Chapter 8 #3
“I’m sure she’ll be here soon,” I manage between bites. “She’s got a pressing deadline. You know she does comic illustrations for her Patreon.”
Dylan leans forward, interested, pushing his plate aside slightly to give me his full attention. “What kind of comics? Like superhero stuff?”
“Uh, mythology. Mostly Norse and Greek.” I’m trying to describe my own work without giving too much away. “She reimagines the classic stories with, uh, different perspectives. Powerful female leads. Lots of drama and romance and morally gray situations.”
“That sounds incredible,” Slater says, and there’s genuine interest lighting up his usually grumpy expression. His steel-gray eyes are focused on me with intensity. “Norse mythology, hey?”
“Yeah, she’s really into it. Valkyries, Loki, the myths, all that. She loves the complexity of the stories, the way nothing’s ever really black and white.”
His eyes light up even more, and I remember our conversation on the boat yesterday about the Norns weaving fate in the mist. He loves these stories as much as I do.
“I’ll have to check it out,” he says. “What’s her Patreon name?”
“Uh, I’ll have to ask her,” I say quickly, shoving another dumpling in my mouth to buy time.
“I can never remember the exact name. It’s something fancy and mythological.
She changes it sometimes for branding reasons.
” I swallow the food in my mouth. “Anyway, I need to hit the bathroom,” I say. “Be right back.”
I stand and head toward the hallway, hearing Slater saying something, but I can’t make out his words.
In no time, I grab my backpack from behind the trash can, glancing around carefully to make sure no one’s watching. The hallway is empty. Perfect.
Then I slip into the women’s room.
One person is in a stall. I dart into the other one, my heart hammering so hard I’m surprised the whole restaurant can’t hear it.
I work frantically, yanking off Ash’s clothes and stuffing them in the bag. The button-up shirt. The jeans. Everything goes into the bag in a messy pile.
The dress slides on easily. I planned this specifically, choosing the simplest slip dress I own. It’s in a deep emerald green, made from thin, slinky fabric that clings just enough to suggest curves without being obvious. Short sleeves, a low neckline. Easy on, easy off.
I leave the chest binder on. Looking down, I notice it pushes my breasts up slightly at the neckline, creating a hint of cleavage that’s actually kind of perfect.
Not ideal for passing as a guy, but great for looking like myself.
I peel off the facial hair carefully, pressing each piece onto the plastic sheet I brought specifically for this purpose.
The adhesive is still tacky enough to reuse.
The wig comes off next, and I shake out my natural hair, running my fingers through the chestnut waves to give them some life after being compressed.
Two minutes. Maybe less.
I’m good at this, which is either impressive or deeply concerning.
I swap my boots for simple black shoes that slip on instantly. Apply pink lipstick quickly, barely looking in the mirror.
Damn. Almost forgot.
I grab the tiny contact lens case from my toiletries pouch, flick it open, and quickly take out the clear lenses, dropping them into the liquid. My eyes blink a few times, adjusting to the soft blur of the real world.
No time for more makeup. This’ll have to do.
Lastly, I peel off the scent patch from my inner wrist.
The moment it’s gone, I feel a rush of heat racing across my skin. My natural scent, masked by the suppressant but still there, faint but distinctly mine. Vanilla bean, sweet citrus, warm almond milk.
It’s barely there, just a whisper, but it’s enough to distinguish me from Ash.
My skin is raw, and this can’t be good for me, messing with my body’s natural rhythms like this, but it’s just for tonight.
I press the patch gently between two pieces of shiny paper and tuck it into a sealed side compartment in my bag, careful not to crush it.
Then I quickly check my reflection in the mirror once more.
I look like myself.
I slip out of the bathroom, heart pounding, and stash the bag behind the trash can again. No one is in the hallway. Good.
Then I head toward the table, my shoes making soft sounds on the floor.
All four heads turn simultaneously, like they’re connected to the same radar system.
Their eyes lock on me, tracking my approach with an intensity that floods my face with heat.
Maybe this was a terrible idea. Maybe I should have stayed home as Ash and made up some excuse about Anita being unable to make it.
But it’s too late now.
The guys on the closest side of the table to me—Mason and Dylan—scoot over immediately, making room, and I slide in next to Mason.
“Hey!” I say brightly. “Ash pointed your table out. Said I could join you.”
“Welcome,” Dylan adds with a grin.
Mason is studying me with that charming look on his face. “We were about to send out a search party.”
Dylan just stares, then winks. “I volunteered to do mouth-to-mouth.”
I snort, trying not to laugh as I settle in, my pulse already picking up from the heat in their eyes. “Good thing I made it in time, then.”
Slater just watches, quiet and unreadable, a single brow ticking up as I sit down. There’s something charged about the way his gaze lingers. His fingers curl once against his water glass. “Well, you clean up better when you’re not freezing and inhaling smoke.”
I pull a breath, steadying myself against the ripple of desire that his voice sends through me, all dark velvet and delicious. “Didn’t realize I was making such a glamorous first impression.”
Dylan leans in, grinning. “Wait, what? Did I miss a meet-cute between you two?” Mason and Jasper are watching just as intently.
“She was on the ferry with me yesterday,” Slater explains, still not glancing away from me. “Wind was brutal and we broke down. She looked half frozen when we docked.”
“Wow, thanks. Really painting a full picture, huh?” My cheeks warm up, but not just from embarrassment, more from the memory of the ride and me swooning at meeting him the first time.
Still, I hadn’t missed the way his jaw clenched when he concentrated or how he told me the Norse tale.
And for someone so surly, he’s unfairly good-looking.
Mason smiles. “This is great. I love a good origin story.” His gaze remains on me. “You never mentioned Ash was your brother.”
I shrug, heart tapping a little faster. “Never asked.”
There’s a pulse of energy between us, charged, and we’re staring at one another, until Jasper clears his throat, breaking the moment.
“Hope you’re hungry,” he says, still half grinning. “We ordered already.” He leans forward now, arms resting on the table. He smiles like he did back at my apartment when he helped me find my keys and showed me around. The man is just irresistibly handsome. In truth, all four of them are.
Mason passes me a plate, his fingers brushing mine, and an excited shiver races up my arm. “Try the gyoza before Dylan devours the rest.”
“You make me sound like a monster,” Dylan says, eyes dancing. “A sexy, starving monster.”
“You said it, not us,” Jasper mutters.
“Didn’t expect you tonight,” Slater finally says in my direction.
My heart does a strange little twist. “Should I leave?”
A beat of silence. Then, “No,” Slater says. Simple. Firm.
“Definitely not,” Mason adds quickly, nudging a dish toward me. “We like you better than we like each other.”
“I bet you’ve got better jokes than us too,” Dylan says, grinning sideways.
“And a better smile,” Jasper adds, low like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
The others turn to look at him, but he’s already devouring a dumpling.
I just smile, heat blooming under my skin. Whatever it is, I’m not running. I pop the dumpling into my mouth and raise a brow.
“Well?” Dylan watches me like I’m a food critic about to tank his Yelp rating.
I tap my lip thoughtfully. “Okay. They’re good.”
“Good?” Mason looks personally offended. “They’re great. Those dumplings are our secret weapon. They’re why half our clients rebook.”
“Wrong,” Dylan says. “Clients rebook because I’m the fun one.”
Slater takes a slow sip of beer. “Pretty sure they come back despite you.”
“That one-star review wasn’t about me,” Dylan counters. “It was the seagull.”
I pause mid-bite. “What seagull?”
Slater doesn’t glance up. “You don’t want to know.”
“You really don’t,” Jasper adds.
“She absolutely does,” Dylan says, grinning at me.
I lean over. “If a seagull stole your clothes or your pride, I’m gonna need the full story.”
“It was one rogue seagull with a death wish,” Mason says, passing me the sauce.
“It dive-bombed me during lunch,” Dylan adds, grimacing. “Snatched the sandwich out of my hands mid-bite, and I lost my balance and fell over the whole damn picnic table.”
My eyebrows lift. “Savage.”
“I landed on the mayo,” he says darkly. “Whole tub. Popped the lid clean off. I slid through it like a hockey puck.”
My lips part. “Wait… so—”
“Mayo. In my shorts. In my soul,” he says, pointing at me like I should understand the trauma. “It took three showers and a pressure hose to feel clean again.”
Slater coughs, clearly holding back a laugh. “He screamed like he’d been shot.” The other guys are howling with laughter.
“I thought I was shot!” Dylan states. “By a condiment!”
I giggle, imagining him covered in mayo.
“What about you? What do you think of Mistberry Cove so far?” Mason nudges the conversation forward with a grin.
I shrug, swirling a dumpling through sauce. “It’s charming. Cold. Best café. Maybe too early to say. And for some reason, way too many suspiciously handsome men.”
Jasper’s brow lifts. “Suspiciously?”
“Let me guess—fishing skills come with knife skills. Which means you’re all secretly dangerous. Good to know.”
“You’re saying we’re handsome but look like murderers,” Dylan replies.
“If there were a murder, I wouldn’t be surprised if this dinner turned into a last meal.”