Chapter Eleven
Having reconnected physically with Layla helped to relieve some of his tension, yet Avery was still wound up over everything she’d told him. And the fact that he’d been damn close to the mark of her having a dangerous past.
The trampling that Jillian had suffered at a concert, forever changing her life, was a tragedy. Also an accident.
What had happened to Layla ... that was a direct attack. The type of battery he couldn’t comprehend, even having lived with a man who had a short fuse and a mean spirit. Who couldn’t see past his alcohol-induced haze to recognize the damage he inflicted.
As kids, Avery and Chance had hidden this side of their father from their cousins as best as they could. Even their aunt and uncle, as much as possible. But the adults had their suspicions. Aunt Brett invited them to spend the night at the main house as often as she could, without infuriating Caleb by making him think she was trying to take his kids away. Uncle Royce stepped in a lot as well. Caleb would settle down, and life would go on. Until something else got his goat.
Family was family. You couldn’t pick and choose.
But you could reach a boiling point and tell them to get the hell out. And stay out.
Avery prayed the exile stuck.
He got the cowboys their morning chuck, and then started in on the turduckens he’d smoke in his pit for the first round of judging.
Layla had had breakfast with him and Chance, and she was now observing Avery deboning the chicken and duck. Ritchie prepped the stuffing, since the cooks were allowed an assistant if they had one, given the size of the staff they fed.
Layla couldn’t participate in any way other than ask questions. She set up her tripod in front of their workstations and attached her phone for video to document the process, but also, Avery deduced, to prove she wasn’t involved.
Avery already had his primary and secondary pits heating up.
He said, “I’ll smoke these at around two hundred and fifty degrees. Should take about five hours. Right around the time your crew and the judges come in, Layla.”
“Making this a one-shot deal,” she pointed out.
“Yep. I either nail the temp and timin’ ... or I blow it.” Because there was no digging up the ovens and checking the contents. He wouldn’t disturb his embers or risk losing any heat by opening lids. He’d also have to prepare another turducken and sides during the segment, to demonstrate, live, how it was done. He’d then pull the finished product from this batch in his pits. So it truly was his only chance to get it right.
He’d claim the tension through his muscles was due to the pressure of wanting this to go perfectly, to win the competition. Unfortunately, he was still worked up over all Layla had been through. And talking about his dad, his childhood.
The plus side was that she lit up when the cameras rolled, and every time she smiled, it thrilled him, warmed his heart. So that he could breathe and concentrate.
Well, the concentrating part wasn’t quite so smooth sailing because he was a bit too transfixed on her. Though he was at a crucial step with the poultry during the live stream, so he forced himself to focus on the deboning process again, explaining in detail to the audience his best practices because it could be a tricky endeavor. Next, he discussed the stuffing mixture and added the cranberries Jillian suggested.
He’d need to roast the sweet potato fingerlings in the trench, and that was another piece of timing to configure with the overall temperatures, not wanting to burn the veggies in the firebox.
He checked his earth ovens, running a bare hand over them to discern the correct level of heat, then shoveling lava rocks mixed with applewood chips over the lids. The combination of scents above and below the ground permeated the outdoor kitchen.
The wranglers filed in and chatted enthusiastically with Layla about the turducken, having eaten it before from Avery’s pit.
He demonstrated the balsamic zoodle sauté with mushrooms and pine nuts, the truffle parsnip puree, and the maple-bacon brussels sprouts.
Layla joined him, saying, “I can see why the wranglers love holidays at the TRIPLE R.”
“They don’t get the full day off, so we try to make the meals special.”
“Seems like you do that every day, Avery.”
“It is my goal, dar—Layla,” he corrected himself. Could he go five days of shooting without calling her honey or darlin’ on-screen?
Jack and Jillian—and her rescued Maltese, Ollie—were in the background, and they both stifled laughs. Though Jack nodded, as though he was well aware the struggle was real.
Layla said, “Aside from your seasonings, what is the one key ingredient you use with the poultry?”
“Duck fat,” he told her. “Not only with the poultry but with the fingerlin’s too. You can sauté mushrooms in it, and I also brushed some on the brussels sprouts. It’s as healthy as olive oil or chicken broth.”
She looked stunned. “I had no idea. I mean, it sounds rather ...”
“Artery hardening?”
She nodded. “Exactly.”
“It has a bad rap. But I swear it yields a velvety texture that’ll curl your toes, darlin’.”
Fuck.
Whatever.
She didn’t seem to mind his slipup.
To her audience, she asked, “Who needs a fan?” She returned a dreamy gaze to him. “How’d you come across this gem, cowboy?”
He chuckled at her own term of endearment. Their cover was likely blown. Since she wasn’t worried over it, he didn’t stress either.
He told her, “Another one of my favorite meals to cook is duck confit—I use some of the fat it simmers in to toss with peeled and quartered potatoes. Stick ’em in the air fryer, and they crisp up fantastically on the outside but have a light and fluffy inside. You can dip them in anything you prefer—ketchup, mayo, spicy jalape?o fry sauce. Or eat as is, salted. Promise you, you’ll never boil potatoes again.”
“Sounds downright delectable. But ... an air fryer? This coming from a pitmaster?”
“As you can see, my pits are full. I can dig another one, sure. Or simply plug in my baskets and have sides in almost half the normal time. Hell, I’ve even made salmon in them.”
She gasped in mock horror.
The crew erupted.
“Does that disqualify me?” he teased. Knowing it wouldn’t. He was doing true barbecuing today.
Confirming this, she said, “You’re fine, Avery. I’m just taken aback. An air fryer is so ... modern.”
“And convenient. ’Specially when you have hungry cowboys who are on a tight schedule. Though it’s really a backup amenity. Particularly when it’s rainin’ hard with thunder and lightning, and we have to be inside. We have generators in the event our main power source goes out, so that we don’t lose cooking capabilities.”
“Ah. Gotcha. That’s a valid point. And impressive to have contingency plans.”
“If I served peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, darlin’, I’d fear a revolt.”
Her smile was the vibrant one that further loosened the rope holding his soul hostage over all they’d shared last night.
“From what I’ve gathered, your bunkhouse staff is far from mutiny. They’re advocating for a Michelin star.”
With another chuckle, he said, “Not in my purview, but I’ll take the compliment. Now if you’ll excuse me for a minute, darlin’ ...”
With a camera following him, he left the grills to pull his poultry and fingerlings from beneath the dirt they were packed in. He and Ritchie placed the Dutch ovens on a metal table lined with foil and dusted off the remnants of earth and ashes.
Avery’s heart thumped faster as they got closer and closer to the big reveal. Ritchie added the potatoes to the other side dishes on the buffet table.
Layla was next to Avery again, asking, “Can you tell us about the rocks used within your pits? They’re not the signature TRIPLE R river rocks.”
“No, I have drier stones to line them. The river rocks provide a smooth surface, but because they come from a waterway, they contain pockets of liquid that will boil and have the potential to be more explosive during the cooking process. We want to generate steam in certain instances but not incite a geyser.”
She blushed. Turned from the camera.
His low laugh filled the void.
He also gave her a small reprieve from what was apparently an inside joke for them as he continued his commentary. “Understanding the materials you’re working with and maximizing them is crucial. If I want to wrap meat in banana leaves or seafood in burlap, I have to take into consideration how they’ll absorb moisture and smoke.”
Composing herself, Layla said, “And what if you create too much moisture?”
She started to lose it again. As did Jack and Jillian.
Avery wanted to rise above. But there were myriad snappy, sexy comebacks playing on his tongue.
Thank God Ritchie unwittingly came to the rescue and said, “We’re all good on our temps, Pitty.” He set aside the meat thermometer. “And we’re ready to slice.”
The moment of truth was upon them.
Avery had to shove flirty banter to the back of his brain. This was critical. He couldn’t afford to fuck it up. In fact, he sent up a humble word to the heavens that he wouldn’t and then removed the first turducken from its oven.
The triple bird had the perfect golden, crispy skin and was trussed up tight. Avery snipped the heavy twine with shears. He cut down the spatchcocked center of the turducken with a large chef’s knife and separated the halves, showcasing the tender, juicy meat and the layers of stuffing in between, steam rising off the entire display. Right in front of the cameras.
Ritchie held his exuberance in check as the production crew and Layla surveyed the outcome from all angles. Then he portioned the poultry while Avery carved into the others they’d retrieved from the pits.
They made up individual plates for the three judges and set out the rest for the buffet.
Layla joined The Three at their table and asked questions regarding the food as Avery sat with them and absorbed the responses. All positive. Verbal high marks for color, taste (including whether they tasted the smoke/fire), texture and tenderness, creativity, and presentation. As well as for the degree of difficulty. They commended him for using trenches.
As the judges tallied their scores and dropped sealed envelopes through the slit of a locked box, Layla interviewed the cowboys again. The shooting wrapped up, and the crew broke down their equipment and headed out with Todd and Brodi.
Jack and Jillian swooped in as the judges departed.
All as impartial as Layla had indicated.
Jack said, “Aside from makin’ eyes at the pretty host, you did a damn good job.”
“I beg to differ,” Jillian commented. “He made exceptional eyes at the pretty host.” She smiled up at Avery.
“Great, I’m the most obvious sucker on the planet.”
“Two-way street,” Jillian told him. “She was plenty doe-eyed herself.”
“It’s a wonder I could remember my recipes.” He chortled, self-deprecatingly, yet with admiration for the woman who preoccupied his thoughts more than she should.
“I get the feelin’ you scored big time,” Jack said. “And explaining more about the firebox and the pits as you progress will garner more viewer love.”
“That’s right, Uncle Jack!” This from an excited Alejandro as he jumped out of the passenger seat of the UTV Chance had just pulled up to the outskirts of the chuck hall. Ale waved his mini tablet in the air and said, “Viewers are allowed to post their own polls and comments. And the show’s accounts are blowin’ up with shout-outs to Uncle Avery!”
Layla wandered over, and Ale thrust his tablet toward her.
“Look at this, Miss Layla! Your other contestants don’t have this big of a reaction on the first day of filming!”
“Nor have those contestants likely secured a gold medal straight out of the chute.” She glanced at Avery and said, “Wow times a lot.”
He grinned.
She returned her attention to Ale, who was making his own eyes at her, of the googly variety.
Avery’s nephew said, in the most professional tone an eleven-year-old could muster, “You have talent, Miss Layla. The audience likes my uncle, but I think the key to growin’ your subscribers is ... more of you.”
“Whoa, kid!” Jack interjected.
Ale shot him a perplexed look.
Jillian said to her fiancé, “He didn’t mean it the way you’re taking it.” She laughed. Then added, “He has a point ... though not totally. Of course the male demographic is going to want to see more of Layla. But I also believe that Avery’s techniques are vital to focus on. Not to mention ... he’s easy on the eyes.”
Jack scowled. “Maybe we ought to leave that all alone. We’ve got too many people eyeballin’ each other.”
She fluttered her lashes and said, “I only have eyes for you.”
“Jesus, people,” Avery scoffed.
“Uncle Avery!” Ale glanced up at him with reprimand in his gaze. “We’re gonna have to start a swear jar.”
“I didn’t swear,” he contended.
“It’s on the list,” Ale countered.
“Fine. I’ll bring you s’mores tonight with sea salt and caramel. Your favorite.”
“That’s bribery,” Ale replied.
Avery stared him down.
“I didn’t hear a word,” the nephew conceded. “I’ll post what I have on our socials. Gotta go.”
Chance said, “I’m playin’ chauffeur while his mom and dad are having lunch in town with Luke, at his cantina. Aunt Brett is teaching her pottery classes, and Hunt wanted her to help him make something for Father’s Day.”
“Where’d Riley disappear to?” Avery asked. She was Jack’s youngest sister and Luke’s twin. She’d come out for Jack’s BBQ bash and only seemed to be here and there afterward. Not that that was unusual for Riley Reed. She didn’t know how to stay put.
Jack said, “She’s working with Whit Tatum on more songs she’s written.”
Layla whistled under her breath. “If we could incorporate all these talents into the show ... but, no ...” She shook her head. “I haven’t offered that op to anyone else.” She paced for a few moments. Then drew up short. “Not that they’ve had anything on this level to offer. Homegrown chilies, specialty dry rubs and sauces, pottery, music?” She paced again.
Avery’s gaze bounced between Jack and Jillian. Avery shrugged.
“You keep thinkin’ on it,” Chance told her. “If we can find an additional edge, let’s do it. Now I have to get the kid up to the house to fix my laptop. Screen’s gone all kinds of wonky on me.”
“You changed the wrong settings,” Ale said with comical exasperation.
“Well, I don’t know which ones I accidentally changed, so you’re gonna have to change ’em back. Earn your keep around here, boy.”
“See y’all. Miss Layla.” Ale tipped his hat to her.
A ripple of laughter through the group followed him and his uncle out. Though Layla’s hand over her heart indicated it melted.
“Y’all are too much,” she mused.
“I just think we have really good taste,” Avery stated.
“Agreed,” said Jack. Then he took Jillian’s hand and added, “We’ve got to scoot too. Ollie has a vet appointment.”
“Everything okay?” Avery asked.
Layla gazed at him like his empathy for the dog liquified her further.
“Just a checkup and heartworm meds,” Jillian stated. “Kind of you to ask, though.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek. Then turned to Layla. “The two of you sparkle. Thanks for letting us be on set.”
“You’re welcome to be here for the rest of the segments.”
“With the exception of tomorrow, since we’re in town for Jack’s local TV hour, count us in,” Jillian said.
After they left, Layla went back to grinding over how to add more of the grassroots razzle-dazzle to the upcoming shows. “It just seems like an epic failure on our part if we don’t highlight what really goes on at this ranch.”
“But you’re in the middle of a live season ...” Avery gave her a pointed look.
“That’s correct.” She tapped a fingertip against her lip. Then said, “And the other contestants mostly have food as their sole competitive component. One of them had a ropin’ event in the background. Another had a hatchet-throwing tournament. That was ten minutes of sheer terror. Other than that, no one got too creative. It’s not frowned upon. I mean, you have forty-five minutes to show off before the judges get their fifteen minutes of fame.”
She wandered about some more.
Avery said, “Maybe you’re too much of a visionary, darlin’.”
She turned and faced him. “Telling me to stay the course, cowboy?”
He crooked a brow.
With a sweet smile, she walked into his arms. Kissed him. And said, “That’s good advice.”
She and Ritchie helped to clean up and prep for the evening chuck—kick-ass chili (no beans or tomatoes, this was Texas!), jalape?o-cheddar corn bread, and a butter lettuce salad with a creamy cilantro-lime-buttermilk dressing.
Later, they took the s’mores, chocolate lava cake, and the pull-apart cinnamon strudel knots to the main house.
The atmosphere was lively. No consternation, no confrontations.
Avery didn’t believe for a second that Jack was going to roll over and accept funds from him. But they didn’t argue about it tonight.
They followed up the meal with Ale’s Reels from Jack’s latest Rub It In shows that he cast onto the big screen in the living room. He’d also compiled highlights of Avery and Layla on Light Your Fire, rallying Jack and Jillian’s fans to this new cause.
“These trailers are wonderful,” Layla told Ale.
He beamed. “I can do more if you want, Miss Layla.”
“You have free rein to post whatever you want on Jack’s socials. Mention the competition in Jillian’s podcast and newsletter,” Layla said. “All that’s fine. If you can generate buzz, that’ll give Avery a boon when it comes to viewer likes. For the show’s socials, we have to stick with what our marketing team posts, to keep it all aboveboard. I can’t get too carried away with one contestant. I have to be objective with everyone.”
“I’m not sure what all that means.”
Avery gently clasped his shoulder and told him, “Miss Layla has to abide by what all the other competitors are capable of doing. Not go beyond just because we can.”
Ale’s face contorted. “That doesn’t seem fair at all. If someone’s built a bigger, better mousetrap, why would they have to play on the same level of those who have a crappier mousetrap?”
Everyone fell silent.
It was a good question.
It was a complex question.
Avery asked, “What do you know about mousetraps, boy?”
“It’s an online game I play.”
“Okay ...” He gave this thought and then said, “You can’t reach a higher score without improvin’ your product.”
“I’d just be stuck at the beginning. Over and over.”
Avery’s gaze slipped to Layla.
“Again ... is it cheating if we have more to offer?” he asked.
Her head tilted to the side. She studied him for a moment. Then she told him, “I know what you’re both saying. And you’re right in that bringing more to the table is an advantage. It’s just that in this particular competition, the most important element is the food. As we ascertained earlier. And we don’t want to take anything away from that factor while hyping a different one.”
“Yeah, but ...” Ale’s brows scrunched.
Layla ventured, “You’re talking about how the other contestants have been using gas, charcoal, and porcelain grills. Traditional smokers. Not a pit.”
“Uncle Avery’s upping the game. And that’s acceptable.” Ale stared at both of them with a whole lot of “duh” in his expression.
Avery’s adoration swelled. But he tried to keep his—and his nephew’s—feet on the ground. He replied, “The entire series centers on BBQ, Ale. How it’s rendered isn’t the criteria. How it’s prepared, how it comes out, how it tastes ... those aspects are the most critical.”
“Well said,” Layla remarked. “But how it’s rendered does add a style component to the competition and is a consideration for the judges’ scoring. What I’m unsure of is adding extraneous stuff.”
Avery told Ale, “Extraneous stuff would be us throwing a shindig like your uncle Jack’s party. That’s not what this show is about. It’s one meal at a time to be judged.”
“I understand,” Ale said. Though that was debatable. Regardless, he took the high road. “I’ll just put together my vids, and we’ll keep them on Uncle Jack’s accounts.”
“That’s sensible,” Layla told him. “And helpful.”
Avery gathered her close and said, “Let’s get a move on.”
They bid everyone good night, and Avery took them back to his house.
While he turned on the fireplace, candles, and music, she changed in the bathroom.
When she strolled toward the bed he was sprawled in, he knew he was going to fall to pieces within minutes.
She wore a lacy pale-pink nightie that clung to every inch of her and had a scandalously short hem. The thin straps on her shoulders looked flimsy enough to disintegrate under a slight snap from him.
Her G-string was visible behind the lacy material.
He bit his lip. Eased his gaze from her golden curls to her shell-colored toenails before drifting back up.
“Holy hotness,” he murmured. “If you were to wear only this all day long, I’m damn sure I’d never give a fig about feedin’ wranglers or makin’ desserts for the family or breathin’—ever again.”
“Isn’t that just the most beautiful thing you could say?” Her eyes glistened.
He told her, “I can’t imagine a more stirring vision, honey.” He clasped her hip and pulled her to him.
She settled right on top of him.
Exactly where he wanted her.
He flipped the covers over them, then ran his hands along her sides and down to her ass, which her nightie barely covered.
She left airy kisses on his chest. Flitted her tongue over his nipple, flirting with him. Making him even harder.
“Know what I like best about getting naked with you, cowboy?”
“Technically, darlin’, you’re not naked yet.”
Her soft laugh ribboned through him. Tugging at his emotions as much as her slight writhing against him taunted his libido.
She said, “We create our own private space. A sexy cocoon. And when we allow it, nothing else exists.”
“So my previous comment stands. You, me, and your lingerie ... one happy little family.”
She craned her neck to sweep her lips over his. “Thought the lingerie had been deemed useless.”
“Not sayin’ you’re going to be wearing it for long. But I won’t be the least bit upset if you tell me you bought this in every color available.”
“That’s how most women shop.”
He groaned. “So I have more micro cardiac arrests to suffer through.”
“Are you really suffering?” she teased.
“Well, the thong’s still on, honey. So yes, I am.”
“Then we should remedy that. ASAP.”