Mouth full of food, head full of Jack Crawford's latest horror show, it takes you several minutes to realise that you're being observed. Not just observed. Watched. Stared at. Goddammit. Is it too much to ask to be able to eat fucking breakfast in peace?

It’s nine am on a mellow autumn morning. Dining alfresco at a high end Baltimore cafe. Another hour and you’ll be back in the thick of it. Jack Crawford’s growling insistence and the macabre puppet that was once a living person. An accusation in monochrome. And you’ll be back in the thick of it all over again.

You'd only wanted thirty minutes, with no one pestering. Or prodding. Or staring. What the hell? You direct a frown at the man sitting three tables away.

Taupe. Harmless. Camouflage..? Handsome. Monied. And still staring. Fuck!

Ire up, you push back your chair. Harmless handsome is about to get an earful.

There’s no sign of embarrassment on the stranger’s angular face as you stalk across the sun-warmed terrace. Not a trace of discomfort.

"Excuse me," you rasp out.

Heavy-lidded dark eyes make a slow assessment. Down and up again. "May I help you?" He rumbles.

Are you kidding? You feel you're cheeks heat with anger, while the gravelly-voiced stranger remains implacably calm. If anything, he seems almost amused. For a moment, your eyes meet, and you're stomach flips. Your gaze slides quickly away.

"Yes, actually," you inform the stranger’s left shoulder. "You can let me finish my damn breakfast without making me feel like I’m on show."

"I did not realise that I was being so indiscreet, Ms…"

There’s not a reason in the world for you to finish that sentence, but-"{user}."

A pause, and a large hand is thrust out in front of you.

"A pleasure, Ms {user}. My name is Hannibal Lecter." Hence the accent.

Manners instilled long ago by your Mamma have you reaching out to accept the handshake.

Firm grip, buffed nails. Definitely a professional.

"Not fond of eye contact, Ms. {user}?"

Taken aback, you jerk free.