Julian scoffed. “If he thinks maple syrup and Mounties are gonna save him, he’s dumber than he looks.”
Lachlan dragged a hand down his face. “It’s getting harder to find these bastards. I’m starting to miss the actual chase.”
Nik’s response was chilling. “They’ll crawl out eventually. They always do. And when they do, I’ll be there.”
The room buzzed with silent understanding. This wasn’t bravado. This was their everyday reality.
Before I could sink too deep into my own dread, Aria breezed in with perfect timing.
“All right, boys,” she said, her heels clicking over the polished floor, “can we keep the murder talk to a low roar? Our girl hasn’t even had dinner yet.”
I nearly sagged with relief.
Aria gave me a wink that told me she knew exactly how it felt to be swallowed alive by testosterone. She took her place beside me and placed her hand on my back as if I were her little sister, finally entering the family business.
Lachlan reached behind the bar and pulled out a bottle with reverence. “Let’s drink. Redbreast 12. One of the best Ireland has to offer.”
He poured with flair, then slid the glasses across the desk—one for each man, one for Aria, and one for me.
“To the lass,” he said, raising his glass. “May her tongue stay sharp, her loyalty run deep, and her enemies die choking on her name.”
Everyone knocked their shot back in one go.
So did I.
Bad decision.
The whiskey hit my throat like molten fire, and for a second, I was sure I would either cough, choke, or combust. My eyes watered instantly, and I blinked hard, willing my face not to crumple.
Nik watched me carefully.
Before the burn even settled in my chest, Aria slammed her glass down on the bar and clapped her hands. “Dinner’s ready. Come on, you two, before the guys scare her into thinking we’re all butchers and extortionists.”
Keeping his hand on my lower back again, Nik guided me down the hallway. The deeper we went into the club, the quieterit got. Soon we reached a small room with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the dark Hudson.
Hundreds of roses graced every surface, and candles flickered everywhere. Their glow painted the walls in honeyed warmth. In the center sat a table covered in white linens, white roses, and crystal glassware. Romantic. Intimate. Dreamlike.
I turned to Nik. “How…? How did you pull this off so fast?”
His lips rose into a faint smile. “I stay prepared. I have good people. And money may not buy happiness, but it gets things done.”
I stared at the setting again, overwhelmed.
“What if I’d said I was going to Tacoma?” I asked, honestly curious.
“Then you’d be on a plane right now,” he said without hesitation, “and Midtown Children’s Hospital would’ve received all these roses.”
My breath caught.
We sat. Or rather—he waited until I sat, then joined me. Plates appeared as if by magic, delivered by quiet staff who vanished just as quickly.
Dinner was rare filet mignon with a blackberry-port reduction, truffled potatoes, and sauteed broccoli—every bite tender and rich. A glass of expensive-tasting red wine sat near my plate.
I picked at my food nervously, unsure of what would happen next.
The hum of the club rumbled beneath us. The wine in my glass disappeared quickly. It collided with the warmth of the whiskey in my veins, easing my nervousness.
Across from me, Nik appeared contained…on the surface. But I could see what the last three weeks had done to him.
