“You lost her, too?” Ty was horrified by the Pandora’s box he’d unwittingly opened.
She swallowed hard. “No, not the way you mean. She has early-onset Alzheimer’s.”
“Sorry.” He wasn’t sure if the trite word was meant to be a condolence for what she was going through or an apology for bringing up her family in the first place.
His usual talent for effortless small talk deserted him. Claustrophobia gripped him. He wished he could be anywhere but inside this car. Or, if he had to be here, he wished Stephen was, too. Ty excelled at flirting, getting his way and perfectly searing meat. He could look into a camera and make an unseen audience feel as if he were connecting with them, but it was a superficial illusion. When it came to actually relating to anyone, his business manager was far more skilled.
With a sniff, Grace swiped the side of her hand beneath her eye. “This is the longest I’ve ever heard you go without talking.”
“I do like the sound of my own voice,” he agreed. He was more than happy to discuss his character flaws if it kept them out of the quicksand of her personal tragedies.
“Well, if you’ve been stewing because you’re afraid the weepy chef is too emotional to carry her weight on this challenge, I promise you, I’m up to the task.”
He blinked, startled by her perception of him. He might not be deep, but he wasn’t heartless, either. “That honestly hadn’t crossed my mind, Grace.”
“Really?” She assessed him with a sidelong glance. “Sometimes, with my brothers…they treat me as if having feelings is a liability somehow, makes me fragile. I’m going to prove them wrong when I win this competition.”
Hopefully second place would be enough to make her point to her siblings. Because Ty had every intention of beating her. He said nothing, glad that for now at least, for this one challenge, they could work toward a joint victory. But after that, it would be a return to the philosophy he’d clung to since adolescence.
Every man for himself.
Chapter Four
Grace’s index finger hovered over the pulse control of the food processor. “Sorry,” she said with saccharine-sweet contrition, “can’t hear you.” Then she jabbed the button again and the blade whirred to life.
From the other side of the counter, Ty smirked. They both knew that the second the appliance stopped, he’d go back to his heckling. He’d been teasing her all afternoon and, although she’d do the unthinkable and buy salsa in a jar before she ever admitted it, she appreciated his irreverent playfulness. It kept her nerves from getting the best of her and helped her move past the melancholy she’d felt this morning when discussing her family.
As soon as the motor slowed and the noise died, Ty glanced up from the large pot of chowder he was stirring, which smelled like peppery-scented heaven. “Now would be a good time for you to admit you were completely wrong, by the way.”
Keeping her expression deadpan was a struggle in the face of his contagious grin. Apparently her partner’s charisma was like radioactivity—the longer you were exposed, the more pronounced the effects. “Fine, you didn’t make steak,” she acknowledged. “You want an award for that?”
His blue-gray eyes glinted. “What are you offering?”
She considered throwing a blackberry at him.
He pointed toward the chowder, his smile fading into temporary earnestness. “You want to try this one last time before we start plating?”
They’d drawn numbers earlier in the evening to determine the order in which they’d serve the judges. Phoebe Verlaine and Stuart Capriotti had just presented their food, Reed Lockhart and Jo Ying were plating now, then it would be Grace and Ty’s turn.
She shook her head. “We’re good to go.” They’d both tried each other’s dishes, and she was confident they’d nailed the recipes. Continuing to mess with the food was a rookie mistake that could lead to overseasoning and muddled flavors.
She was really excited about their three-course meal and a bit surprised by how well they’d worked together. Since her father’s death, she’d grown accustomed to running the kitchen of the Jalapeño, and it was refreshing to brainstorm with someone truly knowledgeable about food. Ben and Amy normally limited their input to “mmm” and Victor couldn’t help automatically calculating ingredient costs. Grace and Ty had been tasting each other’s dishes, offering small suggestions when warranted, but there hadn’t been much tampering. She’d half expected Ty would need to put his stamp on everything that came out of the kitchen, but when he’d tried the filling for her dessert, he’d simply said, “Can’t improve on perfection.”
We could win this. She was still worried about Katharine and Antonio, who had more combined experience than any other pair, but she thought her and Ty’s chances were excellent. Their first course would be her spicy butternut-and-pear soup, followed by his grilled shellfish on a bed of creamy poblano-and-corn chowder. Then the finishing touch—Grace’s goat-cheese-and-blackberry empanadas with a nutty glaze. It offered sweetness without the overwhelming richness of that triple-chocolate tart Phoebe had prepared.
Grace began ladling soup into the judge’s bowls, finishing each with a decorative swirl of seasoned crème fraîche and a wafer-thin slice of pear.
“Nervous?” Ty looked pointedly at her hands, which were shaking. “I think we’re going to kick ass, personally.”
“So do I.” She made a fist and squeezed, willing her fingers to cooperate. “It’s more excitement than nerves. When it’s something I care about this much, I just get…keyed-up sometimes.”
Could he understand that? Smooth-talking Ty Beckett didn’t seem the type to get jittery about anything.
“Tell you what,” he drawled. “After we wrap this tonight, I’ll buy you a drink to celebrate. Take me somewhere that has a pool table or air-hockey or whatever so you can burn off this extra energy. Maybe a dance floor.”
She experienced a too-vivid picture of Ty pulling her into his arms. Not a chance in hell. There was an uncrossable line between “keeping your enemy close” and flat-out courting disaster. No matter how their challenge ended tonight, tomorrow morning they’d be opponents again.
“Darts,” she blurted. “I like darts.”
He affected a look of mock-panic. “Wait, only this morning you were telling me you don’t like me. Now you want me to arm you with sharp missiles? Should I be worried?”
“Just make sure we win so I’m in a really good mood before I start throwing.”
* * *
SEAMUS WILSON, IN CONTRAST to his partner Camellia’s sulky silence, tried to accept defeat with a joke. “Guess I should have traded you for that Angus, after all,” he told Ty.
Ty shook the man’s hand. “We all have off-days, buddy.” It was a tactful fib. Personally Ty hadn’t allowed himself the luxury of a bad day in over a decade. The success he’d dreamed of for so long was nearly in his grasp, and he wasn’t about to let anything jeopardize it.
Still, he waited until the other teams had left the challenge kitchen before he allowed himself to gloat fully.
He took Grace by the shoulders and whirled her in a small, triumphant circle. “Hot damn, we did it!”
Her dark eyes shone with pleasure. “I can’t stop smiling.” In a voice husky with pride, she marveled over their accomplishment. “We just beat Antonio Zavalo and Katharine Garner! I may never stop smiling.”
Antonio and Katharine had been their stiffest competition. One of the judges had said they might have won if they hadn’t used two of the signature items from the famed menu of Katharine’s