Page 67 of Jesse
It should’ve been energizing. Hell, on any other day, I would’ve fed off that energy, gotten pumped, driven the crew hard and fast and proud into the finals.
But that morning, none of it stuck. I stood inside the truck, hands deep in a bowl of dry rub mix, mechanically stirring the spices without really seeing them.
My chest felt too tight, my body too heavy. Like I was made of lead.
It was the finals. The food truck showdown. The biggest day we’d prepped for the past few days. But the one person I wanted standing next to me was gone.
God did I miss his voice, his laugh, and even his snarky little eyebrow raise when I got too serious.
Beck had left. Not in a huff. Not with yelling or doors slamming or accusations thrown across the room. No, it was worse than that.
He left quiet. Packed his bag. Didn’t say much. Didn’t even turn around when he walked out. And all because I agreed with his father. Back then, I really thought it might be for the best.
I couldn’t forget the way Beck had looked at me, like I’d stabbed him in the chest. And maybe I had. Now here I was, elbow-deep in spices, pretending like anything about today mattered.
Sure, I’d done it because I was scared. Scared out of my mind that something would happen to him. That the killer stalking this place would finally strike.
But still, I should’ve taken Beck’s side. Stood firm. Told his dad no. Instead, I’d folded like wet paper.
“Jesse, brisket’s not gonna season itself,” I reminded myself.
But my hands moved slow, like I couldn’t get my brain to connect the dots. The spice mix was off. Too much or too little of something . I didn’t care. What was the point?
We’d worked our asses off for this, built momentum with long hours and barely any sleep, and now it felt hollow. I turned to grab the brisket tray and stopped cold.
A familiar scent drifted in through the open service window. Sharp, sweet, and wild underneath it all. My heart gave a jolt, like it recognized him before my brain could.
Beck.
I snapped my head up, ignoring the scents of crush of grilled corn, fried dough and citrus from some over-perfumed tourist in the air. None of them mattered.
Beck’s scent cut through it all like a lighthouse in the fog. Beck was walking up to the truck, his bag slung over one shoulder, hair wind-tossed and cheeks pink from the morning chill.
There was something hesitant in his step, but his gaze was locked on me.I blinked, stunned.
My hands still smelled like garlic and cumin, and my heart was trying to beat its way out of my chest. He stopped at the open side window.
“Hey,” he said, voice rough. “Is there room for one more in the truck?”
Dang it. Why did he have to be so stubborn? Why couldn’t he just stay where it was safe?
My wolf flared instantly, protective and possessive all at once. A growl nearly built in my throat, not at him, but at everything. The danger. The pressure.
The weight of trying to keep him safe. But under all that heat was something else. Relief.
A bone-deep, aching, overwhelming relief that he was here. That he came back. That maybe I hadn’t screwed everything up after all.
“There’s space,” I said, voice hoarse.
He nodded and stepped around to the back, climbing up into the truck without another word.
I stepped aside to let him pass, watching the way his shoulders rose and fell like he was holding in more than he wanted to show. We prepped in silence.
Side by side, we re-seasoned brisket, each of us doing our part without having to speak. We’d gotten good at that. Knowing each other’s rhythms.
I passed him a bowl of glaze, and he didn’t even glance at it before brushing it expertly across the marbled meat. We were building something again, maybe not just a recipe.
Still, the silence gnawed at me. I had to say something. I couldn’t let him think I wasn’t sorry.
