Chapter 16
The Grill was packed with the Saturday lunch rush, fishermen in ball caps at the counter, tourists near the windows, somebody arguing cheerfully about the Mariners near the fry station.
The noise hit Cara the moment she stepped inside. Normal noise. Good noise. The kind Haven Cove generated when people felt safe.
Manny spotted her immediately and waved her toward the back counter where Reagan was refilling coffees with the speed and precision of a combat medic under fire, then ducked back into the kitchen.
Reagan looked up, read Cara’s expression from halfway across the room, and lit up. “She got it?”
Cara lifted the pastry tray. “Fifteen-thirty.”
Reagan set the coffeepot down with both hands. “Oh, wow.” Her face opened, bright and soft and suddenly wobbly. “Wow.”
Cara walked around the counter and set the tray on the prep table against the kitchen wall. “Tom nearly came apart at the seams.”
Reagan laughed, short and real. “That man.” She pressed both palms flat on the counter like she needed one second to absorb the news before lunch rush swallowed her whole again. “That absolute man.”
“She said to tell you everything, which I just did. She also said to tell Manny that if he doesn’t save her a mango taco—”
Reagan was already turning toward the kitchen. “MANNY.”
“WHAT?” Manny shouted back.
“Piper got a fifteen-thirty.”
A crash came from somewhere behind the pass-through. Not a serious crash. Probably.
“Fifteen-thirty?” Manny bellowed. “Get out! That kid is getting tacos for life.”
For one brief moment, the whole Grill felt bright and harmless again.
Then the man at the far end of the counter turned on his stool.
Cara catalogued the important details automatically. Late thirties. Clean-cut in a way that cost money to maintain, wearing khakis with a blue half-zip, a leather messenger bag at his feet. Nothing about him looked wrong, which pinged her radar hard.
His gaze flicked to the pastry tray in her hands, then to the Sugar & Salt logo on her hoodie. Recognition settled into his expression one beat before he smiled.
“Cara Sweet?”
Her throat tightened. Not visibly. Never visibly.
The smart answer was probably, “Who’s asking?” The safer answer was probably, “No.” But denial only worked if the other person was uncertain, and this guy looked very certain.
Cara gave him a small, careful smile. “Depends who’s asking.”
“Diego Ortiz.” He stood smoothly and offered a hand. “Northwest Community Conservancy.”
The name meant nothing. His confidence, on the other hand, meant everything.
“We’ve been speaking with a few business owners around town,” he said. “Small coastal communities, heritage preservation, long-term local anchors. I’ve heard excellent things about Sugar & Salt.”
Around town. There it was—a soft little hook hidden inside a perfectly polite sentence.
Cara shook his hand. His grip was warm. Dry. Practiced.
“That’s great to hear.”
A slight south-Texas inflection colored his voice. Or someone had taught him one. She couldn’t tell yet.
Reagan drifted behind Ortiz with a full coffeepot in hand and the relaxed expression of a waitress topping off customers. Only Cara knew Reagan well enough to recognize the posture: weight balanced, eyes alert, one move away from violence if necessary.
“Do you have a few minutes to talk?” Ortiz asked.
Cara glanced toward the front windows. Sunlight. Tourists. A couple laughing over clam chowder.
No black SUV in sight. No obvious watchers. Which did absolutely nothing to comfort her.
She knew what this was now. Not recon. Not information gathering.
Neptune wanted to see how she reacted when danger walked through the front door smiling politely. More importantly, they wanted her off-balance enough to do something impulsive afterward. Run, hide, warn people badly, expose the team. They were tightening the psychological perimeter.
Too bad for them, she had grown up around predators.
She perched on the stool one over from him, angled so she could see his hands, the front door, and Reagan in the reflection of the coffee urn. “I have a few minutes.”
Ortiz pulled a leather notebook from his bag and slid a card across the counter.
Diego Ortiz. Senior Program Officer. Northwest Community Conservancy. Portland, Oregon.
“What kind of preservation, specifically?” Cara asked.
“Communities,” Ortiz said. “Businesses with deep local connections. Places people rely on. Like your bakery.”
Reagan’s coffeepot paused for half a second behind him.
Cara smiled. “That sounds very flattering.”
“It is.” Ortiz folded his hands loosely over the notebook. “Small towns are interesting. People get attached to routines.”
“Routines make people feel safe.”
“They do.” His smile stayed pleasant. “Until something interrupts them.”
There it was, soft enough to deny later, clear enough that she couldn’t mistake the threat.
Cara rested one fingertip on the edge of the business card. “Well,” she said lightly, “that would certainly hurt the pastry economy.”
Ortiz laughed, but his eyes didn’t. “We’re about preserving communities. We try to identify vulnerable anchors before problems develop.”
“Vulnerable?”
“Every business has pressure points.” He lifted a shoulder. “Staffing. Supply chains. Family obligations. Security gaps. Informal networks.”
Informal networks.
Cara kept her face easy while something cold and precise clicked into place inside her. He wasn’t asking about Sugar & Salt. He was telling her Neptune knew about Sweet and Sawyer.
She forced a shrug. “We’re pretty ordinary.”
“Are you?” The question landed softly. Its message didn’t.
Cara tilted her head. “Most days.”
Ortiz watched her for one beat too long, then smiled again and opened his notebook.
“Northwest Community Conservancy sometimes provides grants to help businesses strengthen their community role. Improvements. Programming. Employee support. Things like that.”
“Generous.”
“We believe stable communities are worth protecting.”
“So do I.”
Reagan set the coffeepot down behind him.
Ortiz’s gaze moved briefly toward the sound, then returned to Cara. “You’ve built something special here.”
“I inherited a lot of it.”
“And improved it.” He tapped his pen lightly against the notebook. “People talk.”
“People do love to talk.”
“Especially when they’re worried.”
Cara’s smile did not move. “Are people worried?”
“Some are.”
“About pastries?”
“About change.”
Cara let a beat pass while the Grill kept moving around them—forks on plates, Manny calling orders, someone laughing at the front table. “What kind of change?”
Ortiz’s pen stilled. “The kind that comes when outsiders involve themselves in matters they don’t fully understand.”
Cara would have admired the careful wording, if his threat hadn’t been aimed straight at her. At the people she loved. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“No?” Ortiz’s smile softened. “Huh. Then maybe Sugar & Salt isn’t the right fit after all.”
“Probably not.”
He closed the notebook. He hadn’t come for answers. He had come to deliver a message. He slid the business card another inch toward her. “If you change your mind, call anytime.”
Cara looked down at the card, then back at him. “Do you answer personally?”
A flicker. Tiny. There and gone. “I try to.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Ortiz stood and picked up his messenger bag. “Enjoy this great weather while it lasts. I hear a storm’s coming.”
He walked out through the front door without looking back. Cara didn’t turn to watch him leave. She used the reflection in the coffee urn instead.
Ortiz paused on the sidewalk for half a second—just long enough to glance north—then continued down Marina Street.
Reagan blew out a breath. “Neptune?”
“Definitely.”
“Threat?”
Cara picked up the card. “Absolutely.”
Reagan’s mouth tightened.
From the kitchen, Manny shouted, “How does Piper feel about coleslaw? I’m talking lime crema, medium hot.”
Cara rose. “Tell him yes.”
Reagan put a hand on her arm. “You okay?”
No. Yes. Both.
Cara looked toward the door Ortiz had used. “They want us scared.”
“Not gonna happen.”
Cara slipped the card into her pocket. “Scared is good. Panicking is not.”
“Agreed.” Reagan eyed the steaming pot as if she regretted not dousing the stranger. “Among the long list of things on our side, is the element of surprise. These people have no idea who they’re dealing with.”
While Cara appreciated the sentiment, the same could be said of their opponents. Neptune was far from a known quantity. She had the sense the water had just gotten far deeper.