“We didn’t know you were coming by tonight,” a male voice called.

“Officially, we’re not,” Vic said. “We’re hoping to keep a low profile.”

“Of course, dear,” a woman said with a little chuckle. “You’ve come to the right place, but who is this ‘we’ you speak of?”

Vic glanced over her shoulder and gave Sophia an expression that contained equal parts smile, grimace, and apology. Then she stepped aside.

A few gasps and a mumbled comment or two passed among the group gathered in the corner.

“It’s that woman from the movie with Cobie Galloway?” one of the women asked.

“Sophia,” another one stage-whispered. “Sophia something or other. She’s starring in Emma’s movie.”

One of the men grinned broadly and scooted over. “Pull up a chair right here.”

Sophia braced for the phone cameras that would undoubtedly materialise next, before turning back to Vic. “So much for privacy.”

“No, no,” another woman’s voice called, and she turned to see a redhead enter from another room and make straight for the bar. “Don’t let them bombard you. I already cleared out the tourists, and I’ll drive that lot out, too, if they can’t mind their manners.”

Vic laughed again. “No worries about Friday Club.”

“I mean it,” the woman warned, drawing herself up to her full height as she grabbed a pint glass and began to fill it with amber liquid. She moved with ease and spoke with an accent much less polished than Vic’s or even Tommy’s. To her untrained ear, Sophia might have placed it as almost Scottish or Irish, but not quite. The woman slid the glass across the bar toward Vic before turning to her. “What’ll you have, Ms. LeBlanc?”

She warmed both at the easy way the bartender pegged her and the comfort with which she handled the encounter. If not for Vic standing so close and wreaking havoc on her senses, this woman would’ve pinged a few alarms of arousal.

“Seeing as how I have no idea where I am and what I’m in for, I guess I’ll have what Vic’s having.”

The woman nodded. “Another Thatcher’s cider coming right up, and for what it’s worth, you’re in the Raven. As to what you’re in for, that’s over my pay grade.”

The woman slid the second glass over, along with two menus. “The table in the corner’s all yours if you’ll have it.”

“Thank you, Brogan.” Vic’s tone suggested her gratitude encompassed more than the drinks.

“No worries. I’ll call my wife, and then I’ll be round for your orders.”

Vic lifted her glass in acknowledgement, then turned so the gesture encompassed the others still watching them intently from the other side of the room. “I hope you’ll not find us rude if we—”