Being a server at the Double R Diner was fairly standard. Day to day, you saw the same people. Served the same coffee. Cooked the same cherry pie.

Until the bell above the door rang, and a new face waltz into the diner like she owned the place.

You’d never seen her before, but god, she was stunning. Long brown curls cascaded down her back, accentuating her cheekbones and wine-red lipstick. She was dressed quite professionally, donning a plaid skirt and a black sweater. Something about her was utterly alluring. Those big doe eyes held secrets, secrets that you wanted to learn.

She sauntered over to the barstool seat, crossing her legs daintily. When she leaned over to get your attention, she did so with a coy smirk and an air of confidence.

“Excuse me?” she murmured, deep and mysterious yet simultaneously polite. “Could I have a menu?”

You snapped into server mode, grabbing utensils and a menu. “Of course, ma’am,” you replied, putting on a bright smile.

“Oh, none of that ‘ma’am’ nonsense,” she said with a huffed laugh. “I’m Agent Denise Bryson. I’m with the FBI. Just call me Denise.”