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“I brought you a gift.” Adrien English slid a plastic-wrapped square across the table to me. “Don’t feel like you have to wear it.”

By seven on a Friday night, El Cantaro glowed like a lantern in the dusk. Its windows were fogged slightly from the warmth inside, and the scent of cumin, roasted garlic, and lime hit as soon as the door swung open—earthy, sharp, and mouthwatering.

I chuckled, tore open the plastic and shook out the folds of a black Cloak and Dagger Bookstore tee. “Heck yeah, I will. It’s what all the cool kids are wearing. Thank you. This is really kind.”

Adrien snorted.

We’d found the restaurant by chance, a cute little place on Foam Street.

Inside, the walls were painted the color of ripe mangoes and chilies, hung with folk art, and framed papel picado cutouts that fluttered faintly in the breeze from the open back window. A handwritten specials board leaned near the counter, chalk smudged from many fingers and revisions.

The funny part was El Cantaro was vegan—unlike Adrien and me—but it smelled so incredible when we walked in, we’d decided to stay.

The air was thick with the low clatter of dishes, the sizzle of something being seared in the back, and the occasional hiss of the espresso machine. Conversations overlapped in English and Spanish— not loud, layered—the warm hum of people lingering over mezcal cocktails and mole enchiladas.

The light cast from mismatched pendant lights and flickering votive candles in recycled glass holders was soft, golden, and slightly uneven.

Tables were close, but not uncomfortably so, and the floor staff moved with practiced rhythm, slipping in and out of the kitchen with steaming plates and quiet apologies.

“So, are you really going to do a What Not to Write book?” Adrien dipped a tortilla chip in salsa and bit into it with a satisfying crunch.

“ Me ?” I gazed at him in astonishment.

Adrien arched an elegant brow. “That’s what you said during the Backstory Q did anyone have your personal email or personal phone number. Did anyone know your room number? Your floor number. Were you staying on your own or did you have a roommate? The kind of thing that set off alarm bells for everyone at the table.”

“I have to admit, I’m not thrilled hearing this,” I remarked.

“We blew him off, which I think offended him. I haven’t seen him since. That doesn’t mean he’s not out there.”

I glanced at Adrien. His gaze was somber in the lamplight.

“I’ll keep an eye open. Thanks for letting me know.”

“Maybe you should alert hotel security,” he said. “The guy’s name is Troy Colby. He keeps his badge turned over most of the time, but he was drunk the first night and accidentally introduced himself to Christopher.”

“I’ll think about it. I don’t want to make it into a thing if he just wants to pitch his manuscript.”

Adrien gave me an odd look, but left it there.

When we reached the hotel, I said, “I was going to join Finn and some other writers on the terrace. Did you want to—?”

He smiled, shook his head. “Jake should be arriving in an hour or so.”

“Oh, that’s nice.”

“It is, yeah. After the conference we’re driving up to San Francisco to stay with Christopher and J.X. for a few days.”