Page 26 of Pack Frenzy
“Hey,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ears.
With a nod, I move to the fridge. “I’ll make dessert so Cassian doesn’t have an aneurysm with making you the first dinner here.”
“I’m fine,” Cassian says, not fine, the vein in his temple doing a tap dance.
“The roast will be amazing, I’m sure.” She gives him a beam that lights up her eyes.
Cold air kisses my face when I open the bottom drawer. Yesterday’s pie dough waits in a beeswax wrap. I pull it, plus butter, cinnamon, a lemon, and the hoarded bag of apples reserved for morale emergencies.
“Pie?” Jess asks, voice caught between cautious and hopeful.
“Apple.” I set the haul on the counter. “Roast is our dinner win. Pie can be our dessert win. Two wins make a pattern.”
She huffs a laugh, quiet but genuine. It lands somewhere under my sternum and decides to stay.
Cassian eyes the stash, then flicks a glance at Jess, then at me. Calculating. He doesn’t say what we’re both thinking—soften her edges, show her the map, don’t spook the deer.
“We have enough?” he asks instead.
“Always. I keep backup bags of flour in the freezer for the backups. Apocalypse hits, I’ll trade baked goods for batteries.”
His grunt is Cassian forapproved. He goes back to his carrots while I wash apples under cold water. My palms remember Rowan’s ribcage, the notch of his collarbone, the way his breath stuttered when he let himself be held. I fold that memory away like I fold knives: sharp and tucked safe.
The peeler goesshhhk, shhhk, ribbons piling into a bowl as I work.
“Not the discount bakery kind?” Jess asks, watching my hands like I might pull a dove out of the peel.
“Crust so buttery you’ll see fingerprints in the layers,” I say. “Filling thick with tart Granny Smiths, brown sugar honest enough to sting.”
She grins. “You talk like a Food Network contestant.”
“Worked pastry through college.” I dice apples into even cubes, toss them with sugar and cinnamon, lemon, and a pinch of salt. “Boss rotated stations so nobody got cocky. Cruel; effective. Brooklyn.”
“Explains the hips,” Cassian says, deadpan, popping an apple peel into his mouth.
I flick a dish towel at his head. He snags it without looking. Show-off.
Jess points her knife at him. “So who actually cooks around here? Because I think a microwave is a food group.”
Cassian grins, all teeth. “Betas make the best cooks. They’ve got the hands for it.”
“Hands, huh?” Her gaze flicks over his forearms, then mine. Measuring.
“He’s not wrong,” I admit. “Rowan can burn water. Cassian can grill things until they’re structurally unsound and make the occasional meal thrown into the Insta Pot, but I’m the only one with a food-handler’s license.”
“Show-off,” Cassian repeats, but there’s no sting in it. He likes being bested in narrow lanes, the ones that don’t threaten his ego.
I slide the bowl of spiced apples toward Jess. “Your turn. Big circles. Gentle. Don’t mush.”
She tests the spoon like it’s an exam she didn’t study for, then finds a rhythm. Apples thud against ceramic; cinnamon climbs the air and shoves every other scent against the wall. Cassian systematically picks through the bowl of peels I’ve discarded, tossing them into his mouth. He’s watching Jess with lazy interest—not threatening, just cataloging.
“You ever actually lattice a pie,” she asks, side-eye sharp, “or is this some Next Top Model flex?”
“Come learn,” I say, dusting the counter with flour. “Warning: I’m bossy in the kitchen.”
“Only in the kitchen?” Too light to be nothing.
“Mostly,” I say, and even I hear the catch. Fantastic.
