Page 7 of Jesse (Pecan Pines #6)

Jesse

I was already ten minutes late and feeling every second of it like a ticking bomb in my chest.

I was supposed to meet Beck at the local supermarket to grab the ingredients we needed for tomorrow’s menu.

Something spicy and Southern, if I remembered right.

We’d argued about cornbread versus hushpuppies for a solid fifteen minutes last night, and I was pretty sure we’d circled back to chili cheese sliders by the end of it.

Typical Beck. He was stubborn, sharp-tongued, and ridiculously good in the kitchen. And also the reason my thoughts wouldn’t stay still.

I gripped the steering wheel tighter as I turned down the back road toward the pack compound.

The pine trees lining the gravel path blurred past, but my mind wasn’t on the road. It was on Beck. He was nothing like anyone I’d worked with before.

Where I went instinct-first, he was precise. Measured.

Where I threw things together by feel, he weighed every gram, every second, like a scientist conducting a delicate experiment. And somehow, that didn’t annoy me.

It intrigued me. No. Beck intrigued me.

I’d never done serious relationships. Never wanted to. Hookups, fun, no strings. That had always worked fine for me. But with Beck… it didn’t feel like that.

It felt like I wanted to know what made him tick. It felt like my wolf had already made up his mind, and I was the last one catching up.

I cursed under my breath and pulled into the compound’s lot, parking in my usual spot. Duty first. Festival later.

Heading into the main house, I made a beeline for the basement level, where Anthony had basically built himself a digital lair.

I pushed open the heavy reinforced door and stepped into a room that looked like something out of a hacker action flick.

Walls covered in monitors, cables hanging from the ceiling like vines, the soft clack of mechanical keys tapping rhythmically.

“Morning, Tony,” I called, ducking under a bundle of wires strung from one side of the room to the other like a jungle trap.

Anthony didn’t look up. “Jesse. You’re late.”

“Story of my life,” I muttered, coming around to his desk.

Screens glowed with looping code, static frames from ruined footage, and one corner had the festival map open and marked up.

The space smelled faintly of coffee, energy drinks, and burnt solder. A fan whirred in the corner, trying and failing to cool the cluster of overheating servers.

Anthony finally turned in his chair, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“I went over the footage again. Whoever fried the feed was thorough. Signal distortion, corrupted time stamps, metadata wiped,” he said, although I hadn’t the foggiest idea of what he just told me.

“So it’s useless?” I asked, heart sinking.

“For now. But I’m not giving up,” he added, spinning back to one of the monitors. “There might be residual frames I can reconstruct. It’s slow work, though.”

“It’s urgent,” I said, my tone sharper than I meant. “Whoever killed that man is dangerous. I want this solved, fast.”

Anthony’s fingers paused over his keyboard. “I know. I’m trying.”

I blew out a breath and ran a hand through my hair. “Sorry. I just can’t let anything happen to Beck.”

Anthony raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Which was generous of him.

I hesitated, then added, “Actually, that’s the other thing I wanted to talk about.”

“Go on.”

“I want to install security cameras. In and around the truck. Hidden ones, if possible.”

Anthony tilted his head, thoughtful.

“That’s doable. You’ll want something discreet but with night vision and high-resolution recording. Battery backup too. I’ve got a few spare Wyze Cams and a stealth unit. They link up to an app. Motion alerts, remote viewing, the works,” he said.

“Perfect. Show me how to use it?” I asked.

He reached under the desk, rummaged in a drawer, and pulled out two palm-sized black cameras and a small wireless hub.

“These are your best bet. One goes inside, mounted high, angled toward the back kitchen area. The other goes outside, near the serving window. Download the app. It’s called SynCam, and I’ll give you access credentials. Make sure you arm them before every shift,” he explained.

I nodded, already reaching for my phone. “Thanks, man. I’ll owe you for this.”

“You already do,” he said dryly.

I checked the time and cursed out loud. “Dang, I’m running late. Beck’s gonna murder me.”

Anthony snorted as I grabbed the cameras and sprinted for the door. “Tell him it’s for his safety. That should soften the blow,” Anthony added.

I didn’t stop running until I hit the parking lot, the cool air burning my lungs.

As I jumped into my truck and gunned the engine, a tight, coiling anxiety curled low in my stomach. Not because I was late. But because I cared what Beck thought.

Because I could still picture him, frowning at his watch, arms crossed, that impatient tilt to his head, and I wanted to be there.

Not just to work together. Not just to solve this murder.

I wanted to be near him. To protect him. And that realization hit me harder than anything Anthony had said.

My wolf stirred deep inside, quiet but alert, and I didn’t fight it this time.

Beck wasn’t just a teammate. He was becoming something else. And I didn’t know what that meant, but I was about to find out.

Beck was already waiting outside the supermarket, arms crossed, back leaning against the brick wall beside the automatic doors.

His expression could’ve curdled milk.

The moment he spotted my truck, he looked down at his watch with the over-exaggerated patience of someone fighting the urge to throw it at me.

I parked and jogged toward him, the strap of the canvas grocery bag slung over my shoulder thumping against my back. “Beck?—”

“You’re twenty-six minutes late,” he snapped before I could say anything.

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.

“You brought me to a market,” he said, voice flat.

“I brought you to the market,” I corrected. “These guys supply half the restaurants in the area.”

I hadn’t seen him smile much before, but right then, I saw something close. His lips quirked up, just barely.

We walked through the maze of stalls, the air rich with the scent of herbs, soil, and sun-warmed fruit. Beck’s eyes lit up with every turn.

He picked through bunches of basil like he was handling fine silk.

Beck murmured something delighted under his breath at a basket of rainbow carrots, and spent ten whole minutes quizzing a tomato vendor on soil acidity.

I’d never met anyone so enthusiastic about vegetables. And, to be honest, I loved it.

His face was more expressive than I’d ever seen it. His eyes crinkled when he found a perfect cucumber, lips parted slightly in awe over a honey sample.

I found myself watching him more than the produce. There was something about seeing him relaxed, in his element, that tugged at my chest.

Eventually, arms full of fresh ingredients, I offered, “Wanna grab a coffee before we head back?”

Beck blinked. “With you?”

“Unless there’s another six-foot-four shifter following you around asking nicely.”

He rolled his eyes but nodded. “Fine. But you’re paying.”

We settled at a tiny café across from the market, bags of produce tucked at our feet.

Beck ordered something dark and bitter, I got a cinnamon latte, and we took the seats by the window.

Sunlight slanted in, casting gold across his cheekbones, and for a second, I couldn’t look away. He pulled out the basil bunch and gave it a once-over, humming to himself.

I chuckled. “You know you already bought it, right?”

“Quality control,” he muttered.

I let the silence linger for a moment, then said, “Hey. I’m sorry again. For being late. For... everything. I’ll follow your lead in the kitchen, Beck. You’re the expert.”

Beck’s hand brushed against mine as he reached for the basil. Neither of us moved. The touch was barely there, but it felt like a spark just under my skin.

Beck glanced at me, a little pink in the cheeks.

“I’m sorry too,” he said softly. “For snapping earlier.”

We sat there like that, knees brushing beneath the table, the air thick with something unspoken. His fingers lingered near mine, close enough I could feel his warmth.

I leaned in, just slightly. His eyes flicked to my mouth, and for half a second, I swore we were both leaning. His breath hitched, so soft I almost missed it.

My pulse thundered in my ears.

But I stopped right there, barely an inch away. Too soon. Not yet. The moment stretched, taut and trembling, like a held breath between lightning and thunder.

His cheeks flushed deeper, a soft pink blooming across the tops of his cheekbones. But he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Didn’t say a word.

The world around us faded into a blur. The gentle hum of conversation in the café, the clink of cutlery, the barista steaming milk behind the counter. None of it mattered.

It was just us. Just the warmth of his hand still resting near mine, just the scent of fresh basil clinging to the air between us.

Just the almost-kiss that hovered like a secret waiting to happen. And that silence? That unspoken charge between us?

It told me everything I needed to know. Beck felt it too.