Page 25 of Jesse
His voice was sharp, but not loud. Controlled, like everything else about him. Tight jaw. Tighter shoulders.
His dark eyes flashed, not with fury exactly, but with the kind of quiet frustration I wasn’t used to anyone directing at me. And dang if it didn’t make me want to prove myself.
“I can explain—” I began.
But he was already turning on his heel, pushing through the sliding doors. I followed him inside, weaving through the aisle toward produce.
Beck stalked ahead with the cart, his movements precise and efficient as he plucked ingredients off shelves: cherry tomatoes, cornmeal, a couple bundles of cilantro.
“I stopped by the pack compound,” I said, trying to keep pace. “Talked to Anthony, our resident hacker and IT security specialist.”
Beck didn’t look at me, just tossed a bag of onions into the cart.
“The footage’s wrecked,” I added. “Totally scrambled. Anthony’s trying to salvage what he can, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
That finally earned me a sideways glance. “So we’re back to square one.”
“Kind of. But I had another idea. I’m installing hidden security cams in and around the truck. I’ll get motion alerts to my phone. If the bastard comes back, we’ll catch him this time.”
Beck paused, holding a bell pepper in one hand, finally turning to face me fully. His shoulders relaxed, just a little.
“Thanks,” he muttered. “That’s... smart.”
It was the closest to a compliment I’d gotten from him so far. I grinned, but it faded when I noticed him staring at an empty produce bin near the cooler.
The little “SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE” sign taped to the front told the story.
“No basil?” he murmured.
“Or heirloom tomatoes,” I added, glancing around. “Guess the early birds beat us to it.”
He let out a soft breath and pushed his hair off his forehead with the back of his hand. Disappointment flickered across his face, quiet and genuine.
I felt a surge of something hot in my chest. Not attraction. Well, not just attraction. A need to fix it for him. To see him smile.
“I might know a place,” I said.
Beck looked up. “For heirlooms?”
“And more.”
His eyes narrowed, but there was curiosity there now. “Where?”
I wiggled my brows. “Secret. But only if you trust me.”
He hesitated, one hand still on the cart, then finally said, “I reluctantly trust you.”
I took that as a win.
We paid, loaded the groceries into my truck, and as he slid into the passenger seat, Beck gave me a sideways look. “Are we about to commit produce-based theft?”
“Tempting, but no,” I said, grinning. “You’ll see.”
The drive took about twenty minutes, winding through a backroad highway that opened up into wide, open land.
Rolling hills and clusters of trees blurred by until we reached a quaint little town nestled between farmland and forest. Cobblestone sidewalks. Hanging flower baskets.
And, best of all, the familiar rows of canopied stalls lining the heart of the square. Beck leaned forward in his seat as I pulled in beside the farmer’s market.
