“Plus,” Ben inserted, “neither of us can cook.”
Victor ducked his head. “That, too.”
“Temporarily we can cancel the lunch shift and open only for dinner. Plenty of places around here do that,” she added in a rush. “It wouldn’t be forever, just long enough for us to snag all the free publicity the competition will bring. One of the judges is an editor whose food magazine will do write-ups on the contestants and the show’s website will run streaming videos of cooking demonstrations and other footage. This will be great for us!”
“I don’t know how I feel about you pinning all your hopes on this,” Victor said slowly. Ever since the woman he’d planned to be with till death parted them had told him they were no longer compatible, he’d been a lot more pessimistic. To be fair, though, as the person who kept the books for the Jalapeño, he knew better than anyone that they were barely scraping along. “You could work for someone else, Grace, and have all the joy of cooking without the responsibility of everything else. We didn’t suggest selling the place because we don’t believe in you.”
“I don’t want to sell,” she said mulishly.
“I miss Dad, too.” Victor’s voice started to rise. “But sinking all our time and money into this old restaurant won’t bring him back!”
She flinched, too stung to form a response.
“Whoa,” Ben interjected. “Let’s everyone take a second. Getting a little tense in here.”
Lowering her gaze and her voice, Grace said, “I need this. I can win!”
Just as softly, Victor rebutted, “You don’t know that. No one’s disputing your talent, but competition is like owning a restaurant. There’s a lot of luck involved and timing and—”
“If I lose, you can sell the restaurant.” Grace hadn’t known she was going to say the words until she heard them. But rather than add to her anxiety, the impulsive promise wrapped around her like a soothing hug. I can do this.
Once again, Ben and Victor exchanged glances, an entire conversation passing between them with nothing said. Finally Victor nodded.
“All right, you have a deal.” He paused, holding her gaze a long moment before adding, “Good luck.”
* * *
SUNLIGHT RIPPLED ACROSS the surface of the water. Not a single cloud marred the expanse of blue overhead. Country music piped through discreet poolside speakers, accompanied by the melodic rush of a small landscaped waterfall that ran over natural-looking rocks. The shirtless man drifting lazily on an inflated lounge chair grinned. It was a damn good day to be Ty Beckett.
“But then,” he drawled aloud, “every day is a good day to be me.”
From the nearby patio table came a grunt. “Don’t get too comfy,” his business manager cautioned without looking away from his laptop. “We have to clear out soon. You have an interview with an entertainment reporter from the Statesman at three-thirty and that restaurant opening tonight.”
“Too bad we couldn’t invite the reporter here to Cody’s place and do the interview in the pool. Did you see the picture with her byline? Bet she looks smokin’ in a bikini.” At his manager’s reproachful silence, Ty added, “I’m just sayin’.”
Ty sighed. “You are no fun, dude. Not that you ever were, but you’re even less so lately.”
Stephen Zigler glared over top of his sunglasses. “You mean now that I’m married and have a baby on the way and generally choose to act like an adult? I swear, if Donna wasn’t plagued by round-the-clock cravings for that secret-recipe potato salad of yours, I’d drop you as a client.”
“When we’re on the verge of hitting it big? No, you wouldn’t.” Ty stuck his hand into the water and paddled toward the steps. Despite the bright sun, the early-March temperature would be too brisk for swimming if the pool weren’t temperature-regulated. He climbed the stairs, glancing around at the sculpted yard and Cody Black’s million-dollar Barton Creek mansion. “Someday I’ll have a place like this.”
Stephen turned, his expression startled. “You sound serious.”
“I am.”
“Yeah, but…it’s you. Sounding serious. I didn’t think you knew what the word meant.”
Ty ignored the gibe. Despite Ty’s devil-may-care persona, his manager knew better than anyone how hard the celebrity chef worked. Well, not a full-fledged celebrity yet. But he was definitely on the right path. Last night, for instance, he’d been hired to cook for the three dozen closest friends of country music star Cody Black, who’d wanted to celebrate his fortieth birthday with an “intimate” dinner. As her gift, Cody’s wife had booked them a European vacation before his next tour started; they’d left this morning. Cody had invited Ty to stick around for a few hours and enjoy the pool and high-tech game room.
Nathan Tyler Beckett, the skinny kid who’d grown up in a series of south Texas trailer parks, wouldn’t have even believed a house like this existed.
“I’m gonna grab a shower,” Ty said, “and make sure all my stuff’s packed up from the kitchen. Then we’ll hit the road.”
Two hours later, Ty sat in an upscale Austin restaurant while a beautiful blonde smiled across the table. As much as he enjoyed looking at her, her questions were all ones he’d heard before. His mind kept wandering from the mundane conversation to the appetizer sampler they’d ordered. The fried pickles tasted too much like the inside of a deep fryer and whoever was responsible for the bland travesty of aioli should be shot. Other offerings were intriguing, though. He was trying to dissect the ingredients of the house Loco Guacamole, which included not only pumpkin but—
“I’m sure my readers will be interested to know, how’d you get hooked on cooking in the first place?” the blonde asked.
He flashed her a practiced smile. “Would it make me sound desperate if I said I started cooking because I wanted to impress women?”
Her cheeks turned a rosy-pink. “I don’t think anyone could ever mistake you for desperate, Chef Beckett.”
“Ty. Please.” He widened his grin. “It all began back in middle school with Family and Consumer Sciences, which was their fancy name for what used to be called Home Ec.”
There were grains of truth in his stock answer. He had, after all, taken Family and Consumer Sciences, which included a cooking component. But Ty hadn’t been there for the cute female students. He’d wanted the free food each lesson brought, supplementing the state-funded school lunches he qualified for because of his family’s poverty level. By the time Ty was thirteen, he’d been growing like a weed and constantly hungry. Beth, his single mother, had never been able to put much on the table. During his teen years, there had been times late at night or even in the middle of class when he’d catch himself fantasizing about food with the same intensity other guys his age probably daydreamed of cheerleaders.
But he didn’t share those memories with anyone. Ever.
“So what’s next for you?” the reporter asked. “I know you’ve traveled extensively, helping new restaurants find their feet and developing
