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Reef falls into the wheeled chair behind the desk, sets his drink on the desk, and unlocks the computer. “I’ve lost too many laptops, so Rowan has me use the desktop for company work.”

A brief search of the desk locates the mouse, and he opens a folder labeled BNLX23.

“Here it is,” he says, his shoulders hunching. “It’s still in the early phase.”

I grab a second chair to sit and lean in. “Let’s see it.”

He launches into a brisk walkthrough. The new logotype, the reworked color palette, and the balance of grit versus polish.

He pulls up Instagram feeds of comparable venues, then the Blue Note’s old flyers, talking fast, the words tumbling out in a rush.

“They want to keep the name, but Rowan wants to kill the blues note literalism. Like, yes, there’s a saxophone in the logo, but we’re more than a jazz bar.”

Lucky for Reef, my cover story actually leaned on something I know how to do. “What’s the hook for the campaign?”

He switches to a mood board pinned with sepia-tinted band shots, slick candid photos of the staff, candid shots of couples in the booths, and silhouettes on the dance floor.

“They want it to look as if the place has always been here. Not a pop-up, trendy club.”

He clicks again, and an image pops up of a bear and crown, distorted almost beyond recognition behind layers of blue paint.

It’s a common regional symbol, but the specific styling is a near-perfect match to one of ours. “Where’d you get that?”

He grimaces. “Rowan likes to remind people that the Blue Note is about tradition. I sampled it from a city hall mural, but I think the bear will creep people out.”

I set my laptop on the desk beside his keyboard, dig out my own stylus from my bag, and open up a blank canvas. Going to the internet, I pull a handful of images to add to the file.

Reef leans closer, and his sweet Omega pheromones, muted by suppressants, slip into my lungs.

Growing up in a family of Alphas, I haven’t spent much time around Omegas. Do I smell this sweet, too?

I shake off the thought and refocus. “What if, instead of the family crest angle, you used a heron and worked in a microphone?”

As I talk, I do a rough sketch using my image references. “The heron brings to mind the word blue, while also giving a sense of elegance. It’s a classic, and it has a good meaning behind it.”

Reef shoves his glasses up his nose. “What meaning?”

“Herons symbolize patience, accuracy, and striking only when necessary.”

Realizing I might be giving too much away about my knowledge of what the Blue Note Crew does, I hurry to add, “You know, for those times when people still throw beer bottles at the stage and Orien has to step in.”

Reef laughs, delighted. “That’s not bad.” He pulls out his phone. “Can I take a pic of it to show Rowan? He’s the one who owns the lounge.”

“I can email it to you, if you want.”

“Yes!” He snatches up a notepad and starts scribbling down his contact details.

Halfway through the line, the pen drags to a halt, and his brow furrows while he studies the ink on the paper.

Is he remembering that he got a random guy’s phone number earlier? But after a moment, he shakes his head and finishes writing before turning the pad toward me.

I save everything and shoot it over to him.

In his excitement to check for the file, his arm bumps his drink and sends it skidding onto the keyboard tray. The glass tips, spilling vodka.

“Shit—sorry, don’t touch anything,” Reef says, jumping up. “I’ll grab towels. It’s fine.”

He races out, his footsteps fading down the hallway. The silence he leaves behind is a ticking clock.