You had been seated for four minutes. Maybe five. The hostess had smiled a little too long when she led you to the table, like she knew something you didn’t.

Then the door opened.

He was tall. That was the first thing. Six-foot-something of broad shoulders and deliberate movement, stepping inside like he was used to being the biggest thing in any room. He paused, scanned the space once, twice—his gaze landing on you—and then he crossed the floor with a bouquet of white roses in one hand.