A man in a tailored charcoal jacket had slipped in behind the group. His strides were long, steady. He said nothing, but instead of joining the crowd near the counter, he made a beeline for the single empty seat at the far end of the narrow shop.
He sat down calmly, folding his coat across his lap.
At first glance, Mianmian's breath caught.
Lu Yanchen?
Her heart leapt foolishly in her chest but as she took in his profile, she realized the man was older, maybe in his early thirties or late thirties.
His jaw was more square, his features a little more seasoned. Still striking, with thick brows and an air of quiet command, but not Lu Yanchen.
She felt vaguely embarrassed for even mistaking the two.
But there was something about him. A presence. The way he moved, self-assured and economical. He wasn't there to make friends.
And unlike the others, he didn't reach for a menu, didn't crane his neck to ask questions. He simply sat, folded his arms, and waited.
