Page 11 of False Catch

"It's carbon," Beckett corrects, tossing it in the trash. "This is why we don't let you cook."

"Reese!" Zane lights up when he sees me. "Perfect timing. You can be the official taste tester."

He holds out a spoon with red sauce, and I obediently taste it. It's actually good - rich and savory with just enough spice.

"Family recipe?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"My grandmother's," he insists, then grins. "My grandmother being a lovely Italian woman named Google."

The tension from earlier starts to ease as I settle into the familiar chaos of lunch with the team. Gray appears from the hallway, messenger bag still slung over his shoulder from class. The moment he enters, I catch his scent - cedar and ocean waves - and have to focus on keeping my breathing steady. He nods at me before taking his usual seat at the head of the table.

"How was class?" he asks, tone neutral.

"Good. Got assigned a project partner."

I don't elaborate, but I catch the look that passes between him and Bo. Gray's expression shifts minutely.

"Anyone we know?"

"Quinton Whitmore."

The kitchen goes quiet for just a beat too long.

"Interesting," Gray says finally, reaching for the pasta bowl. "He's smart. You'll do well on the project."

It's a perfectly reasonable response. So why does it feel like there's an entire conversation happening under the surface that I'm not privy to?

Cameron, who's been silent as usual, looks up from his plate. His dark eyes find mine across the table, and something in his expression makes me think he sees more than he lets on.

"The library's usually crowded this time of semester," he says quietly. "For project work."

It's the most words he's strung together in days, and I'm not sure what to make of the observation.

"We'll figure it out," I say.

My phone lights up with another text from Quinton: BTW, if you ever need a quiet place to study, my apartment is just off campus. No pressure, just offering.

I flip my phone face down, but not before Bo sees it. His jaw tightens slightly.

"Everything okay?" Eli asks, always too perceptive.

"Fine. Just project stuff."

The conversation shifts to afternoon practice, to the upcoming meet, to anything but the fact that I'm going to be spending significant time with an Alpha outside our carefully constructed bubble. But I can feel the undercurrent of tension, the way they're all hyperaware of this new variable in our already precarious equation.

As lunch winds down and we start cleaning up, Gray appears at my elbow.

"Be careful with Quinton," he says quietly, voice pitched low enough that only I can hear. "He's not what he seems."

Before I can ask what he means, he's gone, heading upstairs to grab his gear for afternoon practice.

I stand there holding a dish towel, wondering what exactly I've gotten myself into. Through the kitchen window, I can see the lake in the distance, calm and blue under the afternoon sun. In a few hours, we'll be on the water, where everything makes sense, where the only thing that matters is the rhythm of oars through water.

But first, I have to navigate this new complication. A project partner who seems perfectly nice, who doesn't know my secrets, who offers a glimpse of normalcy in my increasingly abnormal life.

So why does everyone seem so worried?

My phone buzzes again. Quinton: Also, Southeast Asia might be interesting for our project. Emerging markets with complex dynamics. Thoughts?