Chapter 1: The Waiting Game
Emma sipped her latte, her eyes scanning the street outside the coffee shop window. The rhythmic tapping of rain against the glass mirrored her impatience. Fifteen minutes late wasn't a dealbreaker, she reminded herself. Simon, her online date, had seemed charming, polite, and funny in their chats. She had built up an image of him - dark-haired, kind-eyed, someone who would hold the door open and laugh at her worst jokes.
But as the minutes ticked by, her attention wandered. Outside, the city bustled with life, each passerby a character in her impromptu imagination.
A young woman in a red coat hurried by, clutching a canvas bag. Emma decided she was an artist, rushing to an exhibit she had promised herself she'd finish setting up before dawn.
An older man in a tweed jacket lingered at the crosswalk, peering at his phone. Was he texting a lost love? Or tracking down the best route to a long-forgotten friend's house?
Then there was the man who made her sit up straighter. He had sharp features, an impeccably tailored coat, and an air of quiet confidence. Emma's heart skipped - could it be Simon?
The man stepped inside the caf�, scanned the room, and smiled, but not at her. He greeted another woman and joined her at a corner table.
Emma sighed, glancing at her phone. No messages. Her mind churned out an alternative narrative: maybe Simon had stopped to help a stranded motorist. Or, more realistically, maybe he was standing her up.
Emma sipped her latte, her eyes scanning the street outside the coffee shop window. The rhythmic tapping of rain against the glass mirrored her impatience. Fifteen minutes late wasn't a dealbreaker, she reminded herself. Simon, her online date, had seemed charming, polite, and funny in their chats. She had built up an image of him - dark-haired, kind-eyed, someone who would hold the door open and laugh at her worst jokes.
But as the minutes ticked by, her attention wandered. Outside, the city bustled with life, each passerby a character in her impromptu imagination.
A young woman in a red coat hurried by, clutching a canvas bag. Emma decided she was an artist, rushing to an exhibit she had promised herself she'd finish setting up before dawn.
An older man in a tweed jacket lingered at the crosswalk, peering at his phone. Was he texting a lost love? Or tracking down the best route to a long-forgotten friend's house?
Then there was the man who made her sit up straighter. He had sharp features, an impeccably tailored coat, and an air of quiet confidence. Emma's heart skipped - could it be Simon?
The man stepped inside the caf�, scanned the room, and smiled, but not at her. He greeted another woman and joined her at a corner table.
Emma sighed, glancing at her phone. No messages. Her mind churned out an alternative narrative: maybe Simon had stopped to help a stranded motorist. Or, more realistically, maybe he was standing her up.
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