constantly building on his name and reputation, rather than investing in a place of his own.
“You never know,” he said enigmatically. “But as for what’s next, I’m one of the ten semifinalists in a cooking competition that will be filmed in Fredericksburg this month. Fans will have to watch the show to see how I do, but I can tell you right now, I plan to win.”
A cable network had hinted this show was his informal audition. Ty had done televised segments before and was popular with audiences. Male viewers liked him because he eschewed fancy French terms they were suspicious of and offered grilling advice real men could use; women loved him because… Well, women just loved him. If Ty won this Frederick-Fest competition, getting his own show was a done deal. He could be a household name one day like other famous chefs before him.
And being a household name paid well.
His companion leaned back against her side of the booth, looking impressed. “Your skills are legendary,” she conceded, looking him up and down in such a way that made him wonder just which skills she meant. “But I’m sure the other nine chefs are very talented, too. You believe you’ll beat them?”
Ty gave a decisive nod. “Bet on it.”
Chapter Two
“Can’t sleep?” Amy Winthrop stood at the edge of the kitchen wearing an oversize University of Texas Longhorns jersey that fell almost to her knees.
Grace looked up guiltily from the batter she’d been stirring. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.” Maybe middle of the night cupcake experimentation hadn’t been such a good idea.
Her roommate waved a dismissive hand. “It wasn’t you. I’ve screwed up my sleep cycle for all eternity. The job I had before this, I rarely got home before five in the morning. A bunch of us would clean up the bar after closing, then go for breakfast at one of those twenty-four-hour diners. I’m trying to retrain myself to be normal.”
Grace grinned at the woman’s eggplant-purple hair, which clashed spectacularly with her burnt-orange shirt, and sparkling eyebrow ring. A row of small hoop earrings curled up her left ear. “Retrain? That implies there was a time when you were normal.”
Amy grabbed a dish towel off the counter, wadded it and threw it at Grace, who laughed.
The two of them had hit it off within minutes of meeting each other last fall. Grace had been in Austin for the weekend and ordered one of Amy’s drinks, which had been exceptional. They’d talked on and off all night as Amy served other patrons. Before Grace left, she’d impulsively pulled out a business card for The Twisted Jalapeño. “You ever want to relocate to Fredericksburg, you have a job waiting for you.”
Still, Grace had been shocked when Amy walked into the restaurant six weeks later. Amy and her fiancé had called it quits and she needed a change of pace. Meanwhile, Grace, who’d been living with her mom at the time, had agreed with Ben and Victor that it was time to sell the house to help pay for Colleen to have professional care. Grace and Amy had decided to pool their limited resources, and they’d moved into the small two-bedroom carriage-house apartment behind the Henderson family. There wasn’t much space, but it was a cute place and Grace enjoyed the company. After growing up with brothers, she looked at Amy as the sister she’d never had.
“You sure you want to start with me?” Grace picked up the towel that had just missed her and brandished it with deadpan menace. “I’m muy peligrosa.”
“Dangerous? You?” Amy snorted. “Bring it on, shorty.”
Although Amy was at least two inches taller than Grace, the bartender had a very delicate build. A strong breeze might knock her over. Grace, while short, was curvy. Nothing delicate about me. She was all right with that. Who would trust a chef who looked like a twig? Besides, the guys she’d dated had told her she was rounded in all the best places.
Amy pulled down a glass and filled it with water. “So what’s with the late-night cooking spree? Sudden inspiration for a new dessert menu?”
“Nerves,” Grave admitted. “About tomorrow night.” Or, more accurately, she realized with a glance at the clock, tonight.
“But the competition doesn’t even begin until Monday. Tomorrow, you’re just being introduced to some judges and the other contestants.” One of the local vineyards was hosting a reception, an opening ceremony of sorts.
“And you don’t think spending the evening with a bunch of people who are going to shape my future is nerve-racking? I, uh, got the list today,” she admitted. She hadn’t told anyone because she’d had this weird superstitious response to seeing the other names, as if talking about the impressive chefs on the list somehow added to their power.
Two vertical lines appeared over Amy’s nose as her forehead puckered in a frown. “What list? I’m not following.”
“When I was first notified I’d made it through the selection process,” Grace backtracked, “I was told I was one of ten chefs, but I didn’t think I’d know who the others were until we got started. Today they emailed me a list.” She’d printed it out along with some final paperwork she had to sign.
“And you’re just now telling me?” Amy demanded. “Gimme names, woman!”
Grace sighed, abandoning the cupcake batter. She crossed the kitchen to the slotted wooden box on the wall where they kept mail and bills. She wasn’t sure why she retrieved the message and unfolded it—she’d already memorized the other nine names. Hoping Amy wouldn’t interrupt to ooh and aah over the combined talent, she sped through the list. There were men and women of varying ages and specialties, from all over Texas. Katharine Garner currently worked as an executive chef in New York but had grown up in Dallas; Grace wasn’t sure where Texas-born Ty Beckett lived. He seemed to bounce all over the place.
“Ty Beckett?” Amy fluttered her eyelashes. “I saw him at a couple of events in Austin. Do you have any idea how hot he is?”
“He’s not that good-looking,” Grace grumbled. “I’ve seen him on TV.”
“Okay, one.” Amy jabbed an index finger in her friend’s direction. “You are a lousy liar. No talent for it whatsoever, so don’t bother trying. And, two, take it from me, he’s even better looking in person.”
“That’s probably why they selected him,” Grace said, trying to bolster herself. “He’s so photogenic. He’ll look good on television.”
“Also, he’s supposed to be a phenomenal chef.”
Grace groaned. “Whose side are you on? I’m sure he’s very good, but I can beat him, right? He has little formal training that I’ve heard of, doesn’t have a restaurant of his own and his entire career seems to consist of flitting from one thing to the next. Do you think he loses focus, gets bored easily?” That could bode well for his competitors. Serious cooking required lots of patience.
Her pride niggled at her. Didn’t she want to be named the best because of how hard she’d worked at her craft? Would it be as satisfying to beat Ty Beckett because he got distracted by something shiny or bailed midway through the competition? Then again, if the end result was that she got to keep her restaurant…
“I don’t know,” Amy said. “I realize that in the media he seems very flirty
