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“Is a cover,” Dylan said, reentering the chat.
“Right, I explained?—”
“Pappas is a cover,” Dylan said with a grimace. “So is his gig as a Render critic.”
Feb propped her elbows on the table, chin in her hands, holding up her very confused head. “I’m sorry, I haven’t had enough coffee yet for this conversation.”
Dylan pushed back from the table, the scrape of their chair over the cement floor loud in the otherwise quiet space. They circled the table to Feb’s side. “We’re bounty hunters,” they said. “That’s what we do at Redemption, and Pappas—the person he really is—is wanted by numerous parties.”
“Who is he?”
“It’s safer if you don’t know.”
She scrubbed her hands over her face, hoping the What-The-Fuck of this all would be gone when she dropped her arms. No such luck. The four intense strangers were all still there. And so was Dylan—no, Jax—beside her. Not a stress dream, then. Definitely not a fantasy. This was reality, which brought a whole bunch of stress-inducing complications. “So, what?” she said, glancing up at the person she thought she’d known. “UTT V-day is off now?”
“No,” Jax said. “We want you to go forward with the dinner.” They sounded as unenthused about that plan as Feb felt.
Melissa pitched harder. “We haven’t been able to pin down Pappas’s location until now. This is the best shot we’ve had at him. That anyone has.”
Feb slumped in her chair, gaze still on Jax standing beside her. “I should’ve never decided to do V-day.”
“Probably not,” they said with a wry half-smile. “But the Pappas thing is likely just bad timing. He’s a foodie. You’re a star. You and UTT were on his radar.”
Feb glanced around her dining room, imagining it later tonight, full of diners, servers, and chefs. “Will my people, my guests be safe?”
“My husband will be in the kitchen,” Chris spoke for the first time, his voice low and rumbly and with the local accent San Franciscans didn’t think they had. “Put him on prep. He’s good with a knife.” Helena elbowed him in the side, earning her a shit-eating grin before he turned his attention back to Feb. “He can blend in and protect that area.”
“One person?”
“Hawes will do the job.”
“The rest of us will be out here,” Helena said.
“But there are no resos left,” Feb said.
“We paid off your diners.”
Spluttering, Feb could hardly manage embarrassment. Panic crawled up her throat and strangled her voice. “How do you know they weren’t critics?”
“I know,” Jax said. “I hacked the critics’ identities and moved them to earlier seatings. Every real guest, including critics, will be cleared out of here by the time Pappas arrives.”
“You should also give your servers the night off,” Brax said. “For their safety.”
Feb opened her mouth to protest, but Jax anticipated her objection. “Tell them they’ll be paid,” they said, “but that the chefs will serve dishes tonight. You’ve done that before for special dinners.”
Feb scoffed. “And how are you going to keep my chefs safe? Or fool them into thinking you’re real diners?”
“We’ll be ready,” Melissa said with a smile. “We’re not only bounty hunters. Some of us like to eat too.”
Undeterred, the panic expanding around Feb was a tough balloon to pop. Eyes scrunched closed, she rubbed them with her balled fist and shook her head. “This is all just a bad dream.”
“’Fraid not, babe,” Jax said as they laid a hand on her shoulder. “Take a deep breath.” When Feb struggled, Jax squeezed her shoulder. “Try again, with me.”
When she’d managed three, Feb opened her eyes and asked the person beside her, “Is Pappas worth this? Really?” Jax, of all people, knew Feb was sticking her neck out with this meal, that she’d put the kitchen through hell the past week. And now Jax and these people were adding a whole other layer of complication—of actual danger—on top of an already stressful situation. “I can’t risk them,” she pleaded with Jax. “I can’t risk this.”
“I know how much this place, your people, your reputation mean to you.” They kneeled, hand on her bouncing knee. “Trust me.”
“How?” Feb croaked. “I don’t even know you.”
