Cal was already there, standing near a table draped in white linen. He looked like the poster child for old mountain money—tan, polished, and wearing a smile that suggested the pouting man from the previous night had never existed.
“You made it,” Cal said, stepping forward to pull out her chair. “And you look… incredible, Isabella. Truly.”
“Thank you, Cal,” Izzy said, settling into the seat. She reached for her water glass, trying to let the luxury of the place settle her nerves.
“I ordered the Blackwood Syrah,” Cal said, gesturing to the bottle. “No distractions today. Just us.”
Izzy offered a practiced smile, but her gaze drifted toward the bar.
Two men were sitting there. They weren’t in tactical gear; they were wearing dark, expensive-looking suits, but the jackets sat heavy on their shoulders, and they hadn’t touched their drinks. They looked like men who were waiting for a flight or a signal. One of them caught her eye in the mirror behind the bar and didn’t look away.
Izzy felt a cold prickle on her skin, but she immediately forced herself to look back at Cal.
Stop it, she told herself. No one knows you took that picture. No one saw you. You’re being paranoid because the Scott brothers have spent forty-eight hours acting like the sky is falling. They’ve gotten into your head.
“Isabella?” Cal asked, his brow furrowing. “You’re a million miles away.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, reaching for her wine glass. “Just a long morning. I’m here now.”
In the overflow lot, Burke’s cruiser sat idling behind Grant’s truck. Luke Hale was positioned on the other side. They were being cautious, but at this point, they were working on a hunch. They knew two men had arrived on a private Hollis flight, and they knew Izzy was in the same building. That was enough for a Scott to worry, but not enough to call in the cavalry.
“Scout is on the perimeter,” Burke said into the radio. “He’s got eyes on the terrace from the woods. He says they’re just sitting there. No movement from the two in the suits.”
“I don’t like it,” Grant muttered. He was staring at the front entrance, his hand resting on the door handle. “If Wade brought them in, it’s not for a golf lesson.”
“We wait,” Burke said. “We don’t have a crime yet, Grant. We just have two strangers at a club. If we go in there and ruffle feathers for no reason, Wade will have my badge on a platter by dinner time. We wait for a lead.”
Back on the terrace, the “Sweetheart” act was in full swing. Cal was being charming, talking about the upcoming gala and how he wanted her to be his guest. He was attentive, kind, and Izzy almost believed the world could be simple again.
But the two men had moved.
They weren’t at the bar anymore. They had taken a small table near the terrace doors. They weren’t eating. They were just… there.
Izzy’s heart hammered against her ribs. It’s a coincidence, she told herself. It’s a public club. People move around.
She reached into her bag to grab a lip gloss, her fingers trembling slightly. Even without the black notebook in her purse, the weight of Clara’s secrets felt like lead in her chest.
“Cal,” she said, her voice a little too airy. “Is it just me, or is it getting a bit crowded out here?”
Cal looked around, indifferent. “It’s a Saturday, darlin’. People like the view.”
Before Izzy could respond, the heavy oak doors to the terrace opened. Wade Hollis stepped out, moving with the slow, confident gait of a man who owned the air everyone else was breathing. He didn’t look toward Cal and Izzy. He didn’t offer a fatherly wave or a smile.
Instead, his gaze locked onto the two men in the dark suits. With a grim, practiced familiarity, Wade walked straight to their table and pulled out a chair. He didn’t ask if the seats were taken; he claimed the space between them. He sat down, leaning his forearms on the table and ducking his head close to theirs, creating a tight, impenetrable circle of three. The moment his backside hit the chair, a waiter appeared—not with menus, but with a fresh bottle of bourbon and three glasses. Wade poured the drinks himself, his head still bent toward the men in a low-voiced, intense summit.
Izzy felt the air leave her lungs. They aren’t here for me, she realized, a strange mix of relief and fresh terror washing over her. They’re with Wade. They’re his.
“Looks like Dad’s having a mid-day summit,” Cal muttered, his jaw tightening with that familiar spark of irritation. He checked his watch, clearly embarrassed by his father’s blatant disregard for their lunch. “You know what? This place is getting stuffy. Let’s get out of here. I’d rather show you the view from the North Overlook anyway.”
Izzy didn’t argue. She couldn’t get away from that table fast enough.
“They’re leaving,” Grant said into the radio. “Wade’s inside. He’s sitting with them.”
“I see it,” Burke replied, his voice tight. “Scout, stay on Wade. Luke, pull back and run a loose tail on Cal and Izzy—just track the glint of that silver paint through the curves. We’re done playing guessing games.”
Grant watched the BMW pull out of the VIP circle, Cal driving with one hand on the wheel, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world. Grant didn’t feel relieved. He felt like they had just watched the fuse being lit.
* * *
