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Meet us at my apartment.

Us.

Her apartment.

Tonight.

Patty responded immediately. “Perfect. I’ll get ingredients on the way.”

“I need to check the recipe first,” Sloane said. “I should have most of the basics.”

“I’ll buy everything,” Patty said.

“Don’t buy pecans until I confirm the amount. I’ll text you as soon as we get to my place.”

Patty ended the call without saying goodbye.

Sloane looked at my phone. “She does that often.”

“Yes, she does.”

“We should probably go.”

I nodded.

Sloane stood from the bench. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

She looked toward the path. “You sound strange.”

“I’m thinking about the recipe.”

That wasn’t entirely true.

I was thinking about her apartment. I had seen photographs in the group chat. A corner of her kitchen. Her desk. Cupcakes cooling near the window. None of that prepared me for the fact that she’d invited me into the private space she kept separate from everyone.

Maybe it meant nothing.

Patty would be there. We were baking for Grandpa. This was a practical extension of the evening, not an intimate invitation.

My wolf didn’t care about the distinction.

Sloane took my hand again. “Come on,” she said. “We have a hundred-year-old man’s dessert expectations to meet.”

I stood and followed her to the truck.

16

SLOANE

GRANDPA BEFORE VENGEANCE

After eating enough food to win a restaurant challenge, I was surprised to learn that a person could become hungry again when presented with the possibility of warm pecan pie.

I was that person.

Warm pecan pie wasn’t the only thing on my mind, though. Inviting Hudson Blackwell into my apartment created a physical awareness so constant that I could track his location without turning around.