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As she considered how much to confess, Feb sipped her new favorite rye, one Dylan had introduced her to a couple weeks back. They’d been stocking the smooth Sonoma Coast whiskey ever since, and each night when Feb started her evening rounds, Dylan would bring her a glass. “I am interested,” Feb admitted. “But they aren’t the reason I’m opening for Valentine’s Day. That’s me giving two middle fingers to the critics.”
Justin cackled. “That tracks.”
“I loved what you did with the solo reservations,” Amanda said.
“Should make it easy for that Render critic to go unnoticed, assuming he’s still in town.”
Feb bobbled her glass, nearly spilling her whiskey. “What Render critic?”
“Pretty sure we had one at Diamond last night,” Justin said. “Reso was under Jacob Pappas?” he asked Amanda.
She nodded. “Average height, not an average body.” She hummed her appreciation, and Justin tipped his mug in agreement. “Beefy, dark curls and darker eyes. Way too good-looking to be there alone.”
“We tried to take him home and the blush on that bronze skin... Mmm!” He shimmied in his seat. “Almost as good as this panna cotta.”
“I’ve seen a lot of food critics in my life, but never one that hot.”
Feb chuckled at her friends’ amusing back-and-forth, the two of them always on the hunt, but inside, her stomach was on a roller coaster. Justin must have noticed, his hand lightly covering hers on the table. “Hon, you okay?”
She shook her head. “Not really. I need to go see if Pappas is on the reservations list.” Standing, she kissed both their cheeks before tossing back the rest of her whiskey and hauling ass across the dining room to the bar.
Dylan saw her coming, their eyes wide with concern. “What’s wrong?”
“Is there a Jacob Pappas on the list for Valentine’s?”
They grabbed the backbar tablet out of its holder and, after a couple taps, glanced back up at Feb. “Nine o’clock. Last seating.”
She closed her eyes and tipped back her head, cursing the ceiling and whoever was up there giving her two middle fingers. “Fuck!”
Feb surveyed the kitchen one last time before flicking off the lights and making her way up the short, inclined breezeway to the dining room. While staff usually exited the back through the locker room, she’d learned a long time ago that if she didn’t do a back-to-front walk-through on her way out, she’d spend the night worried that the espresso machine in the breezeway station was still on, or that the beer taps behind the bar were dripping, or that the front door wasn’t locked. That her pride and joy, one way or another, would be destroyed by morning. She needed to lay eyes and hands on all the potential hazards on her way out or else she’d toss and turn all night and risk burning the place down herself the next day from exhaustion.
Espresso machine confirmed off, she continued on to the dining room—and stumbled to a stop at finding one of the barstools still occupied. Dylan sat angled toward the kitchen, their sticker-covered personal tablet propped up with a keyboard stand, Feb’s favorite bottle of rye and two glasses waiting beside it.
“You’re still here?” Feb said as she wove through the tables.
Dylan eyed her over the screen. “So are you.”
Feb tossed her coat and bag out of the way on another stool, then climbed onto the one beside Dylan. She flicked her gaze at their tablet. “What are you doing?”
“Researching Jacob Pappas, which is definitely an alias.”
Alias, not fake name. She’d noticed that about Dylan before; the precise way they spoke at certain times, usually about process or procedure, especially if it involved legal matters. Feb wondered if someone in their family was an attorney or in law enforcement. But that seemed too personal a question to ask without buildup, so she started with the safer, more immediate topic at hand. “That’s the way Render critics work,” she explained as she filled their glasses. “They can’t let anyone know who they are or what they do. I only happen to know Pappas may be one because of Amanda and Justin.”
Dylan closed the tablet and pushed it aside. “You seem calmer now.”
“We stick with the plan. It’s a good one.” She was still nervous—she’d been waiting for a Render review for years—but she was more confident than ever in her team and her concept. “I’d be a helluva lot more fucked if we’d planned the boring prix fixe.”
“Truth,” Dylan said with a raised glass.
Feb clinked hers against it, then took a healthy swallow of the smooth, coastal rye. She leaned back against the padded barstool, eyeing Dylan’s tablet again. “Who’s the sticker fiend?”
Dylan’s grin brimmed over with affection. “My niece,” they said as they traced the giant clover at the center. “Her other aunt started her on stickers last St. Patrick’s Day. It’s been hell or hilarious ever since—jury’s still out. Her dads’ devices are completely covered.”
“They’re here in the city? Your family?”
They circled their hand in the air. “Around the Bay Area.”
A local, then. As a transplant, Feb was always looking for a local’s favorites. Locals knew where the good shit was buried—down this or that alley, tucked in beside one or the other storefront. They had their own map, separate and apart from the one critics and media pushed. “What’s your favorite place to eat here?”
