"Sorry. Traffic issue." She didn't elaborate, and he didn't ask.
"Chef's special today is pan-seared trout with lemon caper sauce." He studied her face. "You feeling alright? You look flushed."
Ann nodded quickly. "I'm fine. Just rushed in."
The first customers arrived shortly after eleven-thirty, and Ann fell into her familiar routine—greeting, seating, taking orders, delivering food. But beneath her professional exterior, a countdown had begun. Each time she passed the wall clock, her eyes flicked to it, calculating the minutes until 1:15, the time Marcus had come in the day before.
By 12:30, the restaurant was half-full, the lunch crowd trickling in steadily. Ann found herself looking toward the door each time it opened, a small jolt of anticipation followed by disappointment when the customer who entered wasn't Marcus. She'd forgotten to bring her table seven's extra napkins, brought unsweetened tea to a customer who had specifically requested sweet, and nearly collidedwith Chef Cho as she backed through the kitchen door without looking.
"Eyes forward, Porter," Chef Cho snapped, though her expression held more curiosity than anger as she took in Ann's distracted state.
"Sorry, Chef," Ann murmured, heat rising to her face.
At 12:45, Ann found herself in the restroom, checking her appearance in the mirror. She reapplied her lip balm for the third time that day, smoothed her hair, and pinched her cheeks for color. The woman staring back at her had bright eyes and flushed cheeks—a woman waiting for something, or someone.
By 1:00, Ann's section had filled with the peak lunch crowd, but she handled her tables with mechanical efficiency, one part of her mind always aware of the clock, of the door. When Jonah Myers arrived at 1:05 and took his usual table in her section, she greeted him with a distracted smile, her eyes darting to the entrance over his shoulder.
"Everything okay, Ann?" Jonah asked, his brow furrowed with concern. "You seem a little off today."
"I'm fine," she said, the words automatic now. "Just busy. Coffee?"
As she poured his usual cup, her hand trembled slightly, sloshing a few drops onto the saucer. 1:10. Just five more minutes until Marcus's time. Would he be punctual? Would he request her section again? The anticipation was almost unbearable, a physical sensation like electricity beneath her skin.
At precisely 1:15, the front door opened. Ann's head snapped up, her heart leaping into her throat. A couple entered—an elderly man and woman, definitely not Marcus. Disappointment crashed through her with surprising force. She turned away, busying herself with refilling water glasses, trying to tamp down her irrational reaction.
The minutes ticked by—1:20, 1:25, 1:30. Each time the door opened, Ann's pulse spiked, only to plummet when the entering customer wasn't Marcus. By 1:45, a gnawing anxiety had taken root in her chest. He'd promised to return. Had this morning'sencounter changed his plans? Had she somehow disappointed him?
At 1:52, the door opened once more, and Ann didn't allow herself to look up immediately, having learned from her repeated disappointments. It was only when Miriam passed by, whispering, "Officer Dreamy just walked in," that Ann's head jerked up, her eyes finding Marcus's tall figure standing in the entrance, scanning the restaurant until his gaze landed on her.
Their eyes locked across the room, and the smile that spread across his face sent a surge of relief and pleasure through Ann's body so intense she had to grip the edge of a table to steady herself.
He had kept his promise after all.
Later that same night, the glow from Ann's laptop cast blue shadows across her face as she sat cross-legged on her couch, the room otherwise dark except for a small lamp in the corner. She'd changed into sweatpants and an old T-shirt while washing her work clothes so they would be ready for tomorrow. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before she typed: "Officer Marcus Hale, police department." The search felt simultaneously thrilling and forbidden, as if she were crossing some invisible line between curiosity and intrusion.
The search results populated her screen, and Ann leaned forward, scanning the links. The first was the official police department website. She clicked, navigating through the site until she found the "Our Officers" section. There he was, third row down: "Officer Marcus Hale, Patrol Division." The photograph was formal, clearly taken for professional purposes—Marcus in his dress uniform, cap tucked under one arm, expression serious and composed. So different from the slight smile he'd given her at the restaurant, the intensity in his eyes when he'd pulled her over this morning.
Ann studied the image, noting details she hadn't had time to observe in person. The strong line of his jaw, the subtle cleft in hischin, the precise way his uniform fit across his shoulders. Even in this formal photograph, there was something magnetic about him—an authority that transcended the uniform.
The biographical information beside his photo was sparse: five years with the department, community policing specialist, recipient of the department's Service Excellence award two years ago—nothing personal—no mention of family, hobbies, or life outside the force.
Or a wife.
Ann clicked back and continued scrolling through the search results. A link to a local newspaper article caught her eye: "Local Officers Support Children's Hospital Fundraiser." She clicked, finding a group photograph of several uniformed officers at what appeared to be a charity run. Marcus stood in the back row, his height making him visible despite his position. Unlike his official photograph, this one caught him mid-laugh, his face transformed by genuine amusement. Ann found herself smiling in response, as if his joy had reached across time and the digital divide to touch her.
The article mentioned him only in passing—"Officers Marcus Hale and Dennis Brower organized the department's team"—but it offered another glimpse into his life. He cared about sick children. He organized charity events. He had a real smile that transformed his face.
Next, Ann turned to social media. Facebook yielded nothing under his name—either he didn't have an account or, more likely, his privacy settings kept his profile hidden from searches. Instagram was similarly fruitless. She found a LinkedIn page that confirmed his position with the police department but offered no personal details or connections.
His digital footprint was minimal and controlled. In an age where most people's lives were sprawled across multiple platforms, Marcus Hale maintained an unusual degree of privacy. Ann wasn't sure whether to find this intriguing or concerning.
She tried another search: "Marcus Hale police department traffic stops." Nothing relevant appeared. "Marcus Hale restaurantregular." Again, nothing. She tried various combinations, seeking some thread that might connect him to her beyond their chance encounters, but the internet remained silent on the matter.
Ann closed her laptop and leaned back against the couch, her mind circling back to this morning's traffic stop. The coincidence felt too perfect—of all the officers who could have pulled her over, it had been him. Of all the moments she could have run a yellow light, it had happened when he was nearby.
Unless it hadn't been a coincidence at all.
The thought that had excited her earlier now took on a different shade in the darkness of her apartment. Had he been following her? Waiting for her to make a minor traffic violation so he could engineer another meeting before their scheduled encounter at the restaurant?
