“Call me corn fungus all you like, you still have to work with me.”
Don’t remind me. Something about him recalled cute guys she’d known in high school, ones who’d charmed smitten girls into doing their homework. If Ty Beckett thought he was going to take creative control and relegate her to chopping and peeling…well, then he was out of his damn mind.
They were silent for a few minutes as they sized up the teams they’d be facing. In particular, the pairing of Katharine Garner and Antonio Zavalo seemed formidable. Finally it was down to noted pastry chef Jo Ying—a trim Asian woman who seemed far too skinny to cook desserts for a living—and Reed Lockhart, who’d introduced himself last night as the “token molecular gastronomist.” The buzz of individual conversations filled the kitchen as chefs shook hands and expressed polite enthusiasm to be working together.
Ty grinned expectantly. “This is where you tell me that being on my team is a dream come true.”
She snorted—“his” team indeed. “You aren’t worried I’ll try to sabotage you somehow?”
“And risk torpedoing yourself in the process?” He shook his head. “You seem like you want this pretty bad.”
“I do.”
His gaze turned steely, the playful spark in his eyes extinguished for the first time since she’d met him. “So do I.” The uncharacteristic intensity in his expression and voice was jarring, but kind of sexy.
Not that I think he, personally, is sexy! It was more an appreciation for the trait in general: a man who knew what he wanted and had the focus to work for it. Had she underestimated him, just as Amy had warned her against?
If Ty was really as good as he told everyone he was… Adopting the adage about keeping enemies close, she decided to look at his choosing her as a strategic opportunity to see how he worked. And, hopefully, to get one step closer to her dream.
“All right!” Damien clapped his hands. “Now that everyone has a partner, it’s time to explain your first challenge. Each team will be preparing a three-course meal of soup, entrée and dessert for the judges and notable guests. The dishes should represent the best of your combined areas of expertise as much as possible and must include certain ingredients inspired by Hill Country culture and crops.”
A production assistant rolled a small metal cart into the room. On top of it was a trio of large ceramic boots.
“Each team will draw a slip of paper from all three boots,” Damien instructed. “You must use all three items you pick, one per course. Outside of that, anything goes. Use this chance to show the judges what you’re made of and why you should make it to the finals! Dinner will be served at seven-thirty tonight. The losing team,” he added, “will be eliminated from the competition.”
Grace’s stomach clenched unpleasantly. She was the only local participant. If at any point she was “sent home,” she didn’t have the luxury of returning to her regular life and forgetting all about the contest. She’d be at the festival, on the sidelines, watching someone else win. That won’t happen.
She had to do this, or her restaurant would be gone.
Ty interrupted her thoughts with an exaggerated sigh. “Dessert! If I’d known we had to make dessert, I would have picked Phoebe or Jo.” Both Jo Ying and Phoebe Verlaine were acclaimed pastry chefs, and Phoebe owned a bakery in Houston. Judging by how the blonde had poured herself over Ty at the reception, like chocolate ganache over cheesecake, she would have jumped at the chance to partner with him.
“Thanks for taking a chance on me instead,” Grace said grudgingly. Growing up a short girl dwarfed by her classmates, she’d spent more than one elementary-school PE period waiting uncomfortably to be selected for a basketball or kickball team. While she hadn’t appreciated Ty’s comment last night that he’d never heard of her, she was one of the lesser-known competitors. “Why did you choose me?”
“Because you and I are going to be very good together.” He tapped his temple. “The Beckett Instinct, it’s never wrong.”
Caught between the urge to grin and roll her eyes, she instead returned her attention to the chefs drawing their ingredient assignments. Phoebe and Stuart Capriotti got pecans, barbecue sauce and sauerkraut, none of which did much to heighten Phoebe’s dessert advantage. Chef Camellia Stone, a vegetarian, groaned aloud at her slip that read Angus Beef.
“We’ll trade you for that!” Ty volunteered.
“The hell you will,” Camellia’s partner, Seamus, said good-naturedly.
“Are you picking for us?” Grace asked Ty.
His immediate “not a chance” surprised her—he seemed like someone who preferred to take charge. But then he added, “If we get crappy ingredients, I want to blame you.”
“There are no crappy ingredients in the Hill Country,” she informed him tartly. But she knew he would have liked the chance at steak—the first article she remembered ever seeing about him had called him the Whiz Kid of the Grill. Based on the number of chocolatiers and fudge shops in Fredericksburg alone, she suspected chocolate would be one of the assigned ingredients. What else was waiting in those boots?
“Beckett and Torres,” Damien said. “Who’s doing the honors?”
“Me.” Chin raised, Grace stepped forward and stuck her hand in the first boot. She unfolded the piece of paper and read, “Poblano.” Half a dozen uses for the pepper immediately sprang to mind and she reached into the second boot. “Goat cheese.” She’d purchased goat cheese from a local dairy for the restaurant plenty of times. “And pears.”
They were great ingredients that left their team lots of latitude on what to prepare. Grace’s enthusiasm soared. When she returned to Ty, she could tell by his smile that he felt the same way.
“We’ve got this in the bag,” he whispered. “I already know the perfect entrée.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “What a coincidence. So do I.”
* * *
NORMALLY SPENDING TIME IN his hotel room with a beautiful woman—one who knew about food, no less—would sound like Ty’s idea of heaven. But the past half hour with Grace Torres had sent his blood pressure blasting off like a space shuttle. Were other teams having this problem? After they’d been given their challenges, they’d been turned loose to plan independently. How many of his opponents were already at the designated market, working through their budget for tonight’s menu?
“You’re being needlessly stubborn,” he informed Grace from his seat at the desk. When it had first become clear that she was resisting his ideas, he’d employed the patented Beckett charm. But so far, Stephen’s observation had held true: she was immune. Ty had abandoned the smile in favor of arguing outright. He might have found the experience strangely liberating if the outcome didn’t affect his career.
Grace didn’t even pause in her pacing. “How am I being any more stubborn than you?” she demanded. “Steak with poached pears! It’s lame.”
“It’s delicious,” he corrected. “If we had time, I’d borrow the kitchen at your restaurant and make you eat your words, but we don’t.”
