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“Too much whiskey.” And if she didn’t get off this stool right now, she was going to lean the rest of the way forward and break her own rule about smooching colleagues from the kitchen. She spun the opposite direction and vaulted off the stool. Teetering, she stayed upright solely by the grace of Dylan’s hands around her biceps, their warm, compact body pressed against her back, their hot breath floating into the valley behind Feb’s ear.
“Let me call you a car.”
Feb’s shiver creeped into her words. “I can walk.”
She was sure Dylan noticed, the bartender skating their hands down Feb’s arms, goose bumps lifting in their wake. “We can’t let anything happen to you before the Render critic gets here.” They lifted her arms from behind and braced them on the back of the adjacent stool. “You stay here. I’ll finish locking up and get the rest of the lights.” They made the lap around the dining room Feb hadn’t finished earlier, flicking off lights as they went, casting more and more of the space in shadow. They cut through it with a grace and efficiency of movement Feb only seemed to have in the kitchen. Outside of it, she was the same nerdy kid who’d tripped up the bleachers during her third-grade choir recital.
Dylan ducked beneath the bar flip and strolled the length of the bar, checking all the taps were off and the top-shelf whiskey case secure.
The bar.
Dylan wasn’t really in the kitchen. It wouldn’t really be breaking any of Feb’s rules to taste those wine-red lips and feel Dylan’s body more firmly pressed against hers.
“Car should be here shortly,” Dylan said as they emerged from behind the other end of the bar, near where Feb waited. And waited, holding her tongue, letting the silence draw Dylan closer. “Feb, you okay?”
“There’s another reason I haven’t gone looking for a relationship lately.” She shifted her weight from the stool to the person in front of her, looping her arms over their shoulders and resting her cheek against theirs, whispering her confession in Dylan’s ear. “I haven’t wanted to since you walked through my door.”
TWO
Feb’s lips were right there for the taking. A little chapped, slightly parted, terribly tempting. But acting on that temptation would be wrong. Not while Feb was drunk and not while she had no idea who she was really kissing.
Not Dylan Jacks, the edgy yet welcoming bartender who made sure everyone’s glass at Under the Table was filled. That person was a very convincing character thanks to Helena Madigan’s closet and the tireless coaching of undercover professionals.
No, the person in front of Feb, the one acting under Dylan Jacks’s name and wearing Helena’s leather, was Jax Dillon, the hacker who’d left behind a promising career in cyber law enforcement so they could chase bounties and contract targets with their family. More of the former these days, but still worlds away from Dylan Jacks.
Two very different people, both of whom wanted to kiss February Winters desperately. Jax’s mouth was dry, their heart racing, their fingers itching to trail a path up Feb’s back and into the long brown waves that were falling out of her topknot. This close, this tempted, they were struggling to hold on to their last thread of good intentions.
Until a familiar car horn blared, a life preserver tossed to a drowning person. Thank fuck.
Feb blew a raspberry as if the driver of the car could hear her. All it served to do was tickle Jax’s neck and make them want to pull Feb closer, to feel her lips pressed firmly against their skin, to drown in the heat of her long, lean body, all her gangly, inked limbs atypically loose tonight. What would February Winters—unleashed of the tension and worry she usually carried—moan like, writhe like, taste like? Fuck if they were in a place to find out right now.
With a frustrated groan, Jax gently righted Feb, creating some much-needed space between them. “When you’re not drunk, we’ll talk about a better solution than your vibrator.”
Feb’s lopsided grin was both ridiculous and sexy. “I can talk now,” she slurred.
“Yeah, no, chef. ’Fraid not.” The car horn blared again. “And someone doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” Feb blew another raspberry but didn’t resist as Jax coaxed her into her jacket, looped her crossbody bag over her shoulder, and snaked an arm around her waist. “Let’s go,” they said, starting them for the door. Outside, a chilly-for-San-Francisco wind whipped around them, causing Feb to shiver and lean closer, nuzzling her face into the crook of Jax’s neck. The five steps to the curb where Helena’s black SUV was idling were absolute torture.
Helena’s knowing grin from behind the wheel didn’t make it any better. “Your place or hers?”
“Hers.” Jax rattled off the address as they settled Feb into the back seat. She was asleep, snoring softly, by the time Jax clicked the seat belt into place. They backed out, gently closed the door, then leaned through the open passenger window. “She may need some help getting in.”
As if on cue, a honking snore carried from the back seat. “No shit,” Helena said, eyes rolling, though the smile in her voice belied her amusement. “How that noise can come out of someone that pretty...” She shook her head, and Jax chuckled.
“I won’t tell your wife you said that.”
“Oh, Celia would agree.” Helena winked, and Jax shook their head. Helena rarely minced words; she didn’t have time as an attorney and as the head of the assassin side of the family. She was also an unrepentant flirt and one hundred percent devoted to her wife and family. “Special delivery for you. In the trunk.”
“Mel confirmed?”
Helena nodded, and Jax bit back a wince. Jacob Pappas was indeed an alias—and a bigger problem than Feb realized. A Render review was the least of her worries.
“You need any help wiring?” Helena asked.
“Nope, I got it.” They tapped the window ledge, then circled behind the car and retrieved the hard case from the trunk. Shutting the hatch, they waved at Helena in the rearview mirror. “Thank you.”
“Owe me,” Helena called back. She gunned the engine, and the Benz sped off, tires screeching. Jax smiled wider. Helena’s vehicle of choice was a Ducati, but mom and auntie duties required something more practical. For the concession, Celia, one of the best mechanics in the city, had seriously jacked the already jacked AMG engine in the SUV. Jax wondered sometimes if Helena was having more fun in the Benz than on her bike these days.
Back inside, Jax checked their tablet and read the encrypted text from their boss. Confirmed, wire it.
