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?”
“You’re not driving my car. Besides, I’m the one who knows how to get around town.”
Both valid points. “Guess I’m just used to being in the driver’s seat,” he said with an easy shrug.
“Then this will be a character-building experience for you.”
He handed her the piece of paper for her notes and turned at the desk to jot his own list. But his thoughts lingered on Grace rather than the challenge. Interesting woman—his smiles and flattery had no effect on her whatsoever, but when he’d called her a pain in the ass, she’d capitulated. Focus. He gave himself a mental shake and concentrated on his list.
But once they were in her dented two-door hatchback, on the way to the store, he gave in to his curiosity, wanting to know more about her life and what made her tick. “You mentioned brothers earlier. Two, right?”
She cut her gaze toward him. “How did you know that?”
“There was a picture at the restaurant,” he said. “Of a little girl standing between two taller boys. I didn’t realize it was you at first, but when you said brothers… So you grew up in the restaurant business?”
“Yeah, the Jalapeño was my second home. By the time I hit elementary school, Ben and Vic were already busy with middle-school extracurriculars. While Mom was running them to and from practices and games, I’d go to the restaurant to do my homework and stuff myself on sopaipillas. One of the waiters used to help me with math, and Mac, our bartender before he retired, used to drill me on spelling words. But the best part was being in the kitchen, getting to taste-test for my father.”
Ty squelched a pang of envy, trying not to recall his own lonely, hungry childhood. It doesn’t matter now. That’s not who you are.
Shoving aside his past, he kept the conversation on her family. “Your dad must be proud of you, following in his footsteps and becoming a chef.”
Grief contorted her features, and he could see her struggle to regain composure. Her face was almost painfully expressive. Just looking at her could