Page 8 of Jesse (Pecan Pines #6)

Beck

I stood at the edge of the prep counter, checklist in hand, rattling off items while Jesse sliced onions like we weren’t in the middle of a high-stakes competition.

“Onions, bell peppers…did you check the oil temp? What about the seasoning mix? And the garnish for the sliders? Please tell me you didn’t forget.”

“Relax, Chef,” Jesse cut me off, his tone calm but with a smirk that I didn’t even need to see to feel.

He continued, “By the way, I swapped the microgreens for cilantro. We ran out. And forget the stuffed empanadas. Half the trucks here are making them. I changed it up: spicy avocado crema with roasted corn fritters instead.”

I froze. “You what?” My voice came out sharper than I intended. “And when exactly were you planning to tell me this? I could’ve adjusted the menu so the flavors actually worked together!”

Jesse didn’t even flinch. His knife moved steadily, slicing each onion into impossibly even rings.

“Doesn’t matter. It’ll be fine. Trust me. Bold stands out, and people will remember this,” Jesse pointed out.

My fingers twitched, and it took every ounce of restraint to keep from slamming the clipboard down.

Yesterday, I wanted to kiss him. Right now, I wanted to strangle him.

I opened my mouth, a retort ready, but Jesse suddenly barked, “Behind!”

Before I could react, his hand brushed my waist as he passed, light but deliberate, while he balanced a tray of brisket in his other hand.

The touch was so quick it shouldn’t have registered, but it did. A jolt of heat shot up my spine, freezing me in place.

Was this truck smaller than mine? The space felt tighter today, more stifling.

Every time Jesse moved, I felt him—his arm brushing mine, the heat of him too close, too distracting. I shook my head.

It had to be the temperature in the truck or maybe competition nerves. I forced myself to refocus. The competition mattered more than anything else.

Winning meant staying on-site, keeping access to the other trucks and staff areas for the investigation. But it wasn’t just about that.

It was my shot to prove to my family I could do this.

It all had to be perfect. Except now, with Jesse’s last-minute improvisation, it wasn’t. I couldn’t afford any more surprises. No distractions.

But as my gaze slid to Jesse, my resolve wavered. He was loading the grill.

The sleeveless top he wore today revealed strong, sun-kissed arms I hadn’t meant to notice, the kind of muscle earned through years of hard work.

His shoulders flexed as he adjusted the heat, and I caught myself staring, unblinking. I swallowed hard, trying to focus on something, anything else, but my mind betrayed me.

I remembered the way he’d looked at me yesterday, eyes locked on mine, the air between us charged.

I imagined how it would’ve felt to close the distance, to run my hands up his arms, over his firm shoulders, pull him in?—

Heat rushed to my face, and I snapped my attention back to the checklist. What the hell was wrong with me? I needed to focus. No distractions, I reminded myself. None.

“Could you please wear something more appropriate?” I snapped.

He glanced over his shoulder, his biceps flexing as he reached for the cutting board.

“It’s a hundred degrees in this truck, Beck. And it’s only going to get hotter. You want me to keel over from heatstroke?” Jesse asked.

“At least throw a shirt over it,” I retorted, already digging through the small stash of clean clothes I kept in the back corner for emergencies.

I found a plain gray button-down shirt and tossed it at him.

“Here. Put this on,” I told him.

He caught the shirt easily and held it up. “What’s the big deal? It’s not like anyone cares.”

“It’s distracting,” I muttered, immediately regretting it as the words slipped out.

His head tilted, and a slow, mischievous grin spread across his face. He looked like a dog who’d just found a bone.

“Distracting, huh?” he drawled, stepping closer. “Is my skin distracting you, Beck?”

I scowled. “It’s unhygienic,” I said firmly, ignoring the flare of heat racing up my neck.

Jesse clutched his chest.

“Unhygienic? I’m cleaner than you, Mr. Checklist.” He lifted his arm, offering it up with an exaggerated flourish. “Here, take a whiff. Go on, tell me I don’t smell like a meadow after a spring rain.”

“Get away from me!” I laughed despite myself, shoving him back, though not hard enough to make him actually stop.

But he did smell good. Damn it, I’d noticed it before, but now it was undeniable, a mix of something woodsy and clean, like cedar and fresh linen.

I wasn’t sure if it was just the detergent on his clothes; it clung to him, lingering even after he walked away.

The scent stirred something deep inside me, something primal and restless. My wolf perked up, curious and alert every time I caught a whiff.

I had to fight the urge to lean closer, to inhale again. Was it his soap? His fabric softener?

Before my thoughts spiraled further, the bell by the front counter dinged loudly, jolting me back to reality.

“Am I the first customer? Do I win a prize?” Ethan’s familiar voice called out from the front, his head popping into view through the service window.

I stiffened, glancing at Jesse, who was still grinning like he’d won something. Turning to Ethan, I forced a smile. “No prizes. We’re not open yet.”

Ethan stepped closer, his eyes darting between Jesse and me. “Should I be worried about any food safety violations, though?”

My stomach sank. How much had he overheard?

“It’s all perfectly above board,” I said quickly, brushing imaginary crumbs off the counter.

Ethan chuckled, glancing at Jesse. “Uh-huh. Sure it is. Anyway, just wanted to check when you’re opening. Some of the other trucks look ready to go, and a few are already taking orders.”

Panic crept in as I tried to hold it together. I glanced around the truck. Most of the potatoes were still unpeeled, and some garnishes weren’t prepped. My heart rate spiked.

“We’re not ready. The potatoes need to be cooked and smashed, and?—”

Jesse cut in, his voice calm and steady. “I peeled some earlier. We can start with those.”

“But the potatoes are part of the brisket dish. Your brisket dish. People are expecting it!” I shot back, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on me. “You’re the one who insisted we use your recipe.”

Jesse shrugged, utterly unbothered. “We’ll push the other dishes for now. Let them wait a little for the brisket. It’ll be worth it.”

I stared at him, my panic battling with the small flicker of gratitude for his quick thinking.

Looking out the window, I saw Ethan talking to a growing crowd. He was probably assuring them we’d open soon.

With no choice but to trust Jesse’s plan, I exhaled sharply and nodded.

“Fine. But we need to catch up fast. The rest of the day has to go perfectly,” I said.

Jesse pulled the shirt over his head, and despite everything, I caught myself watching as it settled over his shoulders. Damn him.

The rhythm of the work was hypnotic. Take the order. Fry the protein. Assemble the toppings, dress it all up, plate, and serve.

Over and over, my hands moved almost automatically.

At first, I was really surprised at how smoothly everything was running despite the chaos of the morning.

Jesse had prepped things to perfection, and I could even hold down the truck on my own. It felt manageable. Efficient, even.

Jesse had insisted on being outside, mingling with customers and taking orders. At first, I thought it was unnecessary.

We had a steady flow of hungry diners, and I could handle the line just fine from up here.

But he said, “I need to be on the ground. It’s the only way to get a feel for what’s going on.”

It made sense, of course. Part of the reason we were here wasn’t just to sell food but to keep an eye on things.

And with the sheer number of people swarming around the trucks, it was impossible to notice anything unusual from inside.

Being out there gave Jesse a better vantage point, and I couldn’t deny it was the right move.

He also argued it was a way to lure back customers who had gone to other trucks when we opened later.

“If they’re stuck in someone else’s line, I’ll give them a reason to ditch,” he said with a grin. And knowing Jesse, I was sure his charm alone was enough to turn heads.

My thoughts drifted briefly to the first time I’d met him, remembering how he stood there, all confidence and charm, telling my customers my brisket was dry and they’d be better off buying from his truck.

At the time, I was furious. The audacity of it set my blood boiling. But now, I could begrudgingly admit, even if only to myself, that it had been bold. Clever, even.

Maybe it was that part of me that hates losing or my understanding of how the game was played, but I didn’t mind Jesse’s tactics anymore.

If anything, I respected how effective they were. And if this strategy helped us get to the next round, maybe even the top three, then why not?

Winning meant more than just the case now. It was about staying in the game, holding my place, and proving I wasn’t just some rookie.

I glanced out the window, noting how other trucks had started doing the same thing.

One of them was even giving out free samples, their staff calling out loudly to anyone who passed by.

Jesse’s voice cut through the noise, light and teasing but still loud enough for nearby customers to hear. “Look at that. They’re intimidated by the Beck-and-Jesse collab. Desperate enough to give out freebies.”

The crowd laughed, and so did the staff at the truck next to him. Jesse’s easy charm was working its magic, pulling people in like a magnet.

And then there it was, that damn smile of his. The one that had caught my attention the first time we met.

The dimple deepening on his left cheek as he leaned against the counter, chatting with a group of customers.

I wasn’t sure what I felt. A flicker of something, maybe irritation, as I turned back to the grill. It wasn’t like he’d done anything wrong.