Page 19 of Jesse (Pecan Pines #6)

Jesse

The fairgrounds buzzed with excitement. I could hear the laughter, music, the thrum of conversation rising above the chime of game bells and the sizzle of grills firing up.

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.

“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!”

“Got it!” Beck’s voice came sharp and clear from the back, cutting through the sizzle of the grill and the bustle outside.

We moved like we were wired together. I manned the front, greeting customers, handling orders, slinging out jokes and charm like I wasn’t dead on my feet.

Beck was the engine, keeping everything hot and perfect behind the scenes. Our new brisket had blown up since the morning rush.

The rub had gotten more than a few customers closing their eyes in delight. By the time lunch rolled around, we were drowning in customers.

My throat burned from talking and my arms ached from sliding open the service window over and over again, but I didn’t care. This time, it wasn’t just popular vote we were gunning for.

This time, we were gonna win.

“Jesse, I swear to God, this is the best brisket you’ve ever made,” came a familiar voice near the window.

I looked up to see Mr. Thompson. He was an old-time regular from the restaurant and he was grinning at me with his wife tucked under his arm like always.

He held up his sandwich like it was a prized trophy.

“You serving this full-time or what?” he asked.

My eyes flicked past him, back into the truck. Beck had just slid another tray into the warmer, but he paused, head tilted like he was listening. He definitely heard the question.

I leaned a little closer to Mr. Thompson with a grin. “We’ll see,” I said, giving Beck a wink.

Beck didn’t say anything, but his lips twitched like he was fighting a smile, and his shoulders straightened just a bit. Truth was, we hadn’t talked much about what came after the fair.

There hadn’t been time. Between everything with the competition, the killer still at large, and the chaos of Beck leaving and coming back, we hadn’t touched the future.

But I was starting to picture one. Could he stay here in Pecan Pines? Move in with me? Open a place of our own? The idea settled in my chest like warm coals, steady and glowing.

Not today, I reminded myself. But someday. Maybe soon. Another order came in. I turned back to the line and kept working.

By late afternoon, we were both dragging. My voice was hoarse and Beck looked like he could fold in half if he stopped moving for too long. But the line? Still there. Still hungry. Still growing.

Remy and Colton popped in to run a few supplies from the restaurant and help serve drinks for half an hour. Without them, I wasn’t sure we’d have made it through the last rush.

Even so, my senses stayed sharp. Every few minutes, I scanned the crowd. My wolf wouldn’t let me stop. We hadn’t forgotten the killer was still out there.

Beck and I agreed: if they were going to strike again, today would be the day. Finals. Big crowd. All eyes on the trucks. Perfect place for something to go wrong. But nothing did.

We sold out thirty minutes before closing, the last customer high-fiving me and shouting about how she’d never tasted meat so dang good in her life.

Beck leaned against the prep counter, laughing under his breath as I rang the cowbell Ethan rigged above the window to signal we were done for the day.

I locked up the window and slid the panel shut, exhaling hard.

Done. We made it. Now we just had to wait.

The final announcement was held at the main stage just before sunset. The other trucks gathered near us, a mix of adrenaline and exhaustion hanging in the air.

Beck stood beside me, arms crossed loosely, our shoulders touching. I kept glancing around, scanning the crowd. Still no signs of trouble.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Beck murmured.

“What thing?” I demanded.

“The broody wolf stare. Like you expect someone to jump out of a popcorn cart and stab me.”

I didn’t smile. “If they tried, I’d gut them before they got close.”

He nudged me gently. “I know.”

The host climbed up on the platform, mic squealing for half a second before he adjusted it.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us for Pecan Pines’ Annual Food Truck Showdown! It’s been an incredible day, and a hell of a feast, huh?”

Applause and cheering echoed through the crowd. My pulse kicked harder.

“They’ve all been tallied. The sales, votes, and judges’ feedback. Now it’s time to announce our top three winners.”

My hand found Beck’s without even thinking. I curled my fingers around his. He squeezed back.

“Third place goes to... Smokestack Wings!”

Scattered claps. The little rig with the spinning neon pasta sign got their certificate. They looked thrilled.

“Second place,” the host said, dragging it out for dramatic effect, “goes to... Brisket Delight!”

My brain blanked for a second. Second? I looked at Beck. He was blinking at the stage, then his face split into a wide grin.

“I’ll take second place,” he said, throwing his arms around me.

I caught him easily, burying my face in his neck. He smelled like sweat and smoke and citrus slaw, and I didn’t care about anything else.

“Yeah,” I said into his skin. “Second place is pretty good.”

He pulled back enough to look at me, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. “We earned it.”

I smiled. “Together.”

He leaned in and I didn’t hesitate.

I kissed him right there, on the edge of the crowd, with the sky turning pink behind us and the buzz of celebration in the air.

His mouth was warm, familiar, and tasted faintly of sugar and brisket glaze. I didn’t care who was watching.

It was the kind of kiss that burned slow and sure, like everything we’d built finally finding solid ground under our feet.

We weren’t just a fluke. We were choosing each other, again and again. When we broke apart, Beck rested his forehead against mine.

“So,” he said, voice quiet, “about that customer asking if this brisket’s going on the menu…”

“Mm?”

“I think we should do it,” he said. “Maybe even start something new.”

My heart jumped.

“You thinking food truck or restaurant?”

“Not sure yet,” he admitted. “But I know I want to build it with you.”

I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “You thinking about staying?”

Beck looked at me like it was the easiest thing in the world. “Yeah, Jesse. I’m thinking about staying.”

I kissed him again, slower this time. Second place? That was just the start.