But it wasn’t to be—because Phillip Kincaid strolled into the restaurant around two o’clock.
Kincaid had sandy blond hair that was slicked back into a low ponytail and strong, pronounced cheekbones a model would have been envious of. He wore a dark blue suit that showed off the strength of his tall, thick body, and he looked almost as good in the expensive threads as Finn did in one of his designer duds. Kincaid wasn’t movie star handsome—not like Finn—but there was something about him that caught your eye and made you take a second look. Something in the easy, confident way he carried himself, and the coldness in his vivid blue eyes.
Despite his striking looks, Kincaid was on my radar for another, less pleasant reason: he happened to be one of Ashland’s top underworld sharks, with a network of giant enforcers and other rough types who worked for him. Kincaid had been one of the few heavy hitters who’d dared to go toe-to-toe with Mab when she’d been alive. Now that the Fire elemental was dead, Kincaid had even more power, as he’d spent the last few months picking up some of the pieces of her old empire and consolidating them into his own operations.
The last time I’d seen Kincaid had been on his luxe riverboat casino, the Delta Queen, back in the fall. I’d gone to one of his parties to kill Elliot Slater, a giant who was stalking and terrorizing a friend of mine. I’d never spoken to or had any real interaction with Kincaid, other than watching him smile at me at Mab’s funeral, but we both knew who the other was.
I expected to see a giant bodyguard or two step into the restaurant behind Kincaid, but the door swung shut behind him. Phillip Kincaid, walking into my gin joint all by his lonesome. Interesting. Somehow, though, I didn’t think he was here for the food, no matter how good it was.
Sophia heard the bell over the front door chime when Kincaid opened it, and she looked up from the warm sourdough buns she was slicing. She recognized him too, her black lips flattening out into a thin, hard line.
“Trouble?” the dwarf asked, her fingers tightening around the bread knife in her hand.
“We’ll see,” I murmured. “Stand by for now.”
Sophia grunted and went back to her slicing.
Kincaid scanned the inside of the restaurant, looking over everyone and everything, much as I’d done earlier. Then, to my surprise, he walked over, unbuttoned his suit jacket, and took a seat at the counter right in front of where I was slicing ripe tomatoes, sweet red onions, and crispy lettuce for the day’s sandwiches.
Catalina grabbed a menu and started to go over to Kincaid, but Sophia headed her off and pointed her to a customer who needed a drink refill, leaving him to me.
Kincaid sat at the counter and watched me slice the vegetables. The surprising thing was that I didn’t sense any judgment or rancor in him. Not like when Jonah McAllister came in. The lawyer always sneered at me, but Kincaid just looked at me with curiosity—and wariness.
I chopped my way through a head of lettuce, amusing myself by imagining it was McAllister I was cutting into, before he finally spoke.
“Gin Blanco.” His voice had a slow, seductive Southern drawl to it, the sort that would make a woman melt on a hot, steamy night, although I could hear a faint twang in his words, as though he’d been raised more poor country than his slick city suit let on.
“Phillip Kincaid.” My tone was as frosty as his was warm.
His eyebrows arched up. “You know me.”
“And you know me. So let’s cut the fake surprise and niceties and get down to business. What do you want?”
“Well, right now, I want a sweet iced blackberry tea, a bacon cheeseburger, potato salad, baked beans, and a slice of that cherry pie in the cake stand. It looks absolutely delicious. And would you be so kind as to bring it all out together, please? I always hate waiting for dessert.”
I gave him a hard, flat stare, but Kincaid just smiled, revealing perfect white teeth. He didn’t show a hint of doubt or fear in the face of my wintry gray gaze. If anything, his own eyes brightened in what looked like delight, as if I’d passed some sort of secret test by not responding to his obvious charms. Well, if that was the game he wanted to play, I’d be more than happy to oblige him—right up until I stuck one of my knives in his chest the second he showed his true colors.
“Why, coming right up, sugar,” I said in a drawl that was as slow and syrupy as his.
Kincaid’s eyes narrowed at my mocking tone, but he kept his smile on his face. He had balls, I’d give him that, coming into my restaurant and acting like just another customer. Then again, so did all the other lowlifes who did the exact same thing. I wondered if Kincaid had more brains than the others did. One would assume so, given how long he’d managed to survive swimming in the underworld muck. You didn’t achieve Kincaid’s level of staying power and success by being a pushover or stupid.
Sophia helped me fix Kincaid’s food, and a few minutes later I set his plates in front of him. He wasted no time in tucking a white napkin in at his chin and digging into his bacon cheeseburger, side dishes, and pie. He ate them all at once, taking a bite of burger, then one of potato salad, then beans, and finally one of pie, instead of waiting to eat his dessert after he finished everything else. Every once in a while, he’d break up the pattern with a swig of tea. Curious. So was the fact that he ate so quickly, as if he was afraid I was going to reach across the counter and snatch away his plates before he’d had his fill.
The way he wolfed down his meal reminded me of myself when I’d been living on the streets as a kid. Back then, I’d crammed food into my mouth as rapidly as Kincaid was doing now. Most curious indeed.
We didn’t speak as he ate, and I moved back and forth behind the counter, fixing drinks, dishing up food, and helping Sophia and the waitresses with whatever the other customers needed. But through it all, I kept an eye on Kincaid.
All the while, I kept waiting for some of his giant bodyguards to show up, for someone to try and take a shot at me through the bulletproof storefront windows . . . hell, for something, anything, dangerous to happen—but nothing did. For all intents and purposes, Phillip Kincaid had just come here for lunch.
The problem was, I didn’t believe that any more than I believed the moon was made of green fucking cheese.
Several minutes later, as I was whacking my way through another head of lettuce and still indulging in my murderous daydreams, Kincaid finished his meal and let out what sounded like a satisfied sigh, as though he’d truly enjoyed the food. He removed the napkin from the collar of his shirt, dropped it on the counter, and pushed his plates to the side.
I finished with the lettuce and moved on to the next vegetable on my list, potatoes that needed to be peeled and cubed so I could make another batch of potato salad.
“That was a mighty fine meal,” Kincaid said, sounding quite sincere. “Best one I’ve had in a long time. In fact, that’s why I came here today.”
“Oh?” I said, putting as much withering disbelief as I could into that one word.
“I’m holding a little get-together on the Delta Queen in a few days’ time. And I want you to cater the event.”
This time, my eyebrows were the ones that shot up. “You want me to cater a party? On your riverboat?”
“I do. Everyone says you make the best barbecue in Ashland, so I decided to see for myself. You’ve sold me on your little place. Consider me a loyal customer from now on.”
He gave me another winning smile, as if that seemingly innocent expression could somehow lure me into swallowing the absolute bullshit he was spouting. He rather reminded me of Finn in that moment. The difference was, I trusted my foster brother.