Chapter 13
JESSICA
Iwake up to the sound of someone murdering a song.
That's the only way to describe it. Someone in this house is singing, and they're doing it very badly, very loudly, and with the kind of enthusiastic commitment usually reserved for drunk karaoke.
"?? I would walk five hundred miles ??"
Oh no.
I sit up in the unfamiliar bed, my brain taking a moment to catch up. Guest room. Pack house. Four alphas sleeping under the same roof as me. My flooded bedroom. Carlos's kiss against my doorframe. All of it crashes back like a wave.
"?? And I would walk five hundred more ??"
The voice is coming from downstairs. Male. Confident. Completely tone-deaf.
I throw off the covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My feet hit the cool hardwood floor. Carlos's henley hangs to mid-thigh, the soft fabric smelling like sandalwood and sawdust and him. I should probably put on pants. I should definitely put on pants.
I don't put on pants.
Instead, I pad toward the door in bare feet, following the sound of what can only be described as auditory assault.
"?? Just to be the man who walked a thousand miles to fall down at your door ??"
I creep down the hallway, my hand trailing along the wall for balance. The house is warmer than Mom's. The heat is working here, which is novel. My toes curl against the wood with each step.
The singing gets louder as I reach the stairs.
"?? DA DA DA ??"
I peer around the corner into the kitchen and freeze.
Pedro is at the stove.
Grumpy, scowling, I-hate-everyone Pedro is standing at the stove in wrinkled scrubs, flipping pancakes while belting out The Proclaimers like he's auditioning for a musical.
His dark hair is sticking up in seventeen different directions, clearly finger-combed at best. He's still wearing yesterday's clothes, which means he either just got home from the clinic or never changed.
And he's using the spatula as a microphone.
"?? DA DA DA ??"
He does a little hip wiggle as he flips a pancake. An actual hip wiggle. His hips move side to side with the beat, and the spatula conducts an invisible orchestra.
I press my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing out loud.
This is Pedro. Grumpy, silent, intense Pedro who scowls at everyone and communicates primarily in grunts. Dancing in the kitchen. Singing about walking a thousand miles. With a spatula.
I can't not say something.
"You know that's not the right key, right?" I say from the doorway, leaning against the frame.
Pedro whirls around so fast he nearly drops the spatula. It clatters against the pan, and pancake batter splatters onto the stovetop.
His face goes bright red. The color creeps up his neck, floods his cheeks, reaches the tips of his ears.
"Jesus Christ, Jessica!" He clutches his chest with his free hand, spatula still held aloft like a weapon. "How long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough to witness the hip wiggle." I push off from the doorframe and step into the kitchen. The tile is cold under my bare feet, shocking after the warm hardwood. "And the spatula solo. Very impressive."
His face somehow gets redder. "There was no hip wiggle."
"There was definitely a hip wiggle. I have evidence. My eyeballs are evidence." I move closer, drawn by the smell of pancakes and butter and something sweet that I realize is maple syrup warming on the stove. "And spatula choreography. Very elaborate. Five stars."
"I was just making pancakes." He turns back to the stove quickly, but not before I see his ears are now the color of tomatoes.
"You were serenading the pancakes."
"The pancakes appreciate good music."
"That wasn't good music. That was a crime against The Proclaimers." I hop up to sit on the counter beside the stove, the cold granite shocking against my bare thighs. The henley rides up slightly, and I tug it down with one hand. "That was musical assault. The pancakes are probably traumatized."
He doesn't look at me. Keeps his eyes firmly on the griddle. "You want breakfast or not?"
"I want breakfast," I say, swinging my legs. My bare feet bump against the cabinet doors with soft thuds. "And an encore performance."
"Absolutely not."
"Come on. Just the chorus. I'll even clap."
"I don't know what you're talking about." But his ears are still red, and the corner of his mouth twitches like he's fighting a smile. "I wasn't singing."
"You were definitely singing. Loudly. With passion. And questionable pitch." I lean forward slightly, trying to catch his eye. "There was hip movement involved."
He finally looks at me. Just a glance, but it's enough. His grey eyes meet mine through his wire-rimmed glasses, and something flickers there. Something warm and amused and a little bit flustered.
Then his gaze drops lower. To the henley. To my bare legs dangling from the counter. To my feet bumping rhythmically against the cabinet.
He looks away fast. Back to the pancakes. But I see the muscle in his jaw jump.
"If you tell anyone—" He points the spatula at me without looking. "I will deny everything."
"Too late. I'm telling everyone." I grin, feeling something light and playful bubble up in my chest. "This is going in the group chat. 'Overheard: Dr. Pedro singing The Proclaimers at 7 AM. Hip wiggle confirmed. Spatula choreography outstanding.'"
"You're the worst."
"I'm delightful." I kick my feet harder, and the thuds get louder. "So. The Proclaimers. Interesting choice. Very specific. Very Scottish."
"It was on the radio." His voice is tight. Controlled.
"The radio wasn't on."
Silence. He flips another pancake with more force than necessary.
"My mom used to play it." The words come out quieter. Softer. "When she cooked. Sunday mornings."
Oh.
The teasing dies in my throat. Something shifts in the air between us, going from playful to tender in a heartbeat.
"She had good taste," I say gently, my feet going still.
"She had terrible taste in music. But she loved that song.
" He slides the spatula under a perfectly golden pancake, lifts it, sets it on a plate.
"Used to sing it every Sunday while making breakfast. The whole house would smell like pancakes and vanilla.
She'd dance around the kitchen. Dad used to hide in the garage until she was done. "
"I bet it was sweet."
"It was awful. She couldn't sing any better than I can." But there's fondness in his voice now. Warmth. "Dad said it was self-preservation. That her singing was a health hazard. But he was always smiling when he said it."
Pedro sets down the spatula and reaches for the chocolate chips sitting on the counter. His hand brushes mine as he grabs the bag, and electricity shoots up my arm.
We both freeze.
His fingers are still touching mine. Just barely. Just the backs of his knuckles against my palm.
I look up. He's closer than I realized, so I can see the flecks of darker grey in his eyes behind his glasses. If I leaned forward just a little, I could—
He pulls back. Fast. Clears his throat. Dumps chocolate chips into the batter with hands that aren't quite steady.
"Want chocolate chips?" His voice is rougher than before.
"Is that even a question?" My own voice sounds breathless. When did I get breathless?
"Fair warning." He stirs the batter, not looking at me. "I make them my mom's way. Which means way too much chocolate. Like, an irresponsible amount of chocolate."
"That sounds perfect."
He pours batter onto the griddle, and I watch the chocolate chips bubble and melt. The smell fills the kitchen. Sweet and warm and comforting.
My stomach growls. Loudly.
Pedro glances at me, one eyebrow raised. "When was the last time you ate?"
"Um." I try to remember. "Toast? Yesterday? Maybe?"
"Toast." His tone is flat. Disapproving. Very doctor-like. "You ate toast. Once. Yesterday."
"It was good toast. I put peanut butter on it."
"Jessica."
"What? I've been busy. Having a crisis. Crises are very time-consuming. They don't leave much room for meal planning."
He shakes his head, but he's scooping extra batter onto the griddle. Making the pancakes bigger. Adding more chocolate chips.
"You need to eat," he says, and it's not a suggestion. It's a doctor's order. "Your body is going through transition. You need fuel."
"I know, I know." I wave a hand. "You already gave me the lecture at the clinic. Hormones. Changes. Eat food. Stay hydrated. I was paying attention."
"Were you?" He looks at me again, and this time he doesn't look away. "Because you look like you haven't slept in three days, you're wearing someone else's clothes, and you just admitted you've eaten one piece of toast in the last twenty-four hours."
"It was a big piece of toast."
"Jessica."
"Fine. You're right. I'll eat." I hold up my hands in surrender. "I'll eat your mom's pancakes with irresponsible amounts of chocolate. Is that better?"
"It's a start." He flips the pancakes with practiced efficiency. "You also need to sleep more. And drink water. And probably take the vitamins I prescribed."
"Wow. Bossy this morning, aren't we?"
"I'm always bossy. You just forgot." He slides three huge pancakes onto a plate and hands it to me. "Eat."
I take the plate, our fingers brushing again. That same spark. That same awareness.
He feels it too. I can tell by the way his breath catches. The way his eyes linger on my face.
Then he turns away quickly and starts making more pancakes.
I look down at the plate in my lap. Three massive pancakes, golden and perfect, studded with chocolate chips that are still melting. Steam rises from them, carrying that perfect breakfast smell.
My eyes sting unexpectedly.
When was the last time someone noticed I wasn't eating and cared?
Callum never cooked. Never noticed when I skipped meals. He probably would have been happy if I stopped eating altogether. "Getting closer to that goal weight," he'd probably say.
But Pedro noticed. Pedro, who barely knows me anymore, made me pancakes with too much chocolate.
"You okay?" His voice cuts through my thoughts.