Fired Up

Chapter One

“T-R-O-U-B-L-E.” Chance Reed let out a low whistle. “All caps, bro. Stamped right across her forehead.”

“No clue what you’re talking about,” Avery Reed commented as he flipped bavettes and hangers, separating out his rares, medium rares, mediums, and well-dones.

He scowled inwardly at the last classification.

Way to mutilate a prime cut of beef.

But this wasn’t his rodeo. It belonged to his cousin Jack Reed. And Jack’s cohost, Jillian Parks. YouTube sensations with a BBQ channel who were cooking up their specialties while entertaining a large crowd at the massive outdoor kitchen, in addition to their live stream audience.

Whereas Avery was filling in the gaps on the event lawn with a trio of wagon-wheel-style grills, arranged in a semicircle that allowed him to maneuver between the grates to stay on top of the colossal production.

“You never were any good at lyin’,” Chance said. “You’ve been stealing glances at that blonde the entire time she’s tried to make her way toward you, with a plate of Jillian’s potatoes Romanoff that pairs well with ... oh, yeah.” He studied his palm, as if it held CliffsNotes to this impending drama. “Steak.”

Avery smirked while he tended to his grills. “Got no time for a pretty thing like that. Can’t you see we have meat to serve?”

“There’s an innuendo in there somewhere,” Chance said. Then laughed.

Avery snatched the metal tray from him and piled on the well-dones he’d put on before this new round of proportioned slabs.

His older brother continued. “She’s a looker, for damn sure. And that outfit she’s wearing. Lord have mercy. I tip my hat to her.”

“What’d really help in this situation,” Avery contended, “is if you’d get these steaks to the carving station to rest so they don’t cross the line into no-man’s-land. Ain’t serving up jerky today.”

“Someday, bro, you’re gonna meet a woman who knocks you right out of your cowboy boots. Probably best that it’s not this one. She’s got ‘city slicker’ written all over her.”

“No, she doesn’t,” he retorted.

Chance hooted. And said, “Gotcha! So you have been checkin’ her out.”

“Fucking help me move this beef, man. I don’t have all day to wait around on you. Jack’s gonna wind down this shindig in an hour, and I need to clear my grates. Go fetch me another couple of trays.”

The inaugural Memorial Day Weekend BBQ Bash had been a huge hit. Today’s soiree was centered on the true spirit of the holiday—to commemorate the fallen. Lots of people had spoken throughout the day about their lost loved ones, as well as recognizing heroes from around the Southwest. To counter the somber mood that brought on, various bands performed on a makeshift stage, and there was plenty of dancing on a laid-out parquet floor to celebrate what the nation had earned in return. Freedoms people still fought for.

Also to kick off the summer season.

An abundance of food had the paid guests wandering from station to station. The scents permeated the vast knoll fringed by oaks and flower beds. The animated conversations assured the Reed family that this had been a stellar idea of Jack’s. Hundreds of people attended the long weekend of festivities, and the TRIPLE R—Reed River Ranch—would benefit from their patronage.

Not to mention, Jack and Jillian’s online subscriber/viewer numbers would soar. Avery didn’t know too much about that, but Jack’s older sister, Wyatt—and her eleven-year-old son Alejandro, a social media whiz—had promised them impressive stats and higher monetization. That part he grasped. When it came to running a multigenerational ranch of this magnitude, improved finances were imperative. Every single season.

Chance returned with two more trays, and Avery filled them, saying, “I was a little worried we were going to run out, but we budgeted just right. I’ve got several more to fire up, then I’m done here.”

“These’ll be gone before they’re even rested,” Chance told him. “But by all counts, I believe everyone’s had their fair share. Salads and sides are holding up as well, though Jack’s likely low on brisket and chicken. And I suspect most of the kegs are dry.”

“Not a surprise, especially with Jack having hired shuttle buses to get guests from town to the ranch and back.”

“No drinkin’ and drivin’, so they can imbibe until their coupons are gone. Also makes for minimal traffic out here. No excessive vehicles to disrupt anything.” As foreman of the ranch, Chance was the authority on environmental impacts to the “establishment.” He added, “Our main road and the offshoots could accommodate the influx, but it’d make for a hell of a haul and open us up to potential injury lawsuits, walking on dirt and gravel—not exactly conducive for the ladies and their heels.”

“True fact,” Avery concurred.

“Including your new admirer. She keeps shooting inviting looks your way, but every guy she passes stops to chat her up. She might be hitched before she even reaches you.”

Avery gave a half snort. “Again ... I don’t have time for—”

He groaned under his breath.

The blonde had broken free of her latest diversion and was on the move. Headed straight for Avery’s grills.

“I’ll leave y’all to it, then,” Chance said with notable humor.

Avery resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Because she really was a stunner. Damn near making his heart stop.

It’d been a hell of a long time since he’d been enticed by a woman, when there was a constant stream of activity here at the ranch to occupy every waking hour. Feeding three chucks a day to a dozen or so cowboys and plenty other ranch hands from sunup to sundown—and restocking and prepping in between and afterward—consumed his energy. Also satisfied his culinary creativity. He never served the same meal twice in any given week. That held true for the desserts.

But the blonde was impossible to ignore. He couldn’t even step away and let his assistant, Ritchie, answer any questions she might have.

Avery was riveted where he stood.

“So,” she mused in a silky voice as she sidled up to the largest of the grills in the center of his workstation. “This entire place smells like a carnivore’s heaven, and I’m thrilled I gave up being a pescatarian.”

“We don’t talk much religion around here, honey. Folks get to be what folks wanna be.”

She smiled. Vibrantly.

Avery felt a physical jolt to the gut.

Shit. She was her own electrical storm with her pearly white teeth and the flare in her golden-amber eyes, with a hint of orange around the irises.

Tiger eyes, his mother would call them when feral cats wandered onto the ranch. Rare and captivating. The blonde’s were multifaceted with incredible depth—so that Avery practically fell right into them.

Quick to catch on that he was only joking about not knowing the meaning of pescatarian, she said, “I do have an insatiable desire for seafood. Particularly a succulent Maine lobster. Or a perfectly prepared Chilean sea bass.”

“I’ve got neither, unfortunately.”

“As expected at a meat lover’s food fest. Since arriving here, I’ve been craving a filet with hollandaise and some of that brisket in the smoker.”

Jesus, she has an appetite.

He liked that. Though that wasn’t all that appealed to him.

She was dressed to the nines on this sunny Monday afternoon. She wore a flimsy top with wispy shoulder straps and a drapey neckline that revealed the inner swells of her breasts. The material was a shimmery metallic black and silver, and the strands pulling from her sides to her back to hold it in place were also whisper thin.

The front V’d at her waist, showing off an inch or so of her tanned, toned stomach. Her full-length black skirt had a tight banding low on the hips and a slit up her left leg. Her leather ankle boots had pointy tips and crystal accents at the chunky heels—prudent because, while it was just a stroll along decorative pavers from the shuttle to the lawn, stilettos would stick into the soft earth like tent spikes.

As dangerous as navigating the roads, backing up Chance’s statement.

And hell . . .

Now that Avery had gotten a good look at her ... Chance might be right about her being city. Not his jam at all.

Though she spoke with a light accent.

Not that that proved anything.

The rest of her was a walking advertisement for all the frilly stuff some women were into, including Wyatt. Her influence on him when growing up on the ranch was probably why he cataloged the pertinent details. The sleek hair pulled up on the sides with sparkling clips, the remainder flowing like a satin curtain down her exposed back. The smoky effect around her eyes and the thick, velvety lashes. All of which ensnared him.

Then there were her words ...

Avery shifted from one foot to the other as he felt an uncomfortable tightening in his groin.

“Insatiable desire,” “succulent,” and “craving” were terms that could be his undoing with a woman like her.

Especially when wicked ruminations were creeping around the fringes of sensible thoughts that were centered on cooking—not rumpling bedsheets.

“What do you recommend, cowboy?” she asked, batting those lashes. Keeping Avery fixated on her fiery eyes and her suggestive comments.

Red-hot lust was a branding iron he knew best to avoid. Avery was as committed to the success of this ranch as Jack—and everyone else—was. He had no intention of blowing his role by getting all wrapped up in long legs and rasping sighs. Or the most beautifully sculpted face he’d ever seen.

TROUBLEfor sure.

However, he couldn’t help but play along.

“You talking about what’s on the menu?” he taunted, their gazes locked.

Her irises deepened in color. “You have to direct a girl to the appropriate selections when she’s inundated by them.”

“Mmm ...,” he murmured. “You’re no girl. Though I can certainly lead you down the right path.”

He mentally harangued himself for not being as witty or as seductive as he suddenly wanted to be. But it’d been ages since he’d hit on a woman.

Thus, he stuck with what he wasn’t rusty at.

“Let me introduce you to my award-winning smoked-paprika tomahawk.” He gestured toward a two-inch-thick bone-in steak. “Or the hailed porterhouse—a strip and tenderloin cut, so you get the best of both worlds—with my top secret seasoning.” He pointed that out too. “While I do advocate for a bacon-wrapped filet mignon or a rib eye smothered in cowboy butter with sautéed mushrooms and onions, I find I can elevate the flavor of the other two better. Both have excellent marbling, similar to the rib eye.”

“My mouth is watering.”

So was his. For a different reason.

“I’m torn,” she said. And executed a playful pout.

Not a look that would lure him under normal circumstances. But she was damn pretty.

She told him, “I’ve never tried a tomahawk. Or a porterhouse—that reminds me of those restaurant commercials that declare if you can eat a seventy-two-ounce one, it’s free.” Now she cringed. “Seventy-two fuckin’ ounces. Good Lord.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, they make you eat all the fixin’s too. Dinner roll, salad, appetizer, baked potato. Shoot ... now I’m hungry.”

“I can’t believe you’re not snacking while these are cooking up. The spicy, savory aroma is driving me wild.”

“I suppose I’m more distracted by the visual stimulation.”

Okay, that was moderately better on the flirtation scale. If the heat in her golden eyes was any indication.

She teased him a bit as she said, “There are plenty of women to choose from here.” She paused, cleared her throat, and added, “I mean, if that’s what you’re into.”

“If that’s your roundabout way of asking whether I’m straight—and single—then I’m doing a piss-poor job at my attempt to woo you, as it were.”

“‘Woo’ me. That’s so sweet.” Her laugh was soft and luxurious. His gut clenched, and his blood turned to magma.

Goddamn, he was losing his shit over her. Nothing sweet about that.

Also ... he felt, deep in his bones, that she was someone he wanted to know better.

Somehow, he sensed her inner beauty might exceed the outer beauty.

Could be her unwavering gaze that inspired this notion. Could be her entrancing smile. Could be that she was still standing here with him, when there were men wound around the proverbial block to nab her attention. Many of whom appeared to be more high society than Avery Reed could ever aspire to be.

Sure, he had accolades and a champion pitmaster belt buckle he occasionally bragged on. But he was otherwise humble to the core.

That might have been a different story when he was on the BBQ circuit—and well beyond—had his dad’s reckless antics not, inadvertently, brought Avery down a peg or two. Caleb Reed could be an ornery son of a bitch, more often than not. He wasn’t a man to even try to reason with. His wife had learned that early on—and had left the ranch when Avery was seven and Chance was nine. In the ensuing years, Avery was convinced the phrase “dumpster fire” had been crafted specifically for Caleb Reed.

Asshole.

But that wasn’t the topic on deck.

Beauty wanted a steak. And, again, a woman who didn’t exist on bird seeds impressed the hell out of him.

He said, “I’ll send you to the carving station for a filet that’s medium rare and rested.”

“Hmm ...” She tapped a manicured finger against her glossy lips. “I’ve changed my mind. Lady’s prerogative and all that.” The slight curving at the corners of her mouth made her smile a coy one.

“Feel free to tell me what you’re interested in, darlin’.” That was casting a wide net.

She brightened. But evaded his underlying inference.

“You sold me on the others.” She pointed to the first cut he’d shown her and said, “I’ll have that one there. And ...” Her finger drifted toward another juicy steak. “That one too.”

“I don’t serve ’em straight off the grill—”

“But those are the ones I want,” she insisted in a sultry tone. Lifted her gaze. Fluttered her lashes again. And queried, “So that’s what I should have, right?”

Avery’s jaw clenched for a second, stifling another chuckle.

Then he replied, “If you say so—”

“Don’t you dare let a ‘ma’am’ slip out,” she lobbed back. “I don’t want us gettin’ off on the wrong foot, cowboy.”

“It’s never meant as ageism,” he assured her. “Just a word of respect.”

“Granted,” she conceded with a nod. “But ... don’t call me ‘ma’am.’”

He couldn’t hold back a laugh this time. “Well, I wouldn’t want those pointy boots of yours injuring my pride and joy, so I promise to refrain. Though it’d be helpful if I knew your name.”

She studied him briefly. Then said, “You have no idea who I am.”

His brow rose. “Should I?”

“Well,” she continued in a more modest tone, “not necessarily. Other than you’re a widely recognized pitmaster, and your cousin is an acclaimed grill master with his own YouTube channel. And I’m a BBQ cook-off host. Layla Jenson. A pleasure to meet you, Avery Reed.”

Despite her warm intonation, his spirits took a dive south.

“Sooo, you’re here for Jack. His celebrity star is skyrocketin’.”

“Not here for Jack,” she hastily said. “Or Jillian. Much as I adore them both on-screen. But they’re not the format I’m promoting.”

“Now I’m confused,” Avery admitted.

“Plop those steaks I’m requesting onto my plate,” she told him, “and between the time it takes for me to explain what I want from you, Avery, and the time it takes me to settle back into my chair at that table over there ...” She glanced over her shoulder, then returned her gaze to him. “These’ll be in excellent condition.”

He was intrigued.

Mesmerizedwas more like it.

Not the least bit wise, but ... it was what it was.

“I’ll bite on this line,” he said as everything within him pulled taut.

He couldn’t possibly fathom this convo having anything to do with his BBQ status, since he really hadn’t had one of late. He’d left the circuit eleven years ago. With his reputation intact, despite his dad’s having been sullied.

Perhaps it was something else she had on her mind—though whether she actually was coming on to him remained to be seen.

From the quickened rise and fall of her chest, however, he found it hard to believe the scorching chemistry wasn’t mutual.

And speaking of something on the cusp of getting hard ...

But he kept himself in check. He wasn’t some awestruck schoolkid.

Well, the awestruck part might be accurate.

He grabbed his tongs to do her bidding.

“We’ve been filming cook-offs on our YouTube channel, Light Your Fire, for the past few years,” she said. “We’re on season five and doing something a little more adventurous.”

“So no backyard chili competitions?” he quipped. Searching for some levity and safe ground before he got trapped in her molten irises.

Light your fire, indeed . . .

“You are correct,” she asserted. “No amateur hour here. While we have done a southwestern chili contest with all ingredients cooked over an open flame—with extraordinary regional variations—we only seek out seasoned BBQ buffs. Not at the celeb level, but ones who can bring their A game and can teach realistic recipes to aspiring, midlevel, and even more advanced ’cuers.”

Avery loaded her plate.

She added, “So, yes, Jack and Jillian are notables and on our radar. But this current battle royale is for Best Bunkhouse Cook.”

His head snapped up.

She grinned. “Ah. Got your attention there.”

That earlier internal song and dance about him being humble flew right out the window.

Avery prided himself on his job on the ranch and valued his awards from the circuit. His dad might have wrecked both their careers in that world, but Avery had gotten out while the getting was good and had preserved his championship standing.

That sentiment was reinforced when Layla said, “Throughout the entire Texas cowboy community, your name repeatedly comes up as an exceptional bunkhouse cook, Avery. And you have huge love from fans in Kansas City and Memphis—from BBQ superstars, no less. That’s astounding!”

Avery’s hackles rose. Sure, the compliments were more than welcome. He just wondered how much research this woman had done on him.

As in, did it involve his dad? Had she dug into the “Caleb years” that still haunted Avery?

He gazed at her—with scrutiny—not wanting to believe her presence here today had anything to do with dredging up his past. Or turning it into some sort of commentary or, God forbid, a documentary.

True fact, there was enough drama for a lengthy shit show on Netflix.

And if Caleb ever returned to the TRIPLE R ... Holy. Hell.

Avery couldn’t go there in his mind. Bad blood was one thing. Nearly destroying a dynasty, a generational legacy ... that was indefensible.

But ... Layla Jenson seemed genuine. Pitching an authentic concept to him that she hadn’t fully outlined—yet her enthusiasm for it was palpable.

So much so, Avery let his guard down enough to ask, “Exactly what are you proposing, darlin’?”

She’d hooked him!

Layla bit back what could’ve been a very audible sigh of relief—or an explosive squee!

She was making a big play for a sixth season of the show she’d helped to create, and that meant the current season five had to kick ass.

Luckily, she’d been able to sign a half dozen bunkhouse chefs to this endeavor. But her executive producer wanted four more. And the only reason she hadn’t reached out to Avery Reed immediately was because she knew he was a part of this Memorial Day weekend festival, and filming live segments would pull him from his duties. Or make him flat out say no.

Therefore, she’d had to bide her time. No easy feat. When Layla recognized a gold mine, she went after it with gusto.

She’d wished to merely swoop in and call Action! from the second this season’s format had been hatched and green-lighted. But it hadn’t taken long to discern that Avery Reed couldn’t be included in the initial launch, with everything else he had going on. Even now, she understood she’d be putting some pressure on him to join the competition.

Yet so much of that pressure had already been mitigated, she reminded herself. She and the production team had laid sound groundwork that ensured Avery (and everyone else in his position of not being able to break away from ranch responsibilities) wouldn’t be put out.

To that end, she told him, “We’re working with the top ten names in bunkhouse barbecue. The greatest concern from a production standpoint is that we’re mindful of these chefs’ obligations. We’re not interested in being disruptive.”

“Yeah, but ... cutting loose from feedin’ the ’boys—”

“No need to cut loose,” she interjected. “We come to you.”

He put their discussion on pause with a finger, then accepted two trays from a man who was maybe an inch taller than Avery’s six-foot-one stature (yes, she’d researched his stats) and possibly a couple years older than his thirty-one years.

Confirmed when Avery told her, “Meet Chance, my older brother. Foreman of the TRIPLE R.”

She couldn’t shake hands, hers were both full with the weight of her plate. And there were open flames between them. But she smiled and said, “Quite pleased to make your acquaintance, Chance.”

“Likewise, Miss Layla.”

He took her in from head to toe. As had every other man she’d encountered today.

Unlike her lukewarm reaction to them, this cowboy’s gaze actually could trip a breaker within her, he was that devastatingly handsome. He carried on the obvious Reed family traits of thick dark hair and hypnotic blue eyes. And half-assed grins that were swoon-worthy.

But . . . alas . . .

Only Avery incited the distinct crackle through her veins.

Thatman was a thunderbolt of magnetism and vitality. He might not think he was sparking her interest outside her current vision quest, but there most certainly were sparks.

He possessed an evocative quality she couldn’t quite define. Something elusive that made him stand out from the crowd. He exuded a masculine vibe, absolutely. Also a mysterious one, equivalent to a secret one knew existed but couldn’t uncover. An outer shell that couldn’t be breached.

Not yet anyway.

But with some effort, who knew what might be revealed ...?

That sent exhilaration down her spine.

The complication, however, was that Layla had her own secrets not to be uncovered. Her own outer shell not to be breached.

Making her hypocritical for wanting to delve deeper into him while being careful not to divulge too much about herself.

Her horrific past was meant to be dead and buried—never to be exhumed. She was a new person now. With a new name, a new persona, a new life, a new ... everything.

Bottom line, she was here to engage with Avery for the sake of the show. For the sake of her career. That was where her sole focus ought to be. Not on how rugged and sexy the man was.

She had to concentrate on how he’d make a spectacular addition to a production she desperately hoped would have more seasons and gain a bigger audience. Not only because she needed this job; it also offered exposure and acknowledgment to a subset of cooks who represented a glorious culinary culture that made one’s toes curl and their stomachs growl.

Okay, yes, she’d once been a BBQ connoisseur. As her daddy had been. But somewhere in her early twenties, Layla had lost her way. And, to be honest, she’d become a food snob. One who preferred fine dining in a ridiculously expensive restaurant versus a grassroots event such as this.

She’d returned to her own roots, though. And was happier for it.

After the brother carried away the steaks from Avery’s station, she informed him, “We have some incredible traditional grill and smoke masters on the show, but none who match your expertise with the pit when serving a large group of people. Working with an earth oven and conquering that perfect temperature with the right coals and embers is an artform, Avery. As you know. And that, combined with your overall barbecuing skills, could win you this title.”

“Honey, I do have plenty of ’em,” he said. “Not really chasing after another.”

“Just think about this,” she implored. “We’re filming this week in Cheyenne. But the crew’s available next week. That gives you plenty of time to recover from this extravaganza.”

“I don’t need recovery time.” He winked.

And that did crazy things to her body she couldn’t begin to process. Even made her hands tremble as she held her heavy plate.

“I’ll be up before the sun rises tomorrow to prep a feast fit for kings, after all these wranglers and ranch hands have done to make this bash a success. Helping to clean up and reset the scene every day, while ensuring the cows and horses are tended to.” He gave a nod. “They’ve done this family a solid. As always. It’s gratifying to me to reward them with chucks that aren’t slapped-together by-products. We take care of our own on the TRIPLE R.”

Emotion swelled within her, taking Layla by surprise. Her daddy would have said something akin to that, if only she were still in contact with him.

She swallowed down the lump in her throat but knew her eyes were a bit misty, due to Avery’s conviction as much as the wayward ruminations on her daddy. Which she always kept tucked away. Her new persona came with the need to distance herself from him. He just wouldn’t understand all that had happened to her—why she literally didn’t look like the daughter he’d raised.

Pushing the painful notion away, she told Avery, “That’s the spirit that will win this competition. Yes, the quality of food, the cooking techniques, and the unique recipes are the primary focus. But why you stretch the limits to deliver the best you can is the underlying heart and soul of this contest.”

She tried to collect herself, but there was a burning sensation in her core that went hand in hand with all the research that had led her to seek out Avery Reed.

She emphasized, “I swear our team won’t flip a well-oiled operation on its side, cowboy. Just ... give it some thought.”

His shrug was noncommittal.

She further reminded him, “I’ll be over there with my assistant, Brodi. The redhead who always looks like she’s vibratin’ in her seat. She has a million to-dos running rampant through her whiz-bang brain. Plus, she’s always starving—all those calories she expends vibratin’.”

Layla laughed at how earnest those statements were. She also beamed on the inside because Brodi was a miracle worker with a heart of gold—and Layla’s bestie.

She told Avery, “Think the tomahawk and the porterhouse are gonna rock both our worlds.” She smiled again.

Then she carefully turned to go, given her load. Also before she gave a bit more away of herself than she’d intended. And ruined the steaks with her delay in delivering them.

Though it was difficult to drag her gaze from Avery.

His low snicker indicated he was well aware.

Damn. This wasn’t going to be an easy mission.

Sure, she’d seen photos of him on the internet. And she’d thought he was hotter than hell. That, however, had not prepared her for the reality of the man. His strong build and commanding presence. Also his reserved—perhaps purposely controlled?—disposition mixed with natural charm and dry wit.

She’d expected a more overpowering personality, having watched clips of him on Jack’s show and then from the recent street festival in the nearby town of Serrano, where he’d been grilling fajitas with another cousin, Luke.

In effect, what she’d anticipated was a cowboy Casanova.

But the Avery Reed she’d met today was more of a cool drink of sparkling water. Hitting all the right spots on a hot summer day. Leaving her tingly all over ... yet not fully quenched.

Because she’d only had a sample of the man.

And she couldn’t deny . . .

She was thirsty for more.