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.
A smiling hostess with a profusion of curly hair greeted them. “Two this evening, gentlemen?”
“Yes, ma’am. But we can’t stay long,” Ty said apologetically. “So no need to waste a table on us. Seats at the bar would be fine.”
“You got it.” She gestured toward the back corner of the room. “Amy’s got some great specials going on tonight. Enjoy.”
The decor consisted mostly of framed photographs. Old black-and-white family pictures intermingled with colorful landscapes of the region. He recognized shots of Main Street from his exploring town this afternoon. There was a photo of three kids, a tiny dark-haired girl standing between two lanky boys, in front of The Twisted Jalapeño. He wondered how long the restaurant had been doing business. The place had its charm—and something certainly smelled good—but as he and Stephen walked through the dining area, he noted signs of age and disrepair. This restaurant needed some TLC…if “TLC” stood for infusion of cash.
About half the tables they passed were