Page 19

Petra smirks, not missing a beat. “Don’t get cocky, kid. I’m immune to pretty faces in here.”

She pops a cherry into a glass, sets it down in front of the bourbon drinker at the end of the bar, and gives me a little wink on the way back.

“You should try that line on someone who isn’t paid to flirt back,” she teases, grabbing a rag to wipe the counter in front of me.

“Damn,” I say, placing a hand over my heart. “Harsh. I was hoping for a little ego boost.”

She leans in closer, dropping her voice so the bourbon guy won’t hear. “You want an ego boost? I can think of one person who would⁠—”

She breaks off as a body slides up beside mine, and Ash, Rowan’s mate, claims the neighboring stool. I keep my reaction buried, offering him a distracted smile before returning to my “work.”

“Hey, sweetie.” Petra slides down the bar to him. “What can I get you?”

“A Shirley Temple, please,” he murmurs.

I peek at him from the corner of my eye. Ash Halloway. The name is burned into my memory from half a dozen surveillance files. Omega. Twenty-three. Legal guardian to a minor sister.

He’s the one whose life intersected with Daniel Humphry, the employee who vanished with our money laundering records. The one whose sister we tried to leverage for information, never suspecting his ties to Blue Note, or that he’d end up mated to their leader.

Every worry my family has about the Blue Note Crew circles back to him, and I have to pretend I don’t recognize him.

He turns toward me, taking in my laptop. “Here to work? Or here to avoid work?”

“Little of both,” I say, letting the corners of my mouth lift in welcome.

Petra sets a tall glass down in front of him, the pink, fizzing liquid packed with maraschino cherries. “You’re going to give yourself diabetes with these.”

He flips her off, but in a joking way.

Ash takes a long pull from his straw before turning back to me. “You’re new. Most people don’t come this early unless they’re regulars.”

I turn to him. “I’m aiming to become a regular. I recently moved here for work.” I thrust out my hand. “I’m Lee.”

“Ash. Welcome to the neighborhood, Lee.” He shakes, his grip firm, and peers at my screen. “What do you do for a living?”

I turn the laptop toward him. “I’m a freelance graphic designer, so I work out of my apartment. It’s smaller than my last place, so it’s a bit claustrophobic. The Blue Note has the right background noise.”

Ash sizes me up. “You’re the one who gave Reef some tips on the new logo, right?”

“He already had a lot of good stuff to work from,” I deflect, aiming for modesty. “I only made some suggestions.”

“It was good.” He arches a brow. “Are you open for new clients?”

My fingers still. If I say yes, it could be an in with the Blue Note Crew. I don’t want to appear too eager, though. But wouldn’t a freelance employee jump at the chance for more work?

Before I can respond, the door opens, and a man steps inside, pausing a beat on the threshold while he waits for his vision to adjust.

He’s dressed with the unmistakable air of a man who owns one blazer and saves it for every important occasion, paired with dark slacks polished shiny at the knees from wear and a pale blue shirt whose damp collar has started to collapse.

The lines around his eyes and gray in his thinning hair place him in his mid-forties at least. He carries a cheap black folder under one arm, his left hand gripping the edge so hard the cardboard corner is starting to bend.

Petra moves down the counter and pours three fingers of house vodka into a lowball as the man approaches.

He remains standing, scanning the space. “Is Rowan in?”

“Not at this hour,” Petra says, but not in a discouraging way.

The man’s shoulders slump. “Can you let him know Greg from Cornerstone Kids Center came by?”