Page 63 of Knox

“His name is Sarumeown,” says a Scottish voice beside me.

I turn around and see a cute Highlander with a face full of freckles.

“Seriously?” asks Leo, while petting the cat on Ellis’ arms.

“Well, he’s a white arsehole, so it was between Sarumeown and King Meowffrey.” He stretches his hand to me, and I shake it. “Finnian, owner an’ baker of this place. Good to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you; these are Leo, Ellis, Julian, and I’m Cillian.”

“Aye! You’re Knox’s Cillian—whom I know nothing about… Of course.”

“Of course.” Alistair glares at him, and Finnian laughs.

Wait… has Knox been talking about me?

With a baker?

“Finni!” the barista with blue hair yells. “Table seven is still waiting for you!”

“I’m coming! Go sit down, I’ll meet you in a second.” He pats Alistair’s arm and runs to a table where three old ladies are having tea.

“Like it?” Alistair asks me.

“Love it. But the place is full.”

“Not for us. Come this way.”

We follow Alistair toward the back of the bakery, turning into a secluded alcove next to a gorgeous window. It’s easily the coziest spot in the place, with a big wooden table for at least twelve people.

“Are you sure we can take this table?” I ask. “This thing is massive, and there are only five of us.”

“Pretty sure,” Alistair says, tapping his knuckles against the wood.

I walk over and lean in.

Beautifully carved directly into the surface is an infinity sign, filled with a black resin that gives it an incredible 3D depth. The whole thing looks like a badass, medieval piece that belongs in a King Arthur movie.

“Let me guess,” I tease. “You saved Finnian from a super high-stakes croissant robbery.”

“Years ago, we came up with the name ‘Harknett’ at this table.”

“So… you’re regulars?” Leo asks.

“Nae,” Finnian interjects, arriving with a massive tray loaded with ten different assorted pastries. “They’re more like weeds that got into ma beautiful garden, an’ now I can’t get rid of them.”

Alistair reaches out, snatching a miniature pie off the tray before taking a bite. “Blame your bloody pies.”

“I would never.” Finnian sets the tray down, takes a seat, and passes out plates to the rest of us. “Take whatever you want. Lena will be over in a bit to take your coffee orders.”

“Thanks a lot,” I say.

“Oh, man! These are incredible,” Julian groans around a mouthful after biting into a pistachio macaron.

Finnian takes an eclair and leans back. “So, folk I know nothing about… what brings you here?”

“We’re planning a gala and an auction for all this art,” Julian explains, passing Finnian a folder filled with photos of the paintings and sculptures.

Finnian flips through the pages, whistling. “Christ on a bike… I know jack shit about art, an’ I even recognise some of these paintings. This is incredible.”