Page 47

“Calvin’s got a good agent.” I bumped his shoulder with mine. “You doing okay? They can be a lot.”

Instead of answering right away, he stole a piece of grilled chicken off the platter and chewed it thoughtfully, gazing out over the yard. Firelight from the pit had started to matter as the sky went orange over the tree line, catching everyone in warm gold.

“I keep waiting to feel like a guest,” he finally said. “Like I should be helping more or apologizing for taking up space. But nobody here treats me like a guest. Ollie put me on snack duty next week like it was already decided.”

“It was already decided.” I set the tongs down and hooked a finger through his belt loop, tugging him closer. “You’re pack now. Snack duty is a life sentence.”

“Then I accept my sentence.” He tipped his face up, and I kissed him, brief and soft, tasting smoke and stolen chicken, while somewhere behind us Reaper made loud gagging noises that fooled absolutely no one.

By the time the sun finished dying behind the trees, plates had been scraped, the fire pit had been fed into a proper blaze, and the yard had settled into that loose, sprawled-out quiet that followed a good meal.

Crowbar had Spencer tucked under his arm on a chaise lounge. Diesel and Ollie argued lazily about a movie neither of them had finished. Preacher sat with Trent’s legs across his lap, his thumb tracing idle circles on his mate’s ankle while the conversation wandered from the shop’s backlog to Blade’s cursed house.

“The raccoon has a name now,” I reported to the group. “Blade’s calling him Gerald. He leaves food out.”

We’d discovered the raccoon just a few days ago. I tried to shoo it away while Blade demanded it stay.

“He’s feeding it?” Trent looked horrified. “That’s how you get a roommate.”

“That raccoon has more equity in the house than Blade does,” Mayhem said from his spot by the fire. “Gerald was there first. Gerald has rights.”

Phineas laughed against my collarbone. At some point in the last hour, he had migrated into my lap in the big Adirondack chair, curled sideways with his knees drawn up and his head tucked under my chin, and I had both arms wrapped around him like the world’s most content seatbelt. His weight against me felt as natural as breathing. Noodles had followed him over and now lay sprawled across my boots, twitching through some puppy dream.

“I want to meet Gerald,” Phineas murmured, sleepy and warm. “I feel like we’d get along. Kindred spirits. Both of us squatting in homes that aren’t technically ours.”

“The home is yours.” I pressed the words into his hair. “Gerald’s on his own.”

Firelight painted everyone amber. Ghost was telling a story about a customer who had insisted his transmission problems were caused by the government, and Merk kept interrupting with worse and worse theories until the whole yard was groaning. The night smelled like woodsmoke and cut grass and, faintly, the strawberry shampoo Phineas had claimed from my shower and never given back.

Contentment like this was a thing I’d have paid any price for, and it had walked into my café for free.

Then, threaded underneath Ghost’s punchline and the crackle of the fire, I heard a car door close.

The sound was quiet. Careful. Somebody had eased that door shut with a hand flat against the panel, the latch catching with a soft, guilty click instead of a slam. Customers didn’t close doors like that. Friends didn’t either. Friends slammed doors and hollered around the corner of the building.

Somebody in the parking lot did not want to be heard.

Every muscle in my body went alert while my face stayed exactly the same. The backyard sat tucked behind the long arm of the L-shaped building, invisible from the lot, and whoever had just arrived would have to walk the whole length of the shop wall to find us. My wolf lifted his head inside me, ears forward, silent.

“Hey.” I kissed the top of Phineas’ head and shifted him gently off my lap, settling him into the warm spot I was leaving. He blinked up at me, drowsy and trusting. “Be right back, kitten. Grabbing something from the front.”

“Bring back brownies if there are survivors,” he mumbled, already burrowing into the chair.

Rising unhurried, I stretched like a man with nowhere important to be. Across the fire, Mayhem’s eyes found mine. One look was all it took—he set his beer down without a word. Ghost caught the exchange a second later, said something about taking a leak, and peeled off toward the building at a lazy amble that wouldn’t have alarmed a rabbit.

Preacher’s gaze tracked all three of us. His chin dipped a fraction of an inch. Handle it.

Down the side of the building, gravel gave way to packed dirt and then loose stone under my boots, and I kept my steps soft out of habit. The shop wall stretched long and dark on my left, the bay doors closed for the night. Ahead, the security lamp over the lot threw a cone of white light across the parked bikes and Phineas’ little sedan, which we’d retrieved from Jawbones earlier.

At the edge of the light stood a man beside a silver BMW, staring down at his phone.

He was tall and lean, dressed in a pressed button-down with the sleeves rolled to display a heavy watch. Clean-cut. Handsome in a catalog sort of style, the sort of face that smiled at neighbors and closed deals. His thumb moved across the screen, and the glow lit his jaw as he glanced up—past me at first, then at me, his phone lowering with unhurried calm.

“Evening.” His voice came out smooth and pleasant. “Sorry to drop in so late. I’m hoping you can help me. My boyfriend’s been having some trouble, and his GPS puts his car at this address.” He gestured toward the sedan with the phone, casual as anything. “I’ve been worried sick about him. Phineas Hall? Little guy, brown hair, anxious?”

The world narrowed down to a single point of clarity.

This had to be Ben.