Page 18 of The Accidental (Redemption Inc.)

They hung their overcoat, gloves, and beanie in their locker, then carefully unpacked their bag, using equal care to arm themselves with blades and brass knuckles tucked into leather pockets.

Suited up, including the in-ear comm unit that had been waiting for them in their locker, they paused in front of the sink, checking their reflection in the mirror and finger-combing their freshly dyed pink mohawk back to spiked life.

Time and best intentions had gotten away from them Tuesday.

Today, they’d made sure to take the time to do Feb this honor for her bravery and cooperation this past week, for the place in her UTT family they’d made for Jax.

It had also been worth it for how fast Ariel’s eyebrows had raced to his hairline.

Jax imagined Feb’s reaction would be the same at first, then, once she recalled the promise Jax had made her, she’d snort a laugh at seeing that promise finally fulfilled.

If Feb was sitting next to Holt in the van, maybe Jax would even hear her over the comms.

They were waiting for that snorting laughter through the comm as they stepped into the kitchen.

Only to hear it in person.

Across the kitchen, Feb stood in the aisle between the wall of ranges and ovens and one of the prep islands, hair up and chef’s coat on, a baking sheet of fresh-from-the-oven chickpeas on the island in front of her.

Her gaze, though, was locked on Jax, flicking back and forth between their face and hair, her smile growing impossibly wide. “You did it.”

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Well, hello to you too.” Her smile didn’t dim, and neither did the determination Jax also recognized in her eyes.

The last time they’d seen it there was Sunday night, when Feb had ordered them home to take care of their family so they could have their date Tuesday night after service.

Late, like the hair, but right then, Jax wanted to make that date happen more than anything, even while the larger part of their brain was still screaming objections at Feb’s presence tonight.

Hawes appeared at Feb’s side, similarly coated. “She insisted on being here.” He raised a hand midair, sprinkling salt on the chickpeas. “It’s her restaurant.”

His attempt to sprinkle reason on Jax’s objections didn’t work. Especially not with Chloe an aisle over, working the sauces. “But things could go sideways a million different?—”

Hawes’s “Maybe you two should talk” collided with Feb’s “We should talk,” and if Jax didn’t know Hawes was gay and one hundred percent devoted to his husband, they might have been worried about how quickly Feb and the assassin-wannabe-chef had bonded.

Feb gave the pan of chickpeas a shake and, apparently satisfied, headed for her chef’s nook, giving Jax no choice but to follow. As they passed, Hawes flipped up the tails of his black chef’s coat, showing them the knives attached to his belt and the barrel shape of his garrote in his pocket.

Feb was likewise packing protection, a corkscrew and folding knife that she removed from her back pockets and placed on the counter before climbing onto her stool.

Once settled, she rotated toward Jax, propped her heels on the stool’s rung, knees spread, and beckoned Jax closer with a crooked finger.

“I’m sorry,” Jax said, stepping the rest of the way into the nook but leaving some distance between them, giving Feb space to take or leave their apology. “I didn’t mean to say you can’t take care?—”

Feb apparently didn’t need space, obliterating it instead.

Grabbing them by the jacket lapels, she hauled them in for a kiss that was as determined as her gaze had been in the kitchen.

Mouth angling over theirs, she demanded entrance, parting Jax’s lips and diving inside with her tongue.

Fingers traveling up Jax’s neck, lifting goose bumps across their skin and sending heat and wetness arrowing south.

Carding her fingers through their mohawk and skimming them over their freshly shaved sides.

Jax melted, giving Feb some of their weight and kissing her back with all the desire that had built the past few months, accelerated the past week by separation and admiration.

Feb had challenged the critics with her V-day menu, living up to every bit of hype about her out there, and she’d met every challenge thrown her way, from the Render review news to a restaurant full of bounty hunters and assassins who’d carved up her pride and joy.

But she’d bounced back, persevered each time, and after all of that, including Jax’s part in the madness, she still seemed to want them.

They slid their hands up Feb’s thighs, over the curve of her hips, then under her ass, hauling her to the edge of the stool, both of them gasping as they rocked their hips together.

Fuck, they wanted to take her apart right here, and Jax thought maybe Feb would let them, judging by her moans, her hand roaming over Jax’s sides and back, her hips continuing to rock.

But fuck, there was no door on this fucking nook, and if there was one thing Jax had learned from their years with the Madigans, it was that locked doors were a necessity.

The number of stories they’d heard about unfortunate interruptions gave them serious pause.

As did Ariel’s ETA, the vibrating phone in their pocket no doubt the thirty minutes out text they were expecting.

Reluctantly, they pulled back and rested their forehead against Feb’s, the both of them gasping for breath, Feb catching hers first. “I love the pink on you. I hate it in all other circumstances, but on you...” Her lips curved against Jax’s. “You pulled it off.”

“I owed you,” Jax said as they drew back enough to catch Feb’s gaze. “I figured you’d get a laugh seeing it from whatever monitor you were watching on with Holt. Not that you’d actually be here.”

Feb smartly dodged their question and threw one back at them instead. “When’s the last time you slept?” She framed Jax’s cheeks, thumbs coasting under their eyes. “You look more tired than Brax, and I didn’t think that was possible.”

They chuckled. “I slept, usually a couple hours each morning before Sugar and Spice woke me.”

She arched a brow.

“Ariel’s cats. I think you’d like him. Don’t tell Hawes, but he’d probably make a better sous-chef.”

“You know they have a name for this? It’s called Stockholm syndrome.”

“Except I don’t think Ariel is actually a bad guy.”

Seeming to accept their rendezvous was over, Feb sighed and scooted back on the stool. “We sorted that on our end too.”

“Our end?” Jax said, leaning a hip against the nook’s counter.

“I’ll be fine tonight,” Feb said, dodging again. She was picking up Madigan maneuvers fast. “Hawes is back here.”

“So is Chloe.”

“Declawed,” she said with a hiss, hands held up, fingers bent. “Helena made sure of that.”

Jax could only imagine and chuckled again. “Would’ve liked to see that.”

“Highlight of my year, and it’s only February.”

Jax shot her a side-eye, and Feb’s own eye roll was epic, the both of them laughing, until Feb snuck an arm around their waist and drew them back in for a softer, less hurried brush of the lips. “Softball, I know.”

Jax smirked against her lips. “I’d like to give you another highlight after we’re done tonight if your date invite is still open.”

Feb hesitated, slow to draw back and lift her gaze to Jax, and when she did, the earlier determination was gone, clouded with uncertainty that twisted Jax’s gut. “I?—”

“It’s showtime,” Hawes said, leaning his head into the nook.

Given the out, Feb slid off the stool and left her sentence—Jax’s future—hanging.

Unlike Valentine’s Day when it was only one person per table at UTT, tonight was supposed to be a regular Friday service with tables full of various size groups.

Or at least that was how it needed to appear to whomever walked through that door looking for Ariel Camino.

From their position behind the bar, Jax thought, So far, so good .

From outside the plate glass window, it would look like a packed house, full of lively diners enjoying their drinks and food.

Which most of the diners were, even if they were operatives, hunters, and LEOs, most in disguise in case tonight’s visitor had had eyes on V-day or might recognize any of the “guests.” In any event, whoever their target was would be outnumbered the minute they stepped through the door.

Feb, one of the few people not in disguise, shuttled dishes between the kitchen and dining room.

At the moment, she stood beside the table with one of Jax’s Redemption colleagues, Lette, and Lette’s roommate, Special Agent Lauren Hall, aka Hacker Barbie in Holt’s book of code names, and she’d played into it tonight, absolutely owning the blond wig she wore.

Feb had just delivered their mains and was chatting them up like she normally would on her evening rounds.

And Jax would normally be bringing her a shot of whiskey right now.

That was the image they were supposed to project tonight—business as usual—but what did Feb want, in this moment and after service was over?

Jax wasn’t sure about the latter after Feb’s earlier hesitation in the chef’s nook, but as to the former, Jax had worked with Feb long enough to know she thrived on routine.

And she’d need that steadiness tonight. They grabbed Feb’s favorite rye off the backbar and a tumbler.

Beside them, Avery, Helena’s second in command, was mixing up cocktails for Mel and Chris.

“She’ll be fine,” Avery said with a jut of her chin toward Feb.

“She handles a knife every day. Helena just had to show her how to chuck it.” She capped two shakers, shook them, then, with a smooth flick of her index fingers, ditched the lids and poured the mixtures into the prepared glasses—a paloma for Mel, a Kentucky sidecar for Chris.

“Helena teach you how to sling drinks too?”