodical approach in the mirror, each step bringing him closer, his face becoming clearer. The same intense eyes that had tracked her movements across the restaurant yesterday now focused solely on her vehicle. His expression was neutral, professional—the face of a police officer performing a routine traffic stop, not the man who had watched her with such interest, who had promised to return to see her.
She fumbled with the window control, her finger slipping off the button twice before the glass finally lowered. The morning air rushed in, carrying with it the subtle scent of his cologne—thatsame woodsy clean smell she'd noticed yesterday when he'd sat at her table.
"License and registration, please," Marcus said, his voice revealing no recognition, no special acknowledgment.
Ann swallowed hard, her throat clicking audibly in the silence. "Officer Hale," she managed, hating how breathy her voice sounded. "I—I didn't realize it was you."
His expression shifted then, a slight softening around the eyes as he leaned down to get a better look at her face. The sunlight caught on his badge, sending fractured light across the interior of her car.
"I recognize you from Tom Granger’s restaurant, don't I?" he said, his tone warming a fraction, though his posture remained professional. "Ann, right?"
She nodded, her chest tight with a mixture of relief and anxiety. "Yes. I-I'm sorry about the light. I'm running late for my shift."
"I still need to see your license and registration," he reminded her, the authority in his voice unmistakable despite the hint of familiarity.
"Of course," Ann said, turning to reach for her purse on the passenger seat. Her hand shook visibly as she rummaged for her wallet, papers spilling out in her haste. She extracted her license, then opened the glove compartment for her registration and insurance card. The small cards slipped through her trembling fingers not once but twice, falling to the floor mat before she finally secured them and handed everything over.
Marcus took the documents, his eyes scanning them briefly before returning to her face. Ann couldn't help but notice the way his uniform stretched across his shoulders, how the fabric looked freshly pressed, the neat line of buttons drawing her eye down the center of his chest. His utility belt held the equipment of his profession—gun, handcuffs, radio—each item a reminder of his authority, his power.
"You seem nervous," he observed, his voice lower now.
"I hate being late," Ann said, which was true, though it wasn't the primary reason her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her fingertips. "Tom—my boss—he's strict about punctuality."
Marcus nodded, his eyes lingering on her face. Ann became acutely aware of her makeup, the extra care she'd taken with her appearance this morning. Had he noticed? Could he tell it was for him?
"You changed your hair," he said, confirming that he had indeed noticed. The comment wasn't professional, wasn't related to her traffic violation, but Ann felt a surge of pleasure at his observation.
"Just… trying something different," she said, her fingers automatically reaching up to tuck a strand behind her ear, a gesture he'd seen her make repeatedly during her shift yesterday.
Marcus's gaze followed the movement, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth before his expression returned to professional neutrality. "Let me run these," he said, holding up her documents. "Sit tight."
As he walked back to his patrol car, Ann exhaled shakily, suddenly aware she'd been holding her breath. She watched him in her side mirror—the crisp lines of his uniform, the confident way he moved. This couldn't be a coincidence—being pulled over by Marcus of all people, on the very morning after he'd promised to see her again. The universe didn't work that way.
Unless he had been looking for her.
