The SUV pulled up to wrought-iron fencing and a gate flanked by ivy-wrapped brick pillars. The upper stories of the house rose above us, wide porches with white columns, ceiling fans spinning lazily even this early in the day.
“This is … a house,” I said.
“This is a temple,” Hazel corrected. “To butter and seafood and the unholy genius of one Meghan Delaney.”
“Promenade is technically invite-only,” Camille added as we stepped out. “And they’re only open for dinner. But Meghan decided we needed a ladies’ lunch, so …” She spread her hands, a little helpless, like she still wasn’t used to this level of casual power. “Voilà.”
Inside, the space was all dark wood and gleaming brass, the old bones of the house preserved and dressed in modern restraint. The main dining room had low, warm light from shaded sconces and candles in hurricane glass. The tables were set with simple white linen, heavy silverware, and handmade pottery plates that looked just imperfect enough to be expensive.
Finn Carroll spotted us as soon as we walked in.
He moved like a former athlete turned operations director—efficient, economical, an easy confidence in the way he threadedthrough staff and furniture. His dark hair was slicked back, sleeves rolled to the forearms.
“Ladies,” he said, that faintly amused tone suggesting he was long past being surprised by Danes and their orbit. “Welcome to Promenade’s lunch service. Try not to scare the staff.”
Hazel saluted him with two fingers. “No promises.”
“This must be Amelia,” he said, turning to me. His gaze was assessing, but not unfriendly. “I’m Finn. Meghan’s right hand, occasional therapist, frequent fire extinguisher.”
“I thought you were her director of operations,” I said.
“That, too,” he said. “Depends on the day.” He gestured toward the bar, where a woman with dark hair and sharp eyes was arranging glasses with military precision. “That’s Charlotte. Front of house. If something looks seamless, she did it.”
Charlotte glanced over, gave us a small nod that somehow managed to contain both welcome and “don’t mess with my seating chart.”
“And Alba’s in the kitchen today,” Finn added. “You’ll meet her when she brings dessert.”
“Good to know,” I said.
A voice called from the kitchen pass. “Finn!”
Meghan.
She emerged from the kitchen in chef whites, dark hair pulled back, eyes bright with that particular brand of focused intensity I recognized instantly. I’d seen it in surgeons, field commanders, the occasional NGO head who hadn’t burned out yet. The restaurant was an extension of her nervous system. The energy in the room rose and fell with her.
She wiped her hands on a towel, then broke into a smile when she saw us.
“You made it,” she said, coming over and pulling Hazel into a quick hug, then Camille. “Good. I was going to send Finn to search if you didn’t.”
Then she turned to me.
“So,” she said, looking me over—not in the way of someone sizing up a threat, but in the way of someone cataloguing a new ingredient. “You’re the Canadian.”
“I am,” I said.
Her mouth twitched. “Meghan,” she said, offering her hand. “You’re smaller than I pictured.”
“You’ve been picturing me?” I asked before I could stop myself.
“Of course,” she said. “Anyone who can keep up with a Dane is worth picturing.” She tipped her head. “You’re here to investigate? Or here because you love him?”
Both, I thought. Out loud, I said, “Yes.”
She laughed, delighted. “Good answer. Come. Sit. Eat. I make better food when I like the people eating it.”
We settled at a round table near one of the tall windows, sunlight spilling over the linen. Natalie and Lexi were already there.
Natalie had that particular polished glow politicians get when their faces have been on too many campaign flyers. Blond hair in a sleek ponytail, clothes tailored, posture straight without being stiff. When she smiled, it was like watching someone turn on a light for a crowd and mean it.
