Chapter Twenty-TwoMaking It Real
After two months as reality stars, Jo and I declared that we need a break to rest and refresh ourselves.
We never did get around to that naughty interlude on the far side of the ranch.
Today, we're in the kitchen at Jo's family homestead---about to show off our cooking skills for the Callahans.
A passel of relatives and neighbors have lined up outside to watch our show live on a movie-theater size screen.
Jo adjusts her apron---a frilly pink monstrosity that clashes spectacularly with her usual no-nonsense style---and shoots me a look that could melt steel.
"I still can't believe you agreed to this cooking challenge, Clay." She ties the apron strings with more ferocity than seems necessary. I swear her nostrils flared too, and her gaze has gone flinty.
"Hey, you're the one who said we needed good publicity after that unfortunate incident with the mechanical bull," I remind her, pulling on my own apron. Mine's got little cowboys printed all over it, which somehow makes me feel less masculine.
The cameras are already rolling, and I can hear the crowd outside whooping it up. Mrs. Callahan insisted on turning this into a proper neighborhood event, complete with betting pools on whether we'll burn down the kitchen or actually produce something edible.
"Welcome back to 'Roping Hearts'," our host announces.
Her blindingly white smile borders on being radioactive under the kitchen lights.
"I'm, Daphne Clark. And today we're visiting the gorgeous Callahan family ranch where our lovebirds will be attempting to cook a sumptuous meal for Jo's family and neighbors right here in Colorado! "
Jo's jaw clenches, and I can practically feel the waves of irritation rolling off her. She hates being called a lovebird almost as much as she hates that ridiculous apron.
"So, what's on the menu today?" our host continues, gesturing dramatically at the ingredients spread across the massive farmhouse table. It's a prop, of course. The Callahan's kitchen table wasn't rustic enough, according to Daphne.
"Chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, and green beans," Jo says, her TV smile firmly in place despite the murder in her eyes. Our contract never mentioned cooking. "It's a family recipe, Daphne."
I lean against the counter, trying to seem casual while, internally, I'm panicking.
The closest I've come to cooking chicken fried steak was ordering it at truck stops.
But Jo doesn't know that, and I intend to keep it that way.
She's already annoyed enough with me after I accidentally volunteered us for this culinary spectacle.
"Family recipe, huh?" I whisper as Daphne moves to interview Jo's grandmother about the dish's heritage. "You didn't mention that part."
"Because it wasn't relevant until you got us into this mess," Jo hisses back through her clenched teeth, her smile never faltering for the cameras. "Just follow my lead and try not to set anything on fire."
"I resent that implication." But my confidence wavers when Jo hands me a meat mallet. "What exactly am I supposed to do with this?"
"Tenderize the steak, cowboy." She smirks, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "Unless that's too complicated for your pretty little head to fathom."
I growl under my breath. Seriously, I do. Then I take the mallet, weighing it in my hand like it's a foreign object that mysteriously landed in the kitchen. "I'll have you know I've handled plenty of tools in my day."
"Is that right?" Jo arches an eyebrow, her sarcastic expression somehow turning me on. This is foreplay for us these days.
"Watch and learn, Rodeo Queen." I position the meat on the cutting board and bring the mallet down with more force than necessary. The resulting thwack echoes through the kitchen, and a piece of raw steak flies off the counter.
Daphne's cameraman zooms in just as I scramble to retrieve the steak from the floor.
"Five-second rule?" I offer, shrugging my shoulders.
Jo rolls her eyes but there's a hint of amusement there. "Not on national television, genius." She slides a fresh piece of steak my way. "Try again. Gently this time."
I approach the meat cautiously while Jo efficiently dices onions, her knife moving in a practiced rhythm that makes me feel even more incompetent. She's clearly done this a thousand times, while I'm over here treating a piece of beef like it might explode.
"You know," I mutter, giving the steak another tentative tap, "this would be easier if you'd mentioned your grandmother was watching."
Through the window, I can see Grandma Callahan perched in her lawn chair, arms crossed, studying my technique with the intensity of a rodeo judge. Her expression suggests she's already marked me down several points.
"Scared of a little old lady?" Jo's knife never pauses as she speaks, and bits of onion transform into perfectly uniform pieces.
I squint at Jo. "That 'little old lady' looks like she could take me in a fair fight."
"She probably could." Jo dumps the onions into a cast-iron skillet that's older than both of us combined. The sizzle fills the kitchen with a sound that makes my stomach growl. "Grandma Callahan didn't raise five kids and run a ranch for sixty years by being gentle."
"Great. So when I mess this up, she'll probably challenge me to a duel."
"Nah, she'll just tell everyone at church that you're useless in the kitchen." Jo glances over at my pathetic attempt at tenderizing meat. "Which, based on current evidence, wouldn't be a lie."
Daphne materializes beside us with that smile TV hosts perfect for maximum drama. "How are our lovebirds doing? Any kitchen chemistry brewing?"
I nearly choke on my own spit. Jo's cheeks flush pink, but she recovers faster than I do.
"Oh, there's definitely something brewing," she says sweetly, then leans closer to me. "Mostly disaster."
The cameraman chuckles, and I force a laugh. "She's just mad because I'm about to show her up with my superior culinary skills."
"Superior?" Jo's voice goes up an octave. "You just asked me if we needed to wash the potatoes before peeling them."
"It was a legitimate question!"
"Of course you wash them, Clay. Who wants to eat dirty food?"
Daphne's eyes light up like it's Christmas morning. Bickering is reality TV gold, apparently. "Tell us, Jo, what's it like cooking with your fiancé? Any secrets to making it work?"
Jo's smile could cut glass. "Communication is key. For instance, I communicate that he should stay out of my way, and he communicates his complete incompetence through interpretive kitchen disasters."
I smack my mallet down on the counter. "Hey now---"
"Remember the pancake incident?"
"I thought we agreed never to speak of the pancake incident again," I snarl, giving the steak another whack. I'm probably veering into culinary assault territory. "In my defense, I didn't know pancake batter could actually catch fire."
"And yet, somehow, you managed to do just that." Jo's hands move with practiced efficiency as she prepares the egg wash. "Just like you managed to get us into this cooking challenge when you know perfectly well the only thing you can make is reservations."
I smack the mallet down on the counter even harder than before.
Daphne leans in, virtually salivating at our bickering. "So, there's trouble in paradise? Tension in the kitchen often reflects tension in the relationship, doesn't it?"
"The only tension here," I say, forcing another smile, "is between this steak and my mallet. Got it?"
Daphne backs away, hands raised in surrender, but the gleam in her eyes tells me she's got what she wanted. More drama for the highlight reel.
"You're doing it wrong," Jo whispers once the host is out of earshot. She covers her hand with mine on the mallet. The sudden warmth of her touch has the odd effect of making me horny. "Like this, Clay. Firm but controlled."
I clear my throat. "I knew that."
"Sure you did, cowboy." There's a hint of affection beneath the sarcasm that proves Jo has been playing it up for the camera.
While she guides my hand in a rhythmic pattern across the meat, I struggle to control myself and not think about how her body is pressed against mine or how her breath tickles my ear.
Through the window, I catch Grandma Callahan nodding approvingly, though whether it's about my tenderizing technique or Jo's proximity to me, I can't tell.
"All right, steak's ready," I pronounce, shuffling backward before I do something stupid like kiss her neck on national television. Then again, Miranda and Daphne would probably love that.
"Finally, Clay. What took so long?" Jo dips the meat into flour, then egg wash, then more flour with movements so smooth they could be choreographed. "Now comes the fun part."
She heats butter in a massive cast-iron skillet, and when it's shimmering, she slides the first piece of steak in. The sizzle is immediate and aggressive, sending up a cloud of steam that makes the kitchen smell like heaven.
I reach for the next piece. "My turn."
"Absolutely not." Jo blocks me with her hip, which does nothing to help my concentration. "You'll splash melted butter everywhere and probably burn yourself."
Suddenly, I get a fantastic idea. So, I shuffle closer to Jo and whisper into her ear, "Let's give these people a real comedy routine."
Her lips curve into a mischievous smile, and she nods her approval.
With a wink, I reach around Jo to grab the next piece of steak, intentionally pressing against her back. Then I announce too loudly, "I think I've got this part handled, darlin'!"
"Clay McKendrick, I swear to---" Jo starts, but I've already dropped the steak into the melted butter with a dramatic flourish.
It splatters everywhere. A tiny droplet lands on my forearm, and I yelp like I've been shot, doing an exaggerated dance around the kitchen while shaking my arm.
"My hero," Jo deadpans, flipping the first steak with perfect precision. "Ladies and gentlemen, meet the man who survived being thrown from a bull but can't handle a little hot melted butter."
The crowd outside roars with laughter. I catch a glimpse of Grandma Callahan shaking her head, but there's definitely a smile tugging at her lips.
Maybe this reality show thing won't be an unbearable nightmare after all.