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I breathe again. Then again. My heart rate finally slowing.

I’m fine. This is fine. I’m not going to do anything with Sutton.

Eventually, other details sink in. One in particular: the kitchen smells like cinnamon rolls.

What a coincidence.

“It smells incredible in here.” The scent of cinnamon and sugar is also mixed with other spices and the enticing scent of browned butter.

“Thanks.”

I see two casserole pans sitting side by side on the stovetop.

Sutton’s gaze bounces between the stove and me, and her eyes widen.

“I’m prepping dinner,” she says quickly.

The casseroles, of course, make me think of my stalker.

Why can’t it be Sutton?

I almost laugh out loud. Right. Sweet, quiet Sutton is going to stalk someone. Especially the guy who would upset her brother most.

But damn, that would be fun. What a way to sneak around behind his back.

You do not want to sneak around behind his back. You want to be his fucking teammate. A good guy. Someone he can trust, for fuck’s sake.

When I was a kid, cartoons would show the little devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other, and I thought that was so funny.

Now that I know that actually happens inside people’s heads—inside my head—it’s not funny at all.

Especially because my devil is a real asshole.

Still, it would be a hell of a lot of fun to see this good girl be a little bad.

My angel actually smirks, unable to argue with that.

I clear my throat.

“Two casseroles at once?” I ask. “I guess Beckett is a big eater.”

She gives a nervous laugh. “I’ll freeze one. It saves time later.”

That makes sense. I notice that the pans she’s using are the disposable foil type that have been coming to my house. They even have the same flowered pattern on the sides.

“Did you get those pans here in Rebel?” I ask.

“Yes. At the grocery store. Why do you ask?” she asks, covering one pan with aluminum foil and pinching the edges tightly.

“You probably heard that Brewser and I have someone bringing us food.”

She drops the roll of foil, and it unwinds across the floor, stopping when it bumps into my toe. I lean over and pick it up.

She quickly comes over to retrieve it, and I hold it just a moment longer. “The pattern on your pan matches the pans she uses.”

Sutton tugs on the foil, quickly re-rolling it. “I think all the pans at the grocery store have the same pattern,” she says.

I let go, and she returns to the stove and covers the other pan.