Page 38 of Untamed Hunter Daddy

The sound sends a current through my body. I don’t turn around. I don’t have to. Ryker’s posture at the counter changes. A subtle straightening of the spine. His coffee cup set down carefully, freeing his hands.

In the reflection of the window glass I see the man who walked in.

Tall. Heavyset. Buzz cut. Wearing a Ridge Auto shirt. The same one the man at Tyler’s booth wore at Alpha Pig. He stands just inside the door and surveys the place. His gaze stops briefly on Ryker at the counter. Moves to Brock in the back booth. Moves to me and Greta in the window booth.

His eyes pass over me. Then come back.

The double-take is small. A fraction of a second. The look of a man who’s seen a photograph and is comparing it to the live version. I’m wearing the baseball cap. My sunglasses are on the table. My hair is different. But faces are faces, and whatever image Tyler showed his people is close enough.

“Greta,” I say, voice steady. “Who’s that man?”

She turns toward the door with the open curiosity of an owner who knows every face in her town. “Don’t know him. He’s been in once or twice this week. Orders a coffee, sits in the corner, doesn’t talk to anyone. Leaves exact change. Doesn’t tip.”

“I need you to do something for me. Go behind the counter and act normal. Don’t look at him again. Don’t look at me like something’s wrong. Just go back to what you were doing.”

Her eyes widen. She reads the room the way she’s spent years reading rooms. Her face goes pale.

“Go,” I whisper.

She stands and walks behind the counter. Picks up a rag and starts wiping surfaces that are already clean.

The man walks to the counter. Six feet from Ryker. He orders a coffee. Greta’s hands tremble on the pot. The liquid sloshes against the rim.

“You got a restroom?” he asks.

“Back hallway, on the left,” she says. Her voice holds.

He walks past the counter toward the hallway. He passes within three feet of Ryker. Their eyes meet for half a second. Both faces carefully blank. Two masks recognizing each other for exactly what they are.

The bathroom door closes.

Ryker moves. Not fast. Not alarming. He picks up his coffee, walks to Brock’s booth, and leans down. The exchange takes four seconds. I read his mouth: Ridge Auto. Tyler’s crew. He’s making Zoe. Back hall, thirty seconds.

Brock stands and is out the back door before the bathroom door opens. Through the rear window I watch him cross the parking lot, round the building, and position himself where he can see both the front entrance and the man’s vehicle. He pulls out his phone.

Ryker returns to the counter. Takes a sip of his own coffee. The performance is seamless, but the tension is in his neck and the way his right hand stays close to his hip under the counter’s edge.

The bathroom door opens. The man walks back to a corner table and sits facing the room. His eyes move to the window booth where I’m sitting alone.

He looks at me. I look at the cat mug. The coffee’s gone cold. My hands are wrapped around it. I can feel his gaze on the side of my face, hot and specific. He’s deciding whether to make a call.

I don’t look up. I don’t run. I sit with my cold coffee and wait.

Minutes pass. Two. Three. An eternity measured in heartbeats.

He finishes his coffee, sets the mug down, stands, leaves exact change on the table, and pushes through the door without looking back. The bell jingles. Bright and cheerful. As if nothing happened.

Through the window I watch him walk to a dark pickup at the far end of the lot. He gets in, and sits for a moment. Then the truck pulls out and turns left on Main Street, heading south toward the county highway. Toward Alpha Range.

Ryker’s phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, then looks at me across the diner and nods once. Brock has the tail. The plate’s being run. The system is working.

I exhale. The breath I’ve been holding leaves me in a rush. My hands tremble. I set the cat mug down carefully.

Greta appears from the kitchen with red eyes and a fresh pot. She slides into the booth and pours without asking.

“That man,” she says, voice thin. “He’s one of them. Isn’t he?”

“Yes.”