Tamed by a Texan

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.”

She muttered a few phrases in Spanish, then sighed. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said ‘lame.’ But even you have to admit, poached pears are predictable. And at least one other team is already doing steak.”

“Their attempt will probably make ours even better in comparison. Camellia’s a vegetarian!”

Again with the stream of Spanish.

“Cut that out,” he insisted. “I feel like I need damn subtitles for this discussion.”

“You’re conveniently forgetting Seamus was a chef for three years at a steak house,” she said. “Look, I get that you’re Lord of the Lighter Fluid or whatever, but steak can’t be the only thing in your comfort zone.”

“I have just as many things in my repertoire as you do, lady. Just because I don’t throw together weird flavors for shock value like some fusionists doesn’t mean I’m a one-trick pony.”

She halted, her hands going to her nicely rounded hips. “Only someone with an extremely limited palate would find pear salsa shocking.”

Ty grunted dismissively; it wasn’t the salsa that bothered him as much as what she wanted to put it on. “You expect to win with chicken tacos?” He rocked his chair back on two legs. “Now who isn’t thinking outside the box?”

“These dishes are supposed to represent who we are as chefs,” she reminded him. “Both of us. You can grill the chicken, and the pear salsa is representative of the way I like to blend flavors. Don’t you dare try to muscle me out of what we serve.”

He plowed a hand through his hair, aware it was probably standing on end. Thank goodness she’d wanted to talk privately to deter friendly locals from interrupting, because he’d completely abandoned the public image he worked so hard to project. If the suits making the decision on whether to green-light his show saw him like this, short-tempered and disheveled, he’d be screwed. Get it together, Beckett. He and Grace both had the same goal, to kick the other teams’ butts, so how hard could it be to find common ground?

“We seem to have lost sight of the fact that we’re on the same side.” He offered her a wry grin. “I’m guessing you’re the oldest child in your family. Used to bossing everyone else around?”

Her espresso eyes narrowed. “Youngest, actually. You the oldest?”

“Only child.”

“Well, that explains a lot.”

“All right, so we’re both control freaks.” He lowered his chair back to the hardwood floor. “Here’s what I suggest as a compromise—you take the soup and the dessert, and I do the entrée. We help each other with any necessary prep but, creatively, we stay out of each other’s way.”

She tapped her index finger against her lips. After a moment, Ty realized he was staring and wished she’d stop drawing attention to her mouth. He was suddenly far too intent on the curve of her full bottom lip.

He cleared his throat. “What do you think?”

“I’m torn,” she admitted. “You took the main course for yourself.”

“Giving you double the opportunity to wow the judges with your epicurean genius,” he said diplomatically.

“And double the work?”

“I’ll even let you pick which two ingredients you want first,” he offered.

“Meaning that our entrée will be either steak with pears, steak with goat cheese or steak with poblano peppers.”

He ground his teeth. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a real pain in the ass?”

Surprisingly she grinned, her expression the most affectionate he’d ever received from her. “My brothers, on a daily basis.”

“They have my sympathy,” he quipped.

“Okay, you get the entrée,” she said. “But I’m taking the pears and goat cheese. Can you do a poblano justice?”

“Have a little faith, sweetheart.”

She nodded to the hotel stationery near his elbow. “Can you tear me off a sheet of that? I want to jot down a quick grocery list before we go.”

“Would it save time if I drive and you make your list in the car?”