Luc settled on clinging to the anger, and he let his scowl show it. The line between classy television reporter and stalker-paparazzi was proving very murky indeed.
Luc intended to ignore her. To walk right past her to a different table, to pretend she hadn’t just crossed a very serious boundary of harassing him outside of work.
And he started to do just that.
Right up until the moment he found himself sliding into the seat across from her.
“Sims.”
“Officer.”
Her eyes dropped briefly to his chest, and she blinked a little in surprise. “You’re not in uniform.”
“If you had a uniform, you wouldn’t wear it on your day off either.”
She tilted her head. “What makes you think I don’t have a uniform?”
There was something in her voice that made Luc give her a second look, taking his eyes off her only long enough to give Helen a smile and a wink in exchange for the coffee she poured him without asking.
Helen winked back, sliding two menus on the table, more for Ava’s sake than his.
Luc didn’t order the same thing every time (he wasn’t that OCD), but he did know the menu by heart.
Ava smiled in thanks as Helen refilled her coffee mug as well, and Luc noted that this was one of her real smiles.
The type of smile that made her eyes light and nose crinkle just a little. It was a smile he’d seen her give to about everyone but him.
Damn it. He wanted that smile.
“One of your groupies?” Ava asked, nodding in the direction of Helen after she’d moved on to another table.
“Something like that,” Luc said.
Helen was special to the Morettis. Was special to Luc, especially these days. The elderly waitress was one of the only people who’d always treated Luc like a person. Not a cop. He suspected Helen was the biggest reason the Darby Diner continued to be the Morettis’ favorite Sunday brunch place. Not because the food was outstanding, or the décor was comfortable, or even because it was habit.
But because Helen Carter understood that despite the legacy, the Morettis were a family first. Cops second.
“So your uniform,” Luc continued, not wanting to explain any of this to Sims. “Is this it?”
Luc used his eyes to gesture rather than his hand.
She was wearing another button-down blouse, this one a lime green that made her eyes look almost hazel.
Don’t notice her eyes, dude.
He couldn’t see her bottom half, but considering her makeup was flawless, her hair perfectly styled, he figured it was the same tailored dress pants she’d been wearing for the past week.
High heels, almost for sure.
Damn it, now he was hungry. And not for breakfast.
“Let’s just say it’s not my day off,” she said, her eyes dropping to her coffee mug.
In spite of himself, Luc was intrigued. “What do you wear on your days off? Be descriptive.”
Right down to the bra. Or tell me you’re wearing no bra.
Yeah, actually, make that definitely on the no bra.
Ava cupped her hands around her mug, leaning toward him. “Hey, here’s an idea. How about you become a reporter, then you get to ask the questions.”
He leaned forward. “And by become a reporter, I assume you mean put on a lot of makeup and ask prying questions?”
Her head snapped back a little, and although her eyes moved down to her coffee before he could read her expression, he felt an instant surge of regret.
Just because he was frustrated didn’t mean he needed to be an ass. She was just doing her job. It occurred to him that maybe he was every bit as much in her way as she was in his.
For a second, the old Luc—the one that was good with people—returned, and he touched her hand.
“Hey,” he said softly.
Her eyes lifted, but the wariness remained.
Damn it.
“Sorry,” he said bluntly. “I may not love your career, but belittling it’s a dick move.”
To Luc’s surprise, she merely nodded in acceptance, not making a huffy drama out of it. Instead she reached for one of the vinyl-covered menus.
“What’s good here?”