“Here.” I hold out the bowl. “Eat.”
Tessa looks at the chili like it might bite her. “I’m not hungry.”
“Tessa.”
“I’m really not?—”
“You haven’t eaten since breakfast,” Ben says. “Maybe lunch, but knowing you, you skipped that too.”
“How would you know?”
“Because I know you. You forget to eat when you’re stressed. And you’ve been organizing this fundraiser for weeks, which means you’ve probably been running on coffee and spite since January.”
She opens her mouth to argue, then closes it again. “Spite is very nutritious.”
“Eat the chili.” I push the bowl into her hands. “It’s my grandfather’s recipe. Well, technically it’s from a cookbook hebought in 1987, but he made some modifications. Added more cumin. Secret ingredient.”
“Cumin isn’t a secret ingredient. Everyone uses cumin.”
“Not like this. Eat.”
She takes a bite. Then another. Then another. Her eyes close for a second, and she makes a soft sound that shoots straight down my spine.
I want to know what other sounds I could pull out of her. Want to know if she’d make that same noise with my mouth on her neck, my hands sliding under that blanket.
Down, boy.
“Okay,” she admits. “This is good.”
“I know.”
“Humble.”
“Accurate.” I settle into the armchair across from them and watch her eat. “I make great chili. That’s just a fact.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips. A real one. Not the polished, professional smile she uses at town meetings. This one’s smaller, warmer, and it hits me right in the gut.
Gramps always said I’d know real trouble when it smiled at me. He wasn’t wrong.
“Your grandfather taught you to cook too?” she asks between bites.
“He taught me everything. How to cook, how to tend bar, how to talk to people.” I lean back in the chair, memories washing over me. “He used to say the secret to a good life is making people feel welcome. Doesn’t matter if it’s in a bar or a kitchen or just passing someone on the street. You make them feel like they belong, and you’ve done a good day’s work.”
She’s watching me now, spoon paused halfway to her mouth. “You really loved him.”
“Love. Present tense. He’s still around, just retired. Spends most of his time fishing and complaining about my playlist at the bar.” I grin. “He thinks anything recorded after 1985 is noise.”
“Smart man.”
“Don’t let him hear you say that. He’ll never shut up.”
Her scent drifts up to me as she eats.
Different.
I go still, nostrils flaring before I can stop myself. She smells like she always does—lavender and citrus—but there’s a richness underneath. A warmth that wasn’t there before. Sweeter. Deeper. Like honey left in the sun, thick and golden and warm.
Every alpha instinct I have sits up and pays attention. Something’s happening.
