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GRACE SWIPED A SWEET POTATO fry through the spicy honey mustard on her plate, appreciating the way the flavors counterbalanced each other. “I feel funny about bringing you here,” she told Ty, her voice raised in deference to the overhead music blaring in the small bar.
“Funny?” he repeated. “Why?”
She probably wouldn’t have been able to hear him except that their table was only about a foot and a half in diameter, forcing them to sit in close proximity. She’d accidentally grazed his leg with her own, and they were near enough that his body heat was keeping them both warm. It was funny—she’d spent all afternoon and much of the evening in a kitchen with multiple stoves and ovens running but couldn’t remember feeling as flushed as she did now, seated beneath a lazily spinning ceiling fan.
Frowning, she tried to remember what she’d been about to say.
She averted her gaze. Somehow it was easier to think when she wasn’t looking directly at him. “It’s not exactly a five-star restaurant,” she admitted. “The cooks do okay with the menu they have, and people come here more for the pool tables and range of beers on tap than for the food. But you just spent the day in the company of some of the best chefs in Texas!”
“Sweetheart, I am one of the best chefs in Texas. You think that stops me from going out and enjoying a quick burger now and then?” He gestured toward his half-empty plate. “You haven’t heard me complain.”
The mild sense of relief she felt surprised her. Had she actually been worried about his opinion? It was true she’d grown up in the area and loved her hometown, but why should she care what Ty Beckett thought of his time here? As soon as Road Trip was finished filming their competition segments, he would move on to whatever awaited him next.
“I’ve read articles about you,” she began.
“My fame precedes me.”
She ignored the interjection. “Seems like you’re something of a drifter in the culinary world. Surely a chef of your caliber has had opportunities to open your own place?”
As soon as the press release had gone out that she’d been selected for the cooking show, locals had been congratulating her and offering moral support. And, while she didn’t like to dwell on the dark days right after her dad’s death, she’d been touched by the outpouring of sympathy from town citizens. Did Ty get lonely, not having that sense of community? Then again, having witnessed him flirt with women both on television and in person, she supposed he found ways to alleviate loneliness.
“My own place?” He shook his head, looking vaguely alarmed by the idea. “Restaurants are never a sure thing, even for chefs of my caliber.” He echoed her words with a grin, raising his hand slightly to salute her with his glass.
It was true that many new restaurants failed, even good ones. But she couldn’t imagine he was afraid of the odds. Ty Beckett seemed too sure of himself to fear anything.
“Besides,” he continued, “I don’t have to tell you how much responsibility a restaurant is! How many days do you get to just have fun in the kitchen, play with new ideas without worrying about mortgage payments or staff issues or advertising?”
His question hit too close to home, and even she could hear the cranky undertone in her voice when she asked, “So you’re just in it to have fun?”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He shrugged unabashedly. “I’m enjoying the hell out of my life, and I’m not hurting anyone.”
She had no response that wouldn’t sound wildly sarcastic, so instead, she pushed her plate toward the center of the table. “I’m all done, whenever you’re ready for that game of darts.” Suddenly Grace found herself in the mood to throw something.
* * *
TY COULDN’T REMEMBER WHEN he’d had dinner with a less predictable woman—or one with better aim. To say he’d lost their first game of ’Round the Clock was a bit of an understatement. I got my ass handed to me. Though she’d resisted any urge to mock him outright, her eyes had danced with humor as she suggested handicapping herself for the second game. As much as Ty detested losing, it was good to see her spirits rise again.
When they’d left the challenge kitchen tonight, she’d been vibrating with giddy energy from their win, downright bubbly in the car. Yet she’d tensed up again as they ate, leaving him feeling almost as if he’d done something wrong, which was ridiculous. As they’d left their table, there had been a painfully rigid set to her spine. Now, however, she moved with fluid grace that was a joy to watch.
He marveled at her most recent throw. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone with such merciless precision.” He supposed many people could train themselves to hit the bull’s-eye consistently, but after winning the initial throw that determined who went first and who got to pick the game, Grace had chosen a variation that required mastery of every section of the board. “I might be a little scared of you now.”
She grinned over her shoulder. “Flatterer.” After she nailed the bull’s-eye with her second dart, she commented, “My oldest brother, Victor, can add forty numbers in his head with the same accuracy as a calculator. He said once that he was gifted with precision, that Ben—who tracks down criminals for a living—was blessed with intuition, and that I…” She hit the double bull’s-eye, putting him out of his misery. “Got the best of both.”
The poetry of her timing, skill and wicked grin hit his system like a fiery shot of tequila. With some disoriented surprise, Ty realized he was turned on. For someone with his competitive drive, it was an unheard of response to losing. Well, except maybe for that one game of strip poker shortly after his twenty-first birthday, but that was different.
He had a sudden visual of Grace peering at him over a hand of cards, wearing the same smile she had now. And very little else. His brain almost short-circuited at the thought.
“You are one dangerous lady,” he said softly.
Luckily she had no idea he meant it. “Muy peligrosa,” she agreed cheerfully as she retrieved her darts. “I keep trying to tell my roommate that!”
“Roommate?” For no logical reason, his mind went straight to some of the romantic comedies he’d seen with dates. Movies where an attractive heroine lived with an attractive guy, but for reasons Ty could never fathom, neither of them acted on their obvious attraction until practically the end of the film. The idea of Grace—
“Amy,” she said. “You’ve met her. She’s the bartender at the Jalapeño.”
His shoulders eased. “The one with the butterfly tattoo?”
Grace nodded, exchanging the darts in her hand for the drink she’d left on the wooden rail. “She moved here from Austin and, selfishly speaking, she couldn’t have come at a better time. She was bunking at a bed-and-breakfast while she looked for a more permanent living situation. Meanwhile, I had to move because…” She faltered. “I’d been living at home, helping take care of Mom after Dad died. But then we—my brothers and I—decided that she needed more help. Better help.”
Her voice trembled, and her eyes were suspiciously bright.
“Hey. It’s okay.” He reached for her, meaning to squeeze her arm or pat her on the back, something innocuously encouraging. But his body took it a step further, pulling her against him in a hug. Beckett, you ass. Was he really taking advantage of her mother’s illness to hold her? He couldn’t have let go any faster if she’d been a burning hot pan he’d mistakenly touched.
“Sorry,” he said curtly.
Her forehead crinkled as she frowned at him. “Don’t be. That was…sweet.”
The hell it was, he thought guiltily. “I don’t do ‘sweet,’” he told her, shuddering for effect. He paused a beat before asking lightly, “How do you know it wasn’t just an excuse to touch a beautiful woman?”
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