Page 68 of Jesse
“I shouldn’t have agreed with him,” I said quietly. “Your dad.”
Beck didn’t look up, but his hands slowed.
“I only said it because I was scared,” I went on. “I hate this. Not knowing where the threat is coming from. Not being able to control it. I just want you safe, Beck. That’s all I’ve wanted since this whole mess started.”
He let out a sharp breath, then turned to look at me. His brown eyes were tired, but clear.
“You think I’m not scared too?” he asked. “I check over my shoulder everywhere I go. But I’m not gonna run. Not from a killer. And not from you.”
My chest twisted.
“I have every right to be here,” Beck continued. “This truck, this competition, we built it together. And yeah, you’re my mate, but that doesn’t mean I need you to wrap me in bubble wrap and ship me off to safety every time things get rough.”
I winced but nodded. “You’re right. I know you are. I just…”
“You thought agreeing with my dad was protecting me,” he said softly. “But it felt like you chose his side over mine.”
“That’s exactly what it was,” I admitted. “And I regret it.”
Beck stared at me for a moment, his eyes searching mine. Then he sighed and bumped his shoulder against mine.
“Well,” he said, “you make it up to me by winning this thing.”
A laugh broke out of me, sharp and sudden. “That’s all we gotta do? Just win the finals?”
“And maybe stop being a dumbass,” he added with a smirk.
I grinned and nudged him back. “No promises.”
As the moment settled between us, Beck’s gaze drifted to the counter behind me. His brow furrowed, and he sniffed the air, then moved closer.
“Wait a second…” he murmured, his fingers brushing over a small container of spice mix. He popped it open, sniffed again, and froze. “This isn’t your rub, Jesse.”
“It’s not,” I admitted, my voice quiet. “I changed it. For the finals.”
He turned to face me, disbelief and something softer flashing in his eyes. “You changed it?”
“I took some of the best parts of your blend and mine,” I said, my hand finding the back of my neck.
For a moment, Beck didn’t speak. He stared at the spice mix in his hand like it was the most important thing in the world. Then he looked at me, his voice quieter now.
“You really did this?”
“Yeah,” I said. “It felt right.”
Beck’s lips twitched into a small, crooked smile. He put the spice mix back on the counter, his hand lingering for just a second. “Well,” he said, his voice lighter now, “you better hope it tastes good, or I’ll never let you hear the end of it.”
I grinned. “You’ll love it. I promise.”
We stood there for a second, our arms brushing as we worked the brisket again, this time together. The tension between us had eased, but not disappeared.
It would take more than one morning to fix all the cracks I’d caused, but it was a start. And more than that, it mattered again. The competition, the food, the truck.
All of it felt real because he was back.
The line outside the truck hadn’t let up since we opened. It coiled down the fairground row like a stubborn serpent, curling around families, teens, and foodies.
I wiped sweat off my brow, scrawled a new name on the next ticket, and shouted it back to Beck. “One Champion’s Brisket, fries on the side!”
