Chapter 4
ARROW
“ G uess who just scored us five grand for one fucking table?”
I stride out from the kitchen into the main dining room, grinning like I just pulled off the heist of the century.
Holt and Luke have taken over the corner booth as though they own the place.
Which, technically, they part own—but that’s not the point.
They’re demolishing what looks like an entire tiffin tower of food meant for four people.
The copper tins are stacked like little treasure chests, each one holding something ridiculously delicious.
I swear I only left the tower with the two of them for ten minutes, and they’ve already turned it into a crime scene.
“You finally sell that weird painting in the back?” Luke barely looks up from the bottom tier, where he’s fishing out pieces of honey-glazed pork belly with his fingers like the savage he is.
“That’s worth more than your bike,” I say automatically, sliding into the booth and grabbing a piece of the Korean fried chicken from the middle tier before Luke can claim it all. “No, I just got the most beautiful fucking call.”
I glance around my restaurant and love how it turned out.
Savor doesn’t look like your typical high-end restaurant, and that’s exactly how we wanted it.
When we designed this place, we went for a “we could kill you but we’d rather feed you” aesthetic.
Black steel beams cross the ceiling, not that industrial bullshit everyone does, but actual salvaged beams from an old factory we may or may not have used for less legal purposes back in the day.
The tables are live-edge walnut that Holt and I hauled from a lumber yard ourselves, each one unique, surrounded by leather chairs or booths that look vintage but are fucking expensive.
The walls showcase rotating art from local artists who’ve done time. Currently, it’s Jackson’s series; the guy did five years for grand theft auto and apparently learned to paint. His pieces are of traditional landscapes that are on fire. They’re dark as fuck, and I love them.
“So this call,” Holt prompts, because he knows me well enough to recognize when I’m winding up to something good.
“This woman calls, right? Sounds like money. Not new money either, that old-establishment type who says ‘supper’ instead of ‘dinner.’?” I snag another piece of chicken, this one with the gochujang glaze that makes grown men weep. “She wants a table for twelve.”
“That’s good money,” Holt says through a mouthful of food.
“For Saturday night.”
“Fuck no,” Luke immediately says. “Saturday’s booked solid. We’ve got the anniversary, that weird book club that drinks too much wine, and half the town trying to impress their dates.”
“That’s what I told her. Very politely said we were fully committed for Saturday but would be happy to accommodate another evening.”
“Let me guess.” Luke grins, sauce on his chin like a fucking toddler. “She didn’t take no for an answer.”
“She offered double our banquet price. Four hundred per head.”
They both stop eating, staring at me.
“What’s the catch?” Holt asks, because there’s always a catch.
“None. She just wants our full tiffin banquet experience. Seven courses, wine pairings, the whole production. And I couldn’t say no.”
“So where the fuck are we putting them?” Luke asks. “Unless you’re planning to kick out the book club, and those ladies scare me more than any enforcer we ever faced.”
“The back courtyard.” I recline in the booth, already visualizing it. “We set up a marquee, one of those fancy clear-sided ones so they can see the gardens. String lights, heaters, make it look intentional instead of improvised.”
“In three days?” Holt raises an eyebrow.
“We’ve done more with less. Remember that time we had to move three bikes and enough hardware to arm a small country with six hours’ notice because the feds were sniffing around?”
“That was different.” Luke laughs. “That just required balls and a complete disregard for speed limits.”
“This requires that plus aesthetic sense.” I lift my gaze to them. “Holt, you’re sourcing the marquee. Luke, furniture. I want it to look like we’ve always had a private dining space out there.”
“Fuck me,” Luke mutters, but he’s grinning. “Arrow’s going full Martha Stewart again.”
“Martha Stewart with a body count,” I correct. “Speaking of which, we need to prep for tomorrow’s festival. The food truck ready?”
“Delivered to the festival grounds this morning,” Luke says proudly. “That beautiful bastard is parked and ready to cook. Full kitchen, serving window, the works. Even has those heat lamps that don’t make food look like it’s been under a nuclear reactor.”
Tim, our head chef, emerges from the kitchen with a pot of fresh coffee, the Colombian stuff that costs a fortune but tastes like heaven had a baby with cocaine. His sleeves are pushed up, tattoos on full display, and he’s grinning like a man who knows he just outdid God.
He sets the coffeepot and tray of miniature tiffin boxes on the table with a dramatic flourish. “Bosses, your preview of tomorrow’s food porn. Try not to moan too loudly. I don’t need the health inspector asking questions.”
He pops the latches on one of the tins, steam curling up like a promise. “Bottom’s duck confit street tacos. Middle’s loaded fries, truffle and bone marrow. And the crown jewel”—he opens the top tier with a wink—“bourbon cake bites. You’re welcome, assholes.”
“You outdid yourself,” I state, to which Tim smiles proudly and heads back into the kitchen.
Luke doesn’t wait. He’s already digging in, grabbing a cake bite. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he moans around a mouthful. “This is almost as sweet as she is.”
And there it is. We all know exactly who he means.
“Speaking of our girl ,” Holt says casually, as though he hasn’t spent the last twenty-four hours in a quiet, spiraling obsession. “I did some recon.”
“You mean you stalked her like a fucking creep,” I translate, grinning.
“I gathered intelligence,” Holt corrects with mock dignity. “She’s in a townhouse on Cottage Lane. Works at the brewery. Keeps a routine but changes it up just enough to avoid patterns.”
“Or she’s just smart,” I say, stealing one of the mini tiffins. “Girl who changes her name and skips town to run from an ex knows how to stay off the radar.”
“Van called her Cynthia the other day at the Harvest Dance,” Holt adds. “She told me her name was Cindy . And digging at her work, she goes by Cindy Young. So yeah, she definitely changed her name to hide in town. I doubt that’s her parents surname.”
Luke lets out a low whistle. “Of course she did.”
“I don’t care what name she’s using,” Holt mutters. “I’d recognize her by scent alone.”
“Fuck me sideways, that scent. It’s like Christmas morning had a baby with everything good in the world. Clove-studded orange. That brittle sugar snap. Pumpkin spice loaf, warm and fresh out of the oven.”
“We need to get closer to her,” Holt states, and there’s something dark and hungry in his eyes that matches what I’m feeling. “Really scent her properly. Our first meet was fast, chaotic, adrenaline filled. We need to know for sure.”
“What, you want to walk up and take a big sniff?” Luke laughs. “Hey, sweetheart, mind if I smell you? Promise we’re not weird, just three ex-bikers who think you might be our mate?”
“Done worse,” I admit.
“Yep, it is creepy as fuck,” Holt says. “Doesn’t mean we’re not doing it.”
The rest of the day flies by with prep work, readying for tomorrow’s event.
I’m in my element, coordinating with Tim and the kitchen crew, finalizing the ingredients, making sure we have enough product for both the truck and regular service.
This is what I love—creating something from nothing, feeding people, watching their faces when they taste something that changes their whole day.
By the time evening rolls around, we’re ready for phase two of Operation Protect Our Girl. Yeah, Luke named it. He’s terrible with names.
We pile into Holt’s truck. Me in the passenger seat, Luke in the back, and Holt driving. The truck is ridiculous, lifted with wheels that could crush a small car, but it blends into Whispering Grove’s mix of practical and excessive.
“Got the supplies?” I ask.
Luke holds up a bag. “Coffee, those little cream puff things you made, beef jerky, and those nuts roasted with the maple and cayenne. Plus, two pizzas here next to me.”
Holt pulls into a shadowed spot not far down the street from Cindy’s place. “That pizza smells so fucking good. I need a piece now.”
He throws the truck in park and reaches blindly for one of the boxes. Luke’s already tearing into the jerky with one hand while prying open the pizza box in Holt’s hand with the other.
“Meat lovers,” Holt announces like it’s sacred scripture. “Heavy on the pepperoni, sausage, and whatever ungodly thing Tim added that makes it perfect.”
I grab a slice and burn my fingers on the cheese. Worth it. “That’s brisket,” I say. “Tim doesn’t play fair.”
Holt grabs the second box and opens it, inhaling the delicious aroma. “Barbecue chicken with jalapenos and crispy bacon. Sweet, smoky, and spicy. Like someone we know.”
Her townhouse is cute as fuck, painted this soft blue with white trim, little flowers in window boxes even though it’s October. The kind of place that says I’m making a life here, not I’m ready to run at any moment.
“Top floor,” Holt points out unnecessarily. We can all see the warm light behind her curtains. “She’s home.”
“No shit, Detective Obvious,” Luke says, licking grease from his fingers. “The question is whether Van’s gonna try something.”
“If he’s dumb enough to return to town,” I confirm, reaching for another slice.
“He thinks she belongs to him,” Holt says, voice low, and that edge is there, the one that used to come right before blood. “Probably can’t compute that she ran. In his mind, she’s property that’s been misplaced.”