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SEVEN
If Brax hadn’t paused mid-opening the pantry door to announce his presence, he would have gotten a cast iron skillet to the face for the attempted rescue. But he had—“February, it’s Brax. I’m gonna open the door now. It’s all over. It’s safe to come out.”—and relief had flooded through her. And the tears had flooded out, impossibly more, as she’d fallen into his arms, the whole situation more than her tired, overworked, reality-stretched brain could comprehend.
Bounty hunters, secret identities, and hostages.
Knives, chair legs, and awls used as weapons instead of their intended purposes, in a restaurant at least.
Her restaurant. The scene of a Valentine’s Day massacre.
Whose life had she stepped into? Because it sure as fuck wasn’t her own, except that whole Valentine’s-Day-is-cursed thing. That was her life, no doubt, but the rest of it... Mind still blown, and not in a good way.
And despite Brax’s comforting words in the moment, it wasn’t all over. Jax was missing, so were Juan and Chloe, and across the foyer from where Feb sat in the more-than-she-could-afford-in-a-lifetime living room of the Madigan’s Pacific Heights mansion, Helena, Hawes, Chris, and Brax stood around the long wooden dining table. With them was the other hostage from the scene, the SFPD detective who’d introduced himself as Isaiah Fletcher, the current chief of police, a pair of FBI agents, a US attorney, and Mel. No one had been killed, remarkably, but the gunfire, missing persons, and destruction of property had warranted law enforcement at the scene. More than just Fletcher, as everyone called him, and Feb kept hearing the group mention the CIA, which by their tone, no one around the table was keen to involve.
Not Feb’s problem. She had a wrecked restaurant to sort out once she determined the full extent of the damage. From under the table, the skirmish had sounded like a nightmare—furniture splintering, glass breaking, plates shattering. When she’d emerged from the pantry, the battle was over, but the aftermath hadn’t sounded much better, the crunch of boots over debris haunting her brain like a bad dream. One without visuals, Brax having ushered her out the back door and into a waiting SUV without a look back. A not small part of her wanted to duck out right now and go see the destruction for herself. Surely the gathered group had more important things to worry about than her. Maybe they wouldn’t even notice her leave. Not leaving through UTT’s front door was gnawing at her gut.
But so was her worry over Jax, growing with each hour that passed. Clearly her bartender was more than a mixologist. Between the folks they associated with and the way they wielded that awl, Jax was probably better than the average person at taking care of themselves; that didn’t stop Feb from worrying. She was heartened that everyone else in this house seem equally concerned for them. But did Feb want any part of everyone else in this house? This was the family Jax had chosen and who’d chosen them—they were a package deal—but after tonight, Jax’s family scared Feb more than a little. Feb sensed, however, that they were the people most likely to bring Jax home safe and sound. Which kept Feb from running out the door.
For now.
“It’s February, right?”
Feb swung her gaze from the dining room to the brunet leaned against the kitchen doorjamb at the other end of the living room. Two mugs in hand, she wore a faded plaid robe, her hair in a messy braid over one shoulder, her features strikingly familiar—olive skin, dark eyes and hair, tall and gorgeous. Feb glanced again at the group in the dining room, Chris in particular.
“My brother,” the woman said, confirming what Feb suspected. She crossed the room and held out one of the mugs to Feb. “London Fog. My daughter says you’re a fan.”
More of the resemblance resolved. “Mia? From AB’s?”
“That’s the one,” the woman said with a smile as she lowered herself next to Feb. “I’m Celia. Mia’s mom and Helena’s wife.”
Feb whipped her gaze back to the dining room, trying and failing to make sense of the ice-cold, scary boss lady dressed in leather married to Queen Cozy sitting beside her, Celia’s clean, fresh face and easy smile warmth personified.
Celia chuckled. “Yeah, I wasn’t sure at first either when I met her over my brother’s hospital bed.”
Feb nearly spilled her drink. “I bet that’s a story.”
“You have no idea, but it worked out in the end, for both of us.”
With the added context, Feb sipped her drink and surveyed the living room again, seeing more of the family who lived here beyond just the initial impression of extreme wealth. A slew of framed family photos on the walls and mantel, stained-glass lamps that cast the room in soft, warm colors, cat beds by the fireplace, plushie toys, Legos, and picture books overflowing various bins around the room. “You two have more kids?”
“My son, Marco, who’s in high school. The toys are Lily’s, Holt and Brax’s daughter, for when she stays here. Holt has an office upstairs.” Celia lowered her voice, a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t tell my wife, but Lily’s the real queen of this castle.”
Feb giggled into her mug, the mental image of Helena bowing to whatever toddler ruled these parts hilarious. It was a much-needed release from the heaviness of the past however many hours since Feb’s life had veered into the absurd.
Celia smiled softly and patted her knee. “For what it’s worth, I hid out here after my garage was shot up.” Feb swung her wide-eyed gaze back to Celia. “Trial by fire, it’s the Madigan way, and you’re handling it well.” She withdrew her hand and rose. “They’re good people, and Jax is one of the best.”
Her parting words led Feb’s thoughts back to her missing... Bartender? Colleague? Friend? Something more? Jax had been an indispensable member of the UTT team the past three months—a fixture behind the bar and the key to a smoothly operating front of house. They were an easy fit in the kitchen too. Downright essential the past week, as they’d taken Feb’s fuck-you V-day wild hair and helped turn it into a menu Feb was proud of. And when Feb’s perfectionist streak had threatened to upend the entire V-day effort, Jax had held her together, giving her a couple hours’ peace to recenter herself. And last night, when V-day had gone off the rails, exactly like Feb had feared, Jax had worked with Hawes and the rest of their team to make sure her people were clear and safe. But before those alarms had started wailing... Feb and her team, Jax included, had been kicking ass, executing their V-day concept to perfection. Would all that hard work be lost now? Buried under a sea of headlines about the unexpected evacuation and melee that had ensued? No Render review and no stars by the front door, if there even still was one. No date with the alluring bartender—bounty hunter—who had captured her attention and had been thawing her heart, little by little each day.
Cursing, she set her mug on the floor between her feet, propped her elbows on her knees, and scrubbed her hands over her face. Went to rub her eyes, then, remembering her contacts were still in, stopping at the last second with more muttered fucks.
“That doesn’t sound or look good,” Brax said, his voice and footsteps echoing as he crossed the massive foyer to her.
She raked her fingers through her hair and clasped it with both hands behind her neck, stretching her aching muscles as she glanced up at the tall, spindly man. He looked as tired as Feb felt. “Do I want to know what my restaurant looks like?”
“Currently, no,” Brax said, perching on the arm of the couch closest to her. He ran a hand over his close-cropped hair, and Feb at once knew where Jax had picked up the habit. “But next time you see it, it’ll look just like it did at the start of the evening.”
“That’s what Jax said.”
“Trust us.”
