Fired Up

Chapter Two

“Is he signin’ up?” Brodi Brooks pounced the second Layla returned to the table they shared with eight other people. “I have the contracts on my phone, ready for printing. He can review them early this evening, and I’ll scan them at the business center at the hotel in town, or if they have a scanner here, we can—”

“Slow down, my overzealous assistant.” Though that was one of the things Layla loved about the five-foot-five dynamo.

“How slow can I go? I can’t get y’all to agree to use electronic contracts and signatures, so I have to plan for all the extraneous variables. Printin’ and scannin’ ...” She made a face. “Gah.”

Layla laughed. “Lots of these cowboys and ranchers prefer to flip through papers, not screens on their computers.”

“And yet Jack Reed has his own socials blowing up. Total techie.”

“I think that’s more his producer’s and his nephew’s doing. His sister’s as well.”

“Regardless, I—”

“Just be patient with the process. Avery requires a multipronged approach,” Layla told her. “He’s got his hands full with this event and other duties. I floated the concept and will let it sink in. Then I’ll mention the other specifics at the right times.”

“Aren’t we supposed to strike when the iron’s hot?”

“Not hot enough yet,” Layla murmured. And sliced through the mammoth tomahawk steak, placing a hunk on Brodi’s plate. She did the same with the porterhouse.

Toppings for the steaks were being passed around the table, but Layla was a purist and wanted to catalogue the flavor profiles Avery had captured.

Before she took a bite, she added, “I haven’t hit him with the true zinger yet. I just need a little more time with the man.”

Brodi leveled her with a look. “I’m confused as to whether you need time with the man or the cook.”

“Ha, ha. Try the steaks.”

“Oh, I intend to devour the steaks. Just wondering if that’s your thought with the man.”

Layla’s stomach fluttered. When it really shouldn’t. But, hell ... there was just no getting around the fact that she was deeply attracted to Avery. Perhaps she had been from the get-go, in this season’s developmental stage.

She’d been prepared, in theory, to encounter him.

Again, in reality ... good Lord.

He was just so ... there.

So wide. So muscular. Somewhat imposing. Taking up lots of space and all her air. In an arousing way.

Even with him wearing a leather apron as he tended to his steaks, Layla got the full visual of broad shoulders and defined pecs.

More than how his looks would boost the show’s ratings, he’d had Layla at “no one treats a porterhouse with more TLC than me.” The declaration he’d made on Jack’s live stream months ago. That intimate statement and his accompanying smoldering gaze had lit a blaze within Layla—a fiery one she’d never experienced before.

Not exactly a sensible acknowledgment on her part. But an inescapable one.

Brodi broke into her thoughts, saying, “I can’t tell if I want to climax over the scent coming off these steaks or gorge myself on what will surely be melt-on-my-tongue ecstasy when I taste them.”

Layla nearly spewed the sip of cabernet sauvignon she’d just taken a sip of.

“What?” Brodi asked, undeterred.

“There are other people at this table,” Layla reminded her.

“Who aren’t paying a lick of attention to us anymore. Girl, they’re all trying to clean their plates as fast as they can and go back for more until we’re cut off from this chow-down orgy.”

“Oh, my gawd.” Layla did a brief face-plant into her palms. Then said, “I’ll never be able to say for certain what I adore most about you. Your colorful and candid observations, your pertness, or your brilliance.”

“Eeegads!” she quipped, though with a wince. “It’s the ‘brilliance’ part that’s killin’ me, isn’t it? Like, I’m just too much in my head, right? When I should’ve been making the rounds since we got here. Flirting and stuff. But eeeww ...” She did her signature grimace emoji imitation. “IRL interactions ... hashtag: ThankYouNoThankYou.”

“You’re doing fine,” Layla assured her. “You said hello to the people in our immediate vicinity.”

“Then promptly ignored them.” Brodi sighed. “This is a meat market of dual varieties. I’m not up for a schmooze fest. I just wanna eat and figure out how this bunkhouse cook-off is going to pan out.”

“Another key factor to add to my list of heartin’ on you. However ...” Layla sipped again, since it seemed to be a safe moment in which to do so. “While we’re promoting the show, it is imperative we schmooze. Pretend we’re actual social creatures.”

“You’re killin’ my buzz.”

Layla laughed. There was always something killin’ Brodi Brooks—in a good way or a facetious one.

Layla said, “I endured forty-five minutes of trying to get to Avery. More significantly, trying to get him alone.”

“I’d say you have a competition of your own going on, but he just waves the ladies away from his grills, sending them straight to the carving station. He’s all tunnel vision, attuned to his times and temps. Well. Until you came along. Bet he burnt a few steaks when he caught sight of you.”

“Not even one, I guarantee it. He can do this in his sleep. Goddamn, he’d be so awesome on our show! We have to snag him.”

“While scarfing down amazing eats,” Brodi said in between bites. “Holy cow, I can’t get enough of this cow!”

“Yeah, Avery Reed has genuine talent.” Her gaze drifted to him. For about the millionth time today.

He finished his steaks and stripped off his apron. The tug of leather against his shirt released two snaps on his flap—opening the shirt to the middle of his expansive chest.

His bronze skin and chiseled muscles made her pulse pound. The way the short sleeves of his shirt hugged his biceps sent a tickle along her clit.

And the overall effect of him ...

Holy Christ.

Layla wanted to shred the remainder of the material and put her hands all over him. Taste every inch of him. Take him deep in her mouth and—

Whoa, wait—whhaaat?!

Layla, Layla, Layla!!!

Inappropriate thoughts about a potential contestant!

She gaped.

“What just happened?” Brodi asked, covering her mouth because it was full.

Layla snapped her jaw shut and shook her head. “Nothing.”

She considered there wasn’t anything specific in her contract that said she couldn’t canoodle. She had no sway with the judges.

Still, it was neither professional nor practical.

She reminded herself this was a corporate outing. Her executive producer had landed the two tickets for today’s grand finale, and Layla and Brodi had made it here from their last filming location, in Santa Fe, to spend a couple of hours absorbing the ranch scenery and enjoying the feast before Jack concluded the party.

By the looks of things, it’d take a major announcement onstage to get these people moving toward the shuttles and off the property; there was way too much jubilation going on. Still food to ingest, still shuffles around the dance floor to take, still friends to make.

She’d thought this venture would be predominantly about barbecue. She’d been wrong—it was also a networking smorgasbord.

Although Layla typically kept to herself in private settings, making her and Brodi kindred spirits, she had a knack for marketing when surrounded by this many people—and that inherent trait had burst forth as soon as they’d arrived.

Brodi was more inclined to be the behind-the-scenes guru. And that was a nice complement to Layla’s efforts to gain more recognition.

Problem being the latter was a catch-22 of its own making.

Layla was driven by her need to succeed. Conversely, she was still hindered by a past that had her constantly looking over her shoulder—and staying as far away as possible from her father and her other relatives and former friends to keep them out of harm’s way. Which meant, at the end of the day, she and Brodi would go back to their hotel rooms and their somewhat solitary lives.

Brodi’s by choice. Layla’s by necessity.

Although she was thrilled to be among the land of the living again, she was still a woman who was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Knowing she’d done everything she could to escape a monstrous “situationship” and make it so that the man who’d brutally attacked her couldn’t find her, identify her. Yet she still harbored doubts—and fears—that he would. He was that powerful, that persistent.

Not exactly the issue at hand, though.

Layla had more to discuss with Avery.

She polished off her meal as he wound his way through the crowd and the tables and disappeared inside the main house.

Brodi slipped away, only to return with refills on their wine. Bringing along individual crème br?lées.

“I can’t fathom how I have room for this,” she said, “but I do.”

“Yeah, that looks divine,” Layla concurred. The berries on top were the perfect supplement to the meat they’d consumed. “We had salads as starters, but those rich potatoes Romanoff and the Dutch oven rolls pretty much made me regret eating rabbit food when we could be sparing space for everything else.”

Brodi grinned. “For what these tickets cost, I’m pretty sure our management team will be pleased we’ve stuffed ourselves to the gills.”

“And now I’m thinking ...,” Layla mused as Avery emerged from the covered patio, wearing a new shirt—this one pewter colored to match his jeans, hat, and snakeskin boots—and wove his way toward her, “that I could use a little cardio.”

“Please tell me you’re not just referring to dancing. Because that cowboy has been scopin’ you like a prized steer and—” Brodi’s brow furrowed. “Perhaps we’re taking the culinary adages too far. Let me just say ... you’re for sure in Avery Reed’s crosshairs.”

Warmth flooded Layla’s veins. “Lucky me.”

She applied a new coat of vanilla-scented lip gloss.

Seconds later, Avery strode by her table, holding out his hand.

What did Layla do? She placed her palm in his and let him lead her to the dance floor. With neither of them saying a word.

She did glimpse back at Brodi, whose eyes were huge.

Avery pulled Layla close and murmured, “You do two-step, right?”

“You do apologize for being condescending, right?”

He chuckled. “Not my intent. I’m just not sure where you’re comin’ from. Not just geographically.”

“I can two-step,” she assured him. And let him hold her right hand at chest height as she flattened her left palm against his shoulder. He was the leader; she was the follower.

They fell into step with the others moving counterclockwise about the floor. He guided her when he wanted to turn her and steadily brought her back to him. They worked in sync with each other through eye contact, body movement, and some sort of cosmic connection.

Layla had learned this dance from her daddy when she was small enough to start out by standing on his boots. Then being in rhythm enough to go through the quick, quick, slow, slow motions on her own.

It’d been eons since she’d danced with anyone, yet with Avery ... it all came back to her.

When the music changed to a slower ballad and he held her a bit more firmly, she broke the “dancer’s space” to snuggle close to him.

She twined an arm around his neck and inhaled his crisp cologne that mingled with his male heat.

“You get all fancied up for me, cowboy?” she inquired.

“Well, if you’d wanted to nibble on me because I smelled like barbecue, I’m not sayin’ I would have minded.”

She laughed. “You’ve spruced yourself up with a refreshing fragrance, but I still get the hint of mesquite woodchips, so ... I’ll say you found the perfect balance.”

“That you can tell the difference between my preferred smoky flavors—mesquite, oak wood, and hickory—is impressive. But I’m more pleased I didn’t find you in the clutches of another man when I returned.”

“I’ll confess that marketing our channel is important, but Brodi and I are here primarily to convince you that our show is a worthy endeavor.”

He groaned. “We’re back to that.”

“Let me just tell you that we’ve got the production process down to a science, so it doesn’t interfere with your operation. We film segments over the course of five days: a specialty meal of your choosing to get us started, then a breakfast, a lunch, a dinner, and a dessert.”

“Think I want to talk more about you nibblin’ on me.”

The mere thought sent liquid fire through her veins. How she stayed the course was beyond her.

Though Layla did hear the sultriness lacing her voice as she continued. “We have three BBQ professionals to judge every segment—each of those scores go into the individual contestants’ lockboxes, not to be revealed until the finale. Even I don’t see them.”

“Very pins and needles like.”

“Exactly. The suspense is an additional driving force to keep viewers tuning in,” she said. “I’m the one who interacts with the cowboys you feed—and with you. All via testimonials and short interviews. But I have absolutely no say over the judging. I do not provide a score. I don’t provide personal opinion of the food. I’m only the host.”

He turned her again, pulled her to him. Sending a delicious shiver down her spine.

She said, “Here’s the kicker, Avery.” She stared into his gorgeous blue irises and told him, “The winner gets one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

His brow quirked.

“Yeah. And the runner-up gets fifty grand.”

His jaw worked.

“There’s a total win here. I feel it,” she asserted. “Again, I have no input and no stakes. I’m literally Switzerland. But I am instrumental in which contestants we select. And yet the truth is, I didn’t have to advocate for you, Avery. All I did was mention your name—everyone voted yes. We just couldn’t interrupt your current focus. Though ... if next week you can allow us to—”

“Darlin’ ...” He let out a low grunt. Dipped her with a strong hold, then brought her upright and sealed her to him, leaving her breathless. “I don’t just answer to myself. No one in this family does. Everything that goes on at the TRIPLE R is meant to keep us in the black. Year over year.”

She went up on tiptoes and craned her neck, so her lips were but a wisp from his. “One hundred and fifty thousand dollars, Avery. Fifty K at the least. You gonna tell me that’s not a substantial bounty for this ranch?”

He gritted his teeth. Guided her around the dance floor some more, keeping her in his tight embrace.

She added, “Maybe you once competed for the glory of it. Maybe you want a new glory. But the fact is ... you have incredible potential to take the cake here, cowboy. And I swear to you, on my mama’s own grave, God rest her soul, that we won’t be a nuisance. You do you, let me interview you in snippets, and let the judges taste what you’ve cooked up. You’ll go about your regular day, Avery. Just bring your best recipes and your expertise to the table. That’s all.”

It was like Christmas morning when you were eight and your dad promised you that if you did your chores and kept your mouth shut while he nursed his hangover, you could open your present.

With there being absolutely no guarantee there’d be a present.

Because your mom had long since left and your alcoholic father only knew it was Christmas because your ever-vigilant uncle had brought over a tree and your beloved aunt and tried-and-true (though mostly pesky) cousins had helped to decorate it.

Kind of an extreme comparison, but the key correlation here was that you were asked to deliver the goods with no more than unicorn dreams to back up your effort.

Not only that, Avery simply couldn’t afford the distraction.

Conversely . . .

The dollar signs flashing in the back of his head were difficult to ignore.

As was Layla’s soft smile. And her gently arched brow.

Not to mention her silky voice as she added, “I have experience in the champion BBQ world. Long ago, yes. And now more recently.” Her eyes clouded for a moment, intriguing him. “Suffice it to say, I’m no amateur. But, again ... I’m only the face of the competition. I don’t contribute to the result. So you can be assured that what happens is solely up to the judges. Although ...”

She executed a smooth turn and moved right back into his arms.

“As a cocreator, I have a vested interest in this entire production,” she told him. “I want a real winner.”

Avery wasn’t certain what she knew about him, what she saw in him.

But he for sure felt a charge between them.

So he took the bait. “What else do you need today?”

“To see your cooking facility. I’ll take some pics and add them to your dossier.”

He frowned. “I have a dossier?”

This alarmed him.

But she was still breezy. Damn near feathery in his arms, without the hint of tension in her body. So he held fast to the idea that she hadn’t dug too deep.

He didn’t take her for the duplicitous type. Someone who might come off as being wholly on your side, reeling you in ... only to blindside you. With a dossier on your epic failure of a father.

Jesus, he hated how harsh that was.

But both he and Chance had lived the reality. As had the rest of the family. So there was no untethering himself from it.

Layla said, “There’s nothing invasive in your file, I promise. Just all your awards. Some articles that evaluated you against your younger cousin, Jack, noting you both use different techniques. Various displays of your rig and your grills, and how those changed over the years as you gained notoriety—and skill. How you inevitably turned to maximizing the pit.”

“Trying to control something that’s seriously not meant to be controlled.” A component that had fascinated him from the moment he’d learned food could be smoked in a trench.

“Earth ovens take attention and dedication,” she said. “And you’ve slayed the outcome.”

“Hmm. Never heard it put it that way. Why don’t you make the introductions with Brodi before I whisk you off to my lair.”

Her amber eyes sparkled as she teased, “Thought we were checking out your operation, cowboy.”

“It is my principal domain.”

“Then let’s have a look-see.”

He gave her a final twirl before escorting her off the dance floor, holding her hand and keeping her close. Just in case some other gent got the misguided notion to step in.

He hadn’t marked his territory since a high school crush, but he suspected he’d done it quite thoroughly now, after raiding Jack’s closet and returning from the main house.

Avery lived down the hill, closer to the bunkhouse, where the ranch foreman prior to Chance had resided until he’d retired. Right around that time, Avery had taken over as head cook because his uncle had ordered Caleb—the previous chef—off the premises for good. Avery had been nineteen.

That was the year that their competitive BBQ team had imploded. As usual, thanks to his no-count dad.

Not anything he wanted to get into with Layla. Chance had remained in their family home, and Avery had moved into the foreman’s house, which made sense because it was closest to his industrial kitchen, just a two-minute ride on his utility task vehicle from his driveway.

When they reached Layla’s assistant at her table, the redhead was fervently typing on her phone and barely noticed them.

Layla cleared her throat. “Incomin’,” she said.

Brodi’s head snapped up. “I was just scrolling through posts about today’s—and this entire weekend’s—activities here at the TRIPLE R. Ginormous hoopla. This is a sensational event that has created a firestorm on socials. Unbelievable!”

“Which gives us a fantastic foundation for bringing Avery onto the show,” Layla commented.

“I’ve neither confirmed nor denied my involvement,” he reminded her. “Just giving you a tour, darlin’.”

“And I just wanted the two of you to meet,” Layla said. “Avery Reed, this is Brodi Brooks.”

“It’s a pleasure.” Avery tipped his hat with his left hand, not willing to relinquish the right one still holding Layla’s.

“Ditto.” Brodi smiled up at him. And asked, “Sure y’all don’t need those contracts now?”

“Not quite yet,” Layla said with a pointed look.

Brodi heaved a sigh. “Fine. Just text me when you do, and I’ll email them your way. I’m hittin’ the first shuttle out of here.” She raised a brow at Layla. “But you’re not going with me ...?”

“Avery’s going to let me see his official workspace. So I’ll catch up with you at the hotel.”

“I’ll be luxuriating in a bubble bath, so don’t come bargin’ through the adjoining door. Knock first.”

“It was only that one time in Boulder! And only because your music was so damn loud.”

“No such thing when you’ve got Kane Brown, Kenny Chesney, and Morgan Wallen cued up.”

“You were playing Taylor Swift,” Layla countered.

“But I love her!” Brodi jumped from her seat, passed Layla’s slim clutch to her, kissed her on the cheek, and then said, “Don’t you ever go giving me fits about being a Swiftie. If she could grill up a sirloin to blow your mind, you’d be stalkin’ her.”

Layla shot a look at Avery. “I’m not stalking you.” She groaned playfully. “That much.”

He chuckled. “See how put out I am?”

“And here’s my chance to employ the perfect exit strategy,” Brodi said as she snatched her own bag and stuffed her phone inside. “You two enjoy your evening. I’m off to bliss out in my bear claw tub.”

“We’ll walk you to the shuttle,” Avery told her. More of a protective command than a mere suggestion, not that he had any sort of concern about her safety. They had security crawling all over this place, and the crowd had been tame all weekend. Rowdy during the music they liked, of course. But not disorderly.

Still, regardless of Chance indicating earlier that the kegs were all but dry, Avery had no qualms shepherding both ladies.

They skirted the still-full tables and took the path that rounded the large main house.

Brodi said, “At first, I thought we’d arrived at a ski lodge, rather than a ranch.”

Being in Hill Country, the terrain and the climate were a bit different than what most would expect. Not full-on Rocky Mountains imagery, though they had rolling hills and an occasional snowfall. Not all desert landscape or dusty plains with drilling rigs. But a lush mixture of trees and meadows. Creeks, ponds, lakes.

“Our outbuildings are more indicative of Texas architecture,” Avery offered. “Most of the housing, though, features rock trimming from our river. Denotes part of our heritage of livin’ off the land.”

“So there’s fish in that river?” Layla asked as she beamed up at him.

“Naturally, that’s where your thoughts would go,” he said in an amused tone. “We have largemouth and Guadalupe bass. Rainbow trout. Sunfish. It’s not lobster, darlin’, but I promise you it all cooks up right.”

“With your seasonings, I’m sure.”

“And they say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” Avery jested.

“Nothing wrong with a woman who recognizes tasty cuisine when it’s wafting under her nose.”

“I do find that highly arousing.”

She laughed. “So I’m turning you on because I’m a foodie.”

“No, darlin’, everything about you is turning me on.”

“Oh, for the love of God!” This from Brodi—with a long-suffering sigh. “If you two don’t get a room soon, the whole planet might spontaneously combust.”

“Sooo melodramatic.” Layla snickered. “We’re just joking. No serious flirting going on yet.” She batted her lashes at Avery. “Right, cowboy?”

His cock twitched, and he had to speak around the lust swelling in his throat. “Not yet.”

Because he couldn’t ratchet this flirtation up a notch the way he wanted to. Not when Brodi was present. Not when other partygoers were making their way toward the shuttles.

Avery wanted Layla alone—the very reason he’d consented to show her his setup, despite still having monumental reservations about agreeing to be a part of her competition.

That’d bring to light all that he preferred to keep in the dark.

Brodi stepped onto a full-size tour bus, and Avery directed Layla to the section of the circular drive where the family and staff vehicles had been rounded up. He greeted the two men from the private security company, and they pulled back the barricades to create a gap. Avery went to his truck, opened the passenger door for Layla, and then climbed behind the wheel. He dropped the visor, and his keys fell into his palm.

He had enough room to maneuver past the first shuttle that was filling up. Two others waited on the opposite side of the fountain that was in the center of the driveway.

As he and Layla headed down the hill with other trails winding toward the right-hand portion of the ranch, he asked, “Where you from, darlin’? I know it’s not Serrano. I would have seen you in town. Can’t miss that pretty face.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her staring at him. Like she was assessing how much personal information she should offer.

That spiked his curiosity.

Eventually, she said, “My unofficial bio reads a bit different than my public one.”

“Swear I won’t rat ya out.” He tore his gaze from the windshield and winked at her.

Layla’s dreamy sigh made his chest constrict.

No doubt, he was playing with fire. She was too beautiful by far, and the way she stared so intently at him, her tiger eyes shimmering, he was a moth drawn to the flame. One that could burn deep if he kept traveling this path with her.

She settled in her seat with the belt on and said, “Had a feeling I might end up being an open book with you.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because you look like a heartbreaker, but you don’t act like one.”

“So I really do suck at stakin’ my claim.”

“Oh, you did just fine when we were on the dance floor. Make no mistake, cowboy.”

He glanced at her again. She smiled.

He’d say the tightness in his chest eased, but this was the sort of sexual tension that required a more specific release.

“And PS,” she said, “I’m here with you, right? When I could be with Brodi on a bus. About to take my own bubble bath.”

“You’re here to see my kitchen,” he reminded her.

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

He chuckled.

“Yes, this is the prime opportunity to get a gander at your inner workings,” she told him. “So I can report back to my crew. But stealing a few minutes alone with you is even more appealing.”

Precisely what he’d been thinking earlier.

“So it’s not just about the ’cuein’,” he ventured.

“No, cowboy, it is not.”

Well, then. That was setting the record straight.

He veered off, taking the smooth, dirt-packed lane to a conglomeration of buildings, pointing out which was which. “Stables and corrals. Barn for tack, supplies, hay, and whatnot. Silo for feed. Bunkhouse. Chuck hall, as I call it. Then farther down is my house.”

“It’s all so stunning,” she said as she took in the scenery, with random thickets and wildflowers, miles of green pasture, the river running in the backdrop, along with the rising hills in the distance.

“We’ve got the acreage for a substantial operation and the right people tending to all the jobs needed to keep the moving parts moving.”

He pulled up to a large red cedar log cabin with a hunter green metal roof and an elaborate deck.

“Don’t move. Give me a sec.” He shut off the engine and went around to collect her, helping her down to the graveled drive.

He cupped her elbow as they crossed the lush grass to the porch, with Adirondack chairs, sofas, and accent tables for comfortable conversations. Or reading a book, listening to podcasts, playing a guitar. The wranglers and the other ranch hands didn’t have much downtime, but there was plenty of room to accommodate playing poker or tossing lawn darts. Whatever they chose in order to unwind and decompress after supper.

Layla told him, “Y’all make every space useful and inviting.”

“I did mention the staff are deserving.”

He pulled back the creaking screen door and plugged in the code to the entrance. Gestured for Layla to precede him.

“Oh, wow,” she said on a rush of air. “This is huge.”

The walls on either side of the door were lined with refrigerators and freezers, with shelving units at each end for ingredients, spices, backstock. The left portion was dedicated to stovetops and ovens. The right was for triple sanitary sinks, a commercial-grade dishwasher, and the two metal prep tables with casters that were folded vertically and pushed off to the side until needed. Beyond all this was a long butcher-block counter for serving, with a gap in the middle that Layla passed through to survey the dining room, though all the tables and chairs were collapsed and set against the wall.

As her gaze fell on them, Avery explained, “We’re typically only in here during inclement weather. Clearing the space makes it easier to mop the floor throughout the day as we come and go.”

“Yeah, this is all immaculate.” She whipped out her phone and snapped pics.

Avery then unlocked the double doors leading out back and showed her the kitchen setup there, with mini fridges, a workstation with a dual sink and six burners, a grated cowboy grill, a flat one, and five other types of grills and smokers, plus meat lockers.

“And there’s the pit,” she mused with awe.

“Give me a Dutch oven, banana leaves, burlap, foil, anything I can wrap food in, and I’ll deliver a winning meal.”

She clapped her hands together, lighting up like a slot machine with all sevens.

Somehow, that tore at his heart.

Reminded him of all the potential he’d had to keep collecting titles.

How much he’d wanted to collect more titles.

Because in doing so, he was elevating his game and honing his skills for the greater good—the ranch.

“Once again,” she said with emotion, “that’s the spirit, Avery Reed! In addition to your big Why—going the extra mile to serve those who serve your family—this will have viewers rooting for you. And those endorsements count toward your overall ranking.”

“If I agree to be a contestant.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” she challenged.

He groaned. “You do realize you’re deflecting, right? Any reason why you have difficulty talking about yourself?”

He stared her down as she hedged.

His brow crooked.

She said, “I’m not exactly getting your life history.”

“You did research me, correct?”

“I’ll confess I got distracted by the photos.” Her cheeks flushed. “And it had nothing to do with all the BBQ on display.”

Avery’s thoughts shifted to more lascivious ones. Like getting this woman naked and trailing his fingertips along all that honeyed skin he already knew felt like satin under his touch.

“To my credit,” she said, getting on track again, “I did note all the accolades and the belt buckle. Kinda surprising you fell off the map when you were only nineteen. Though subsequent features all mentioned you’d taken on the role as executive chef here.”

She peered up at him with the melty eyes that were going to be the death of him if he didn’t at least get one kiss out of this excursion. He could resist plenty, just out of being finicky about where he placed his affections.

But not where Layla Jenson was concerned.

“So,” she continued. “Case closed, I guess.”

He hadn’t forgotten the topic of conversation. Him.

Avery’s teeth ground. Not only over the raw desire hitching up several notches but also because he debated how he wanted to address his own elephant in the room. She wasn’t fully forthcoming with her “unofficial bio,” so maybe she needed a little tit for tat. For him to prove he was worthy of hearing her story after he’d provided some of his.

Since it was barely five o’clock and the sun was still shining—and he could use something to cool him down, not due to the sun still shining—he put her on hold for a minute. He pulled two beers from a fridge and sat with her at a picnic table under a shady tree. He popped the tops off and handed one over.

“You want a glass, darlin’?”

“Hell, no.” She snickered. “I can even do shooters, cowboy.”

He chuckled, though it did nothing to alleviate the pressure he felt, pretty much from head to toe. More wickedly so in all the sensitive places in between.

They tapped rims, and he took a long drink.

Then he said, “I got the short end of the stick in some ways, when it came to bein’ on the circuit. Had the talent but not a conducive team infrastructure. More accurate ... not the team leader I required.”

“Your dad was part of your crew. I didn’t get the chance to look him up.”

“I’m glad,” he told her with instant relief—in that vein. “He’s the bad seed. Destroyed everything we’d been striving to attain.”

She sipped before saying, “I’m sorry for that.”

“And I’d prefer it if you left him out of the equation. No point to rehashing his destructive ways. He obliterated our future on the circuit. And almost bankrupted this ranch. So when he was banished from this property by my uncle—Jack’s dad—I took over his position as bunkhouse cook. That’s all I’ve been focused on for the past eleven years.”

Which he loved.

But as he and Layla stared at each other across the table, her cook-off proposal hypothetically laid between them ... Avery couldn’t deny he did face temptation he might not be able to refuse. Not just her but also this unexpected opportunity.

Who wouldn’t love the prospect of becoming a comeback kid?

Problem was all the dirty laundry would come back with him.

He sipped some more, mulling all this over.

She didn’t give him the full-court press. She merely stated, “Chances are damn good you’ve improved upon your already stellar techniques.”

“I like to think so. It’s different when you’re not working in an antagonistic environment. When you can experiment or perfect a trick of the trade without someone breathin’ down your neck and constantly criticizing you.”

“That’s the beauty of our competition, Avery. You get to demonstrate all you’re capable of in your own world, under your own conditions.”

She left that sentiment to taunt him as well.

He drained his beer. So did she. He locked up the facility and got her into the truck again.

She gazed out the windshield, then the side window. “Sure is one hell of a setting.”

“Not even as spectacular as when the sun’s goin’ down over the river.”

She shot a look his way. “Is that an offer, cowboy?”

“Well, since you’re here ... you might as well see it.”

“Sunset’s not for a couple hours,” she said with a hint of mischief in her eyes.

“I can give you a tour of my house. Make you dessert.”

She laughed. “I had crème br?lée. And oh, my God, I can’t justify eating for another week.”

He wagged a finger in the air and chastised, “Don’t go getting birdlike on me. A cowboy likes a woman who knows her way around home-cooked meals.”

“To be honest, I split the steaks with Brodi.”

“I assumed so. Still. Those cuts weren’t for the faint of heart.”

“No, they were not. And I feel better that we got some exercise on the dance floor.”

There was a veiled insinuation about more of a workout to combat the calories, he was sure. But didn’t want to be too presumptuous.

Then again . . .

He didn’t have to be.

She leaned in close and whispered, “Perhaps we can work up a new appetite.”

“Sunset it is,” he murmured.

And started the truck.