Tamed by a Texan

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 menu items before you move on to the next challenge. Some of us wonder, will Chef Ty Beckett ever settle down?”

Not until the price was right. He’d followed specific strategic opportunities, 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 and like he doesn’t take anything seriously, but, to the best of my knowledge, he hasn’t lost any culinary competition in years. Don’t let his attitude fool you. He may crack jokes and not look like he’s exerting much effort, but my gut tells me, when Ty Beckett wants something, he goes for it.”

“Yeah?” Grace raised an eyebrow. “Well, so do I.”

* * *

“REMIND ME AGAIN WHY WE’RE stopping here for dinner when we’re on our way to a party with lots of food,” Stephen said from the passenger seat. “While you’re at it, remind me how it is that you ended up driving my car.”

Ty flashed a grin. “Because people find it impossible to tell me no. And we’re here because there was only one person on that list neither of us know anything about, and coincidentally, she happens to be local. Or maybe not coincidentally. Do you think they picked her to keep the Hill Country sponsors happy?”

“As opposed to any of the other dozens of award-winning Hill Country chefs and restaurateurs?” Stephen said wryly. “Face it, if she’s in the game, she’s probably something special.”

“Must be.” Ty peered into the darkness surrounding them. “Because, hard as this place is to find, they’d need incredible word of mouth to stay in business. Haven’t these people heard of neon signs?” There were a couple of parking lights shining down on the pothole-riddled lot, but nothing lit up with the name of the place. According to the one-line bio in the paperwork Stephen had received, her restaurant was The Twisted Jalapeño.

He parked the car. “We’re not really eating dinner, you know. Just order something small and I’ll do the same, so we can get a feel for the place. The reception doesn’t start until seven. We have time.”

“Assuming we don’t get lost again,” Stephen said. His phone was equipped with a GPS navigational system, but based on their experience trying to get Ty to his hotel this afternoon, the GPS was a compulsive liar.

“We’re not going to get lost,” Ty said as they crunched across the gravel lot. “In a couple of hours, we’ll meet the people who are going to help me get my own show. This is it, my big break. Trust the Beckett Instinct. When have I ever steered you wrong? And before you make some wise-ass comment, I’d like to remind you who introduced you to your wife.”

“Caroline Groves introduced me to my wife, you lunatic. You weren’t even there.”

“Yeah, but if I hadn’t been ducking Caroline’s calls, she wouldn’t have cornered you at that museum benefit, which led to you meeting Donna. So I claim credit.” Ty opened the restaurant door and stepped inside.

Music played merrily overhead, and Ty quirked an eyebrow. If he wasn’t mistaken, that was an Irish reel. Not exactly what he’d expected.