Page 127 of Fearless

“You think I’m a rat?” Greg asked. “Is that it? Fuck you, Teague.”

Aidan sagged back against the booth. “Fine, but the offer stands, if you get clear-headed.”

Tango held fast to the guy’s wrist.

“One last thing,” Aidan said, tone conversational. He plucked a cinnamon raisin muffin from the plate and watched Greg from the corner of his eye. “You wouldn’t happen to know who stabbed Andre the other night, would you?”

Quick flicker of something deep in the man’s eyes. Guilt, but not for having done the deed himself. This was bystander guilt.

When he wouldn’t answer, Tango released him, and he clambered away from the table in a loud clomping of boots that drew other customers’ eyes. As he left, Tango slid into his abandoned seat across from Aidan and pushed his shades up into the front spikes of his hair.

“I smell a chink in Larsen’s armor,” he said, dragging his coffee mug over.

“Me too,” Aidan said. “We haven’t seen the last of Greg.”

The patio was crowded with people all talking a hundred miles an hour, that caffeinated spark lifting voices into bright bubbles of laughter that echoed off the water splashing in the fountain. Molten sunlight poured bright and heatless over the tables, glinting on china and glassware, flashing in high silver arcs as points were driven home with waves of forks and knives. Stella’s had all the old magic, and the food was delicious as always. Ava and Ronnie had a table right along the wrought iron patio railing, with a view of the alley; Ava flicked muffin crumbs into the gutter for the hopping English sparrows and felt her toes curl in abject delight to be back here.

Stella herself came out to see them, big white flour handprints on her black apron. She had grand twists of iron gray in her gorgeous raven hair these days, a smattering of crow’s feet and laugh lines, but her rich Italian complexion was still dark and beautiful, and the age markers added character.

“Julian told me,” she said, propping her fists on her wide hips, “that little Ava Rose was back and she had a gorgeous boy with her. And I said to him, ‘Why am I just hearing about it now?’ ” She wagged a finger at Ava. “You’re supposed to come see me immediately when you get back in town!”

Ava laughed. “I’m so, so sorry, Stella. It won’t happen again. This is Ronnie.” She gestured to him. “Ronnie, this is the best chef in all of east Tennessee.”

Stella rolled her eyes at the praise before she locked them on Ronnie. “You’re cute. How old are you? What do you do for a living? Do you make enough money to take care of this one?”

Ronnie turned hot pink and Ava glanced away to hide her smile…only for her gaze to collide with that of someone standing on the street.

A scrawny, pale-haired man in a too-large MC cut stood on the sidewalk, hands jammed in his jeans pockets. He looked to be frozen mid-stride, and he stared at her with what she could only call a dawning recognition; he was assessing her, eyes raking over her in a frank inventory that left her feeling exposed and a little bit violated. Like he was cataloguing her, taking down all the details in shorthand in his mind. She wanted to look away, but didn’t dare.

When he finally turned and set off down the alley, she caught a glimpse of the back of his cut: the Carpathians, Tennessee, the snarling werewolf.

She shuddered hard.

“Ava,” Ronnie said, and she snapped back to attention. “Yes?”

Stella was shaking her head, lips pursed. “Head in the clouds. You must really have it bad for this one.” She hooked a thumb at Ronnie. In a stage whisper, she said, “Good, because if you don’t want him, I might.”

“Um…” Ronnie couldn’t blush any deeper; it wasn’t possible.

Ava smiled and hoped it looked genuine. “I think I’ll hold onto him for now, Stella.”

“Suit yourself.” She threw up her hands and turned. “I’m back to my kitchen to slave the day away.”

“The muffins are amazing,” Ava called to her back, and earned an over-the-shoulder wave in acknowledgement. She turned to Ronnie, glad to find his color returning to normal. “So now you’ve met Stella.”

His brows lifted. “Every time I meet someone new, I’m even more convinced I’ve fallen into a Tennessee production ofOur Town.”

“Ah. You get used to that feeling. It’s called being in Tennessee.”

He grinned. “I thought Georgia had prepared me for this.”

“And that’s where you went wrong.”

He lifted his fork again. “She can cook the hell out of breakfast, though, I’ll give her that.”

Ava nodded.

“Yo, sis.” Aidan’s shadow fell across their table before she registered his arms draping over the railing. “Taking your poodle for a walk this morning?” His shit-eating grin was reminiscent of all their childhood fights, and she didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or slap him.

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