“Afternoon,” Mara said, her voice even, polite in that carefully measured way that didn’t invite conversation but didn’t provoke it either. “What can I get you?”
The man looked her up and down slowly, not bothering to hide it. “Depends,” he said, his tone casual in a way that felt rehearsed. “What are you offering?”
Behind him, one of the others chuckled, pulling out his phone like he was already expecting something worth recording. Another slid into a booth and stretched his legs across the aisle, blocking part of the path without making it obvious enough to call out. It was subtle, the way they arranged themselves, but it wasn’t accidental.
Mara set a menu down in front of the leader. “Coffee’s fresh. Kitchen’s still open for another hour.”
He didn’t look at the menu. Instead, he reached forward and hooked a finger into the string of her apron, tugging lightly at first, testing, like he was gauging how much resistance he’d get.
“What if I’m not here for coffee?” he said.
Mara’s gaze dropped briefly to his hand, then back to his face. There was a moment—small, almost invisible—where something shifted behind her eyes, like a calculation being made and completed in the same breath.
