Tactically Tied (Marriage Mission #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

T he smell of smoked brisket and sizzling bacon filled the air as Jed Winchester wiped his hands on his apron. It was Thursday night at Grits and Grub, and the place was packed to the rafters. Of course it was. It was football season. The clatter of dishes, the low hum of conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter filled the space, competing with the roar of the football game playing on the flat screens mounted above the bar.

Jed glanced up just in time to see the QB take a hard hit, the sound of helmets colliding making him wince. The crowd at the bar groaned in sympathy, some slapping the bar top, others muttering about bad calls. It wasn't a bad call, just par for the game. The leader was the one who took the hits.

Jed dug his thumb into his lower back. His bones ached in solidarity. He wasn’t young anymore. He’d been on his feet for more than half his life, and as much as he loved it, the grind of running a kitchen was starting to get to him. Cooking could be just as punishing as football—a game he used to love and a life he'd nearly pursued if his culinary passion hadn’t won out.

The grill hissed behind him, and Jed's nostrils flared as the smell of something slightly off hit him. He turned just as one of his line cooks plated up a burger. Everything about it was wrong—the patty was too well done, the cheese unevenly melted, and the fries soggy. His gut twisted and not in the way it did when he was coming up with a new recipe. This was something else. Disappointment.

Jed wiped his hands again and strode to the pass, grabbing the plate before it could make its way out to the dining room.

"Hey, Dane," Jed called over his shoulder, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through the kitchen noise. "You wanna tell me what this is?"

Dane, a lanky twenty-something who’d been with him for a year, froze mid-chop, his knife hovering above a pile of onions. He glanced at the plate in Jed’s hand, then back at Jed’s face, swallowing hard.

"Uh, that's the Winchester Burger, Chef."

Jed raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Is it? Looks more like a high school cafeteria special to me." He tilted the plate, pointing to the fries. "Soggy. And the cheese? Barely melted. You know how we do things here."

"Perfection or nothing."

Jed slid the imperfect food into the trash bin, leaving nothing behind on the plate.

Dane's face flushed. "Sorry, Chef. I’ll redo it."

"We’re not a fast-food joint—quality over speed, remember?"

"Yes, Chef." The call didn't come just from Dane. Every person on the line in the kitchen uttered the phrase with military precision. Jed's dad would've been proud.

Jed walked back toward the kitchen pass, rubbing the back of his neck. He hated snapping at his staff, but it had to be done. Everything had to be just right. Every plate, every garnish, every fry. His drill sergeant of a father used to bark orders the same way—except instead of a kitchen, it was in the barracks. Instead of burgers, it was at soldiers. And Jed? Well, he’d learned to run a tight ship long before he’d picked up a chef’s knife.

Being the son of a drill sergeant meant there was no room for mistakes. Failure wasn’t an option, and mediocrity? It wasn’t even a thought. Jed had spent his childhood marching to his father’s rigid cadence, learning the importance of precision and discipline. When other kids were riding bikes, he was practicing his salute, learning how to make his bed with corners so tight they could bounce a coin. By the time he hit high school, it was expected he’d follow in his father’s footsteps—go through ROTC, then straight into the military. Jed did what was expected, but deep down, his heart wasn’t in it.

Not that he didn't respect the structure, the discipline—it had shaped him—but while his friends in ROTC dreamed of the front lines, Jed dreamed of the kitchen. He preferred the warmth of the grill to the bark of commands, the smell of spices over gunpowder. His real education began in Home Ec, where he mastered knife skills and the art of perfecting a roux. It was a world where the pressure to succeed came from the love of creation, not the threat of consequence.

On weekends, he’d sneak away to his grandfather’s backyard. Grandpa Jedidiah Winchester Sr. didn’t have a restaurant, but he might as well have. His grill was legendary. People came from miles around just to taste his barbecue, crowding around the massive pit, waiting for their turn to sink into the smoky, sweet, sticky sauce that put other local spots to shame. Jed felt more at home there than anywhere else in the world—the hiss of the grill, the smell of charcoal and wood chips, the way his grandfather’s secret sauce thickened over the heat until it clung to the meat like a second skin. That was where Jed found his true calling.

But his father had other plans. “Military first,” his dad had insisted, the way he insisted on everything. Jed did what he was told, signed up, and served his time. He didn’t regret it—it taught him things, hardened him, gave him the resilience to face whatever came his way. But every day in uniform, he dreamed of the kitchen. Dreamed of carrying on his grandfather’s legacy, of turning those backyard cookouts into something bigger.

So the day he got out, he left the barracks behind and hit the food world by storm. Every dish he made was in honor of his grandfather’s memory, every seasoning a nod to the lessons learned over that old grill. The control he exercised in the kitchen was less about perfection and more about respect—for the food, for the process, for the people who had come before him.

A loud cheer from the bar broke through his thoughts, the crowd celebrating as the QB finally made a comeback, throwing a perfect pass. Jed glanced up, catching a glimpse of the game, but his heart wasn’t in it. Not anymore. These days, the thrill of the kitchen was all he had. And even that felt... off lately.

"Isn’t that him?" a beautiful blonde whispered loud enough to be heard over the television and cheers.

"Yeah, that's him: Jed Winchester, the Culinary Casanova," said the chestnut-haired siren beside her.

Jed grimaced at the nickname. Would he never live that down? The playboy image had stuck to him over the years, a reputation he hadn’t exactly discouraged. It kept things simple—women came and went, and no one expected more from him than a casual fling. It was a role he’d cultivated out of necessity, a shield to hide behind. But it was just that—a role. The truth was, there’d only ever been one woman he was really into.

And she wasn’t into him. Or so she’d said.

The chestnut siren made her move, sliding over with a confident smile. "Hey there, Jed. Big game, huh? You watching?"

He leaned back, offering a polite but distant smile. "Not really. Too busy in the kitchen."

Jed pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the double doors that led to the back of the restaurant. The blonde and the siren blinked, clearly expecting more of a response, but when none came, the blonde glanced over her shoulder at her friend, who gave her an encouraging nod.

"Well, we were thinking... maybe after the game, we could grab a drink? If you’re not too busy, that is."

Jed tilted his head, considering her offer. She was pretty, no doubt about that. Any other guy would’ve jumped at the chance to flirt back. But for Jed, it felt like going through the motions. The thrill, the chase—none of it had ever really mattered. Not when his heart had always been chasing someone else. Someone who didn't even have the decency to be present to get caught.

"Thanks, but I got a lot on my plate. Mainly the plates that'll need washing after the game."

Before they could make another offer, Jed moved away from their side of the bar and headed to the opposite end. He scanned the dining area, his eyes catching on a table near the bar. Sure enough, there sat Noah Henry and Fish Minou, both nursing beers and laughing at something on the screen.

They were an unlikely pair, for sure. Noah was all clean-cut charm, married to Jacqui Chou. Fish, the scarred, wounded warrior, had somehow won over Jules, the youngest and sweetest of the Chou trio. The fact that Chow Town—the Chou family restaurant—was Grits and Grub’s biggest rival didn’t seem to matter to these two. But Jed knew better.

The real rivalry wasn’t between restaurants. It was between him and the middle Chou sister. The one who took off on jets just as soon as she landed. The one whose lips he'd crashed into five years ago. The one who caused turbulence in his dreams each night.

And that was only because Jami hadn’t figured out that the turbulence was all in her head. He let her think they were enemies because it kept her close. Whenever she was in town, that was.

Jed grabbed two cold beers from the bar and headed over, his boots scuffing against the worn wooden floor as he approached the table.

"On the house, boys," he said, setting the bottles down with a grin. "You look like you could use a refill."

"Thanks, Jed. Just don’t tell Jacqui I’m here, all right? She thinks I’m at some... meeting."

Jed chuckled, folding his arms across his chest. "Your secret’s safe with me. But I can’t help it if she sees your name on the local gossip page tomorrow."

And by the local gossip page, Jed meant the early morning trash pickup where neighbors tugged their bins to the curb and spent an hour listening to and delivering town gossip. The Chou family was always gossip. There were rumors that Old Man's Chou had left a small fortune to each of his six granddaughters. But the catch was they couldn't get access to the money unless they got married. With both Jacqui and Jules' recent nuptials timed closely with upgrades to the Chowtown Restaurant and Jules' new bakery, Jed was starting to believe those rumors just might be true. Not that he'd ever ask his new friends to confirm or deny.

Noah rolled his eyes. "There’s always a risk when you marry into a big family."

Fish, sitting beside him with a half-smile, raised his beer in a casual toast. "Jules and I don’t have secrets. I tell her everything."

Noah scoffed, shaking his head. "Yeah, well, not all of us are living in a Hallmark movie, buddy."

Fish took a slow sip of his beer, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Hey, you married a Chou sister, man. It’s close enough."

Jed smirked, leaning on the back of an empty chair. He could feel the lighthearted banter between the two, but his mind was already drifting. Maybe it was the exhaustion from running the kitchen all night, or maybe it was just that nagging feeling that something—or someone —was missing. It was the longest Jami had been out of town. It felt like he needed a whiff of her to get through the next few months. But he couldn't outright ask?—

"You know Jami’s coming to town, right?" said Fish

Jed tightened his grip on the chair, forcing himself to stay casual. His heart gave a sudden lurch at the mention of her name, but he schooled his features into something that resembled disinterest.

"All three Chou sisters back together." Noah grimaced. "With just the two of them, I feel outnumbered. But all three?"

"Oh yeah?" Jed leaned back, trying to sound nonchalant. "Haven’t seen Jami in a while."

Jami Chou was a blur of passport stamps and culinary critiques, a force of nature that blew into town just long enough to stir things up before leaving again. And every time she left, Jed wondered if she’d ever come back for good.

Before Jed could ask anything more—like exactly which day she was getting back, or how long she’d be staying—the door opened, and a familiar figure stepped in.

It was a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair, a sharp suit, and an air of confidence that only came from one place: television. It was Rick Landers, a producer for the Tasty TV Network, and the man who had put him on the map years ago.

"Excuse me, fellas," Jed said, straightening his posture. "Duty calls."

Noah waved him off with a salute of his beer bottle. "Go ahead. We’ll be here. Or, at least I will. Fish’s perfect marriage won’t keep him out past curfew."

Fish shot him a satisfied grin, and Jed chuckled before heading toward the door. As he crossed the room, his mind raced. What was Rick doing here? Another show? Another opportunity? Whatever it was, Jed had a feeling his life was about to get a whole lot more complicated.

He met Rick at the entrance, offering a handshake that was as firm as his smile. "Rick. Been a while."

"Jed Winchester, the Culinary Casanova. You still serving the best barbecue this side of the state?"

"Wouldn’t be me if I wasn’t. You're a long way from L.A. What brings you to town?"

Rick’s smile widened, a gleam in his eye that told Jed this wasn’t just a social call. "I’ve got a proposition for you. Something big."

Was Jed interested in another food competition? Not really. Not when he'd have to smile at the cameras and flirt with women he wasn't interested in. Jed just felt tired—in his hands, in his feet, in his soul. He just wanted to settle down and… and what? He didn't know.

No, that wasn’t true. He knew exactly what he wanted to settle down with. Or rather, who he wanted to settle down with.

"This new competition is going to be a big hit."

Jed started to shake his head to say no. But Rick was not only a smooth talker, he was a fast talker. So when the word couples came out of his mouth, Jed perked up.

"Couples?"

"This cooking competition is between married couples. Now I know you're not married. But it can be for engaged couples too. Surely you have a girlfriend whose finger you can slip a ring on for a week or two?"

There was only one girl whose finger Jed wanted to slip a ring onto. But she'd more likely deck him than let him hold her hand.