Page 49 of Mane Brew

“Suspicious behavior. Ominous behavior.” I stand, brush construction dust off my knees. “This is the calm before the storm. I can feel it.”

“Or maybe it’s just calm.” She pushes off the doorframe, crosses to where I’m standing. “When did this start? The mysterious compliance?”

I think about the timeline. The attack. The aftermath. Rhodes holding my hand across Anouk’s worktable. Rhodes touching my face in the misty street after the raid, calling me a category all my own. Rhodes walking me home with his shoulder brushing mine, deliberate and unhurried.

Rhodes.

Always Rhodes.

“A few days ago,” I hedge.

“A few days ago.” Leire’s tone carries too much knowing. “Around the time a certain lion alpha started spending even more time in your orbit?”

“Aslan talks too much.”

“I agree.” Rhodes fills the doorway of the brewing room with a leather folder under one arm and a paper bag in the opposite hand.

“Miss Grimwood.” His gaze sweeps the space—classifying damage, noting progress, probably mentally updating seventeen different spreadsheets. “The construction appears to be proceeding on schedule.”

“It is.” I wipe my dusty hands on my apron. “The temporary equipment is functional. The wall should be finished by the end of the week.”

“Excellent.” He sets the folder on the nearest clean surface—my grandmother’s old work table, now covered in construction plans and invoices. Opens the paper bag. The smell of fresh bread and roasted vegetables wafts through the dust.

“You forgot to eat.”

I blink at the food. At him. At the complete disconnect between his formal tone and the intensely domestic gesture of bringing me lunch.

“How do you know I forgot to eat?”

“You always forget to eat when you’re stressed.” He pulls out containers, arranges them with characteristic precision. Napkins folded into perfect triangles. Fork and knife parallel. “It’s in my notes.”

Behind me, Leire chokes on something that isn’t a cough.

“You have notes on my eating habits?”

He doesn’t answer. He’s already moved to my damaged supply shelves—the ones he organized. His hands move with methodical efficiency, straightening containers that don’t need straightening, organizing chaos that I’d personally prefer to remain chaotic.

I watch him work. The efficient movements of his hands. The furrow of concentration between his brows. The way his broad shoulders shift beneath his perfectly pressed shirt as he reaches for a high shelf.

Something low in my belly pulls tight. Familiar now. Persistent. The kind of feeling that has nothing to do with the brewing fires and everything to do with the man rearranging my ingredient storage like it personally offends him.

He has notes on my eating habits.

He tracks my stress patterns.

He knows me well enough to anticipate what I need before I need it.

“Leire.” I don’t look away from Rhodes. “Don’t you have a shop to run?”

“Aslan’s covering. He likes talking to customers about our products.” She’s definitely laughing at me. I can hear it. “He brought you lunch. He’s reorganizing your shelves. He has notes on when you forget to eat.” She moves toward the door, pausing beside Rhodes. “I particularly admire the alphabetization, Alpha Blackthorn.”

“Proper organization prevents waste.” The flush is creeping up his neck—I’ve learned to spot it, the tell that means I’ve gotten under his skin in ways his control can’t quite hide. “Expired ingredients were mixed with current stock. It was inefficient.”

“Inefficient.” Leire nods solemnly. “Well. We can’t have that.”

She pauses at the door, shooting me a look of pure mischief. “I’m leaving now. Very supportive of me, don’t you think?”

“Leaving isn’t supportive. Leaving is abandonment.”