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They chuckled. “I slept, usually a couple hours each morning before Sugar and Spice woke me.”
She arched a brow.
“Ariel’s cats. I think you’d like him. Don’t tell Hawes, but he’d probably make a better sous-chef.”
“You know they have a name for this? It’s called Stockholm syndrome.”
“Except I don’t think Ariel is actually a bad guy.”
Seeming to accept their rendezvous was over, Feb sighed and scooted back on the stool. “We sorted that on our end too.”
“Our end?” Jax said, leaning a hip against the nook’s counter.
“I’ll be fine tonight,” Feb said, dodging again. She was picking up Madigan maneuvers fast. “Hawes is back here.”
“So is Chloe.”
“Declawed,” she said with a hiss, hands held up, fingers bent. “Helena made sure of that.”
Jax could only imagine and chuckled again. “Would’ve liked to see that.”
“Highlight of my year, and it’s only February.”
Jax shot her a side-eye, and Feb’s own eye roll was epic, the both of them laughing, until Feb snuck an arm around their waist and drew them back in for a softer, less hurried brush of the lips. “Softball, I know.”
Jax smirked against her lips. “I’d like to give you another highlight after we’re done tonight if your date invite is still open.”
Feb hesitated, slow to draw back and lift her gaze to Jax, and when she did, the earlier determination was gone, clouded with uncertainty that twisted Jax’s gut. “I?—”
“It’s showtime,” Hawes said, leaning his head into the nook.
Given the out, Feb slid off the stool and left her sentence—Jax’s future—hanging.
Unlike Valentine’s Day when it was only one person per table at UTT, tonight was supposed to be a regular Friday service with tables full of various size groups. Or at least that was how it needed to appear to whomever walked through that door looking for Ariel Camino. From their position behind the bar, Jax thought, So far, so good. From outside the plate glass window, it would look like a packed house, full of lively diners enjoying their drinks and food. Which most of the diners were, even if they were operatives, hunters, and LEOs, most in disguise in case tonight’s visitor had had eyes on V-day or might recognize any of the “guests.” In any event, whoever their target was would be outnumbered the minute they stepped through the door.
Feb, one of the few people not in disguise, shuttled dishes between the kitchen and dining room. At the moment, she stood beside the table with one of Jax’s Redemption colleagues, Lette, and Lette’s roommate, Special Agent Lauren Hall, aka Hacker Barbie in Holt’s book of code names, and she’d played into it tonight, absolutely owning the blond wig she wore. Feb had just delivered their mains and was chatting them up like she normally would on her evening rounds.
And Jax would normally be bringing her a shot of whiskey right now. That was the image they were supposed to project tonight—business as usual—but what did Feb want, in this moment and after service was over? Jax wasn’t sure about the latter after Feb’s earlier hesitation in the chef’s nook, but as to the former, Jax had worked with Feb long enough to know she thrived on routine. And she’d need that steadiness tonight. They grabbed Feb’s favorite rye off the backbar and a tumbler.
Beside them, Avery, Helena’s second in command, was mixing up cocktails for Mel and Chris. “She’ll be fine,” Avery said with a jut of her chin toward Feb. “She handles a knife every day. Helena just had to show her how to chuck it.” She capped two shakers, shook them, then, with a smooth flick of her index fingers, ditched the lids and poured the mixtures into the prepared glasses—a paloma for Mel, a Kentucky sidecar for Chris.
“Helena teach you how to sling drinks too?”
“Nah, that’s just what happens when we have to fend for ourselves.” A wink tossed over her shoulder, she picked up the tray of cocktails and sashayed out from behind the bar.
With her wild halo of curls pulled into a severe bun and her leather toned down in a less deadly, more sexy dress version, Avery looked more like a runway model tonight than an assassin, one who Jax knew had had an even rougher upbringing than them. But like with them, the Madigans had taken Avery in and made her family. And their family kept growing, Perri’s and Talley’s too. Maybe a Winters somewhere down the line, Jax idly—hopefully—thought as they grabbed two bottles of Gravity Stout and a pair of frosty pilsners from the under-bar fridge. They set them on the tray with Feb’s whiskey, then headed out from behind the bar.
They were halfway to Lauren and Lette’s table when Holt radioed, “Ariel two blocks out.”
Definitely a good time to put Feb at ease. They slid in next to the chef at the side of the table. “Everyone good here?”
“You’re gonna bring Feb around after this is all over, yeah?” Lette asked as Jax set their glasses and beer bottles on the table. “She can hang.”
“I normally tell her to butt out,” Lauren said with a flick of her hot pink nails. She leaned toward Feb and in a conspiratorial whisper added, “Lette tends to mother hen. Runs in the family. Her brothers are the worst. But in this case, I agree. You’re cool. Please come hang with us.”
Feb laughed, charmed, as most folks were by the two best friends, Lette’s sweetness a perfect counter to Lauren’s snark, but when Feb’s gaze caught Jax’s over the whiskey glass, they heated like they had in the nook, giving Jax more hope. Maybe her hesitation had been about something else.
Hope and answers, though, would have to wait, a gust of the wintery-for-San-Francisco air heralding Ariel’s entrance. Jax tucked the drink tray under their arm and rested their hand at the small of Feb’s back, giving it the double-tap signal for time to go.
