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What Tati had failed to mention was that he was five foot and small change, and, from a male point of view, the antonym for the name Alpha. Not altogether based on looks but an obvious amount of ill-conceived self-importance.
The guy was a tool.
Grant had been around long enough to spot one of those, as well.
“Morales,” Tati said with little enthusiasm.
“Tatiana,” he responded suggestively, swishing off his shades and giving her the once-over, the glasses catching on a strand of his comb-over.
Working the hair from his glasses, he said, “You’re looking as bountiful as ever. My abuela, she says hello, and that if you ever want to meet her, you only have to say the word and she’ll bake a batch of Mexican wedding cakes like that.” He clicked his fingers with what he must have thought was sensual flair.
Tati curled her upper lip, until Grant finally reached out his hand. “Grant Mason.”
The man looked down at the extended hand and reluctantly shook it, saying, “I am Alpha Morales, ex-colleague but persistent soul mate of Miss Northrop’s. How do you know my little woman?”
Tati rolled her eyes and responded before Grant could get a word out, “Grant is my fiancé.”
Grant slowly turned his head toward her with a rise in his eyebrows.
She added, “He’s also the chief of police of a bustling city in South Georgia. His time is money, so let’s get this over with.”
They were seated within minutes, but not until Alpha bobbed and weaved in between food stations, maybe scanning the room for insurgents. Grant wasn’t sure. He had reserved a table in the far back behind the rows of buffet tables. But honestly, with the number of customers waiting in the nearby buffet line for the fried shrimp, this wasn’t the place for clandestine conversations.
Grant had eaten at questionable establishments, but never at a Hallowed Corral. The food was plentiful, although of a lower quality, and the customers treated as the name implied…like herded cattle. Brought together in one big open space in which they could feed from a multitude of troughs.
A waitress was waiting for them at the table with plates to distribute for the grazing process, and Tati took hers and made a mad dash toward what looked to be the fried chicken station.
As Alpha made his way to the salad buffet, he tracked Grant with hostile eyes.
Grant grabbed some beef sirloin and sat down, eager to get this over with and skeptical that this petite, wraith-thin man could be of any assistance, let alone combat ready.
Once everyone was seated, the three of them sat with their backs to the wall, Tati in the middle, looking as conspicuous as possible, despite the oblivious customers pushing their way through the buffet lines and competing for tongs.
To avoid bringing more attention to them, Grant moved to the seat across from Tati, less concerned of a hostile faction barging through the double doors with guns blazing and more wary of the potential violence from those customers elbowing one another at the nearby soft serve ice cream bar.
Tati, seeing Grant was no longer beside her, scooted away from Alpha, giving herself ample space, and said, “I need help with the Shepherd case.”
Alpha unrolled his serving utensils from the tightly wrapped napkin. “You mean the case that was closed because of lack of evidence and largely due to your personal beef with your grandmother, a rather rotund woman by the name of Ariana?”
Grant watched Tati grit her teeth. “There was evidence, Morales, but it was suppressed because the department had its head rammed up Errol Shepherd’s ass.”
“It was suppressed because the evidence was weak and circumstantial. Nobody cares about the freaky bedroom games a mother and son play in the privacy of their bedroom.”
Tati pointed her chicken leg at him. “That was some perverted shit. But there was more. I just couldn’t get my hands on it.”
“Oh, yes. The infamous thumb drive,” he said with a raised eyebrow. “So when was hearsay considered solid evidence again?”
Tati grumbled as she took a bite.
“By the way, you’re looking fetching as ever. Did you miss me?”
Grant had to admit, she was beautiful. Even while chewing the meat off an over-cooked chicken bone. She no longer had that sickly, emaciated look. In the short time he had known her, she had developed subtle but impressive curves. And they were in all the right places.
Wearing her hair in a messy bun high on her head, likely to avoid it getting in her food during feeding time, and a T-shirt and shorts with an elastic band, she was the woman of his dreams.
Who knew his dream woman was one who appeared borderline homeless and with the appetite of a bird. Pterodactyl, that is.
As she blew at a bothersome tendril that had fallen from its prison of a hair tie, he considered picking up a box of hairnets to have on hand.
