Chapter Twelve
Layla was up with Avery before the reasonable crack of dawn. They were filming his breakfast segment, and that meant she had to get herself around and head to the chuck hall with him, rather than luxuriate in his bed until he brought her a tray.
She wasn’t disappointed, though. She was excited to interact with him throughout the process. The ingredients for his breakfast bake would be spicy, meaty, and cheesy, with golden hash browns and eggs sunny-side up included.
“I got my chimney starter going already, so the coals are hot,” Avery explained when they were live. “For the first part of our cowboy casserole, we’ll cook up some bacon strips in the Dutch ovens, just to get ’em heated. Then we’ll remove the strips but leave the grease.”
Ritchie had the cast-iron ovens set over the open flames of the grill Avery was using as his primer, for the benefit of the camera angles, and to accommodate Layla in the frame.
“I’m going to mix my cubed beef with garlic, cumin, ancho-chili powder, smoked Himalayan salt, and peppercorns,” Avery said as he dumped each ingredient parsed out into a large bowl, drizzled olive oil, and used his gloved hands to combine it all.
He created his layers across each oven, with the beef on the bottom to brown first.
Then he said, “Hatch chilies are next so they’ll sweat into the meat. You can go as fiery as you like, using whatever pepper you prefer. If y’all didn’t know, our soon-to-be newest member of the family, Miss Jillian Parks, is the owner of Hotter Than Haba, and creates her own line of hybrid peppers, sauces, and rubs. The ancho-chili I’m using is her concoction.”
Layla held a gasp in check. Shot a look toward Todd, who gave her a nod of approval.
The cowboy had smoothly slipped in something she truly wanted to highlight. Clever of him.
She didn’t press her luck by asking more about Jillian’s products. The name-dropping should suffice.
Avery continued.
“When you’re working with chilies, leave the seeds in to intensify the flavor, but be careful when you do. Some pups like to stay on the porch rather than run with the big dogs.” He winked.
Oh, Jesus.
The female viewers—even some of the males—had to be going nuts over how attractive he was. How casual. Earthy.
“I’m covering all this with the applewood bacon. The additional grease produced will seep to the lower levels, providing extra flavor. The potatoes go on top.” He shredded them, and then in a cheesecloth, he squeezed out the moisture before arranging the thick slivers over the bacon. “Try to get as much water out of your hash browns as possible so they’ll crisp up, not go soggy on ya.”
Layla was loving all the “pro tips.” A few of her contestants were so focused on assembly, they forgot to provide helpful details such as this. And, unfortunately, when she prompted them, she tended to throw them off their game, so she’d learned to refrain from coaching in that vein.
“I cover all this with cracked eggs and more seasonings,” Avery announced. “SP plus anything else that comes to mind. I’m choosing Mexican adobo to build upon the overall flavor profile.”
“This aroma will be off the charts,” she commented, her stomach flipping at that notion.
“Wait’ll I add the cheese.” He gave her a scorching look as he said, “Gonna get it all nice and gooey.”
Sparks ignited between her legs.
She had to turn from the cameras as she felt the flush burst on her cheeks.
She asked Ritchie, “How long have you been with the TRIPLE R?” to distract herself—and because Avery had given him due credit, and she wanted to as well.
“Four years now, Miss Layla. Couldn’t’ve ended up with a better outfit. Sheer luck of the draw on my part, but they all took me in like I was some long-lost brother. Gave me a bed in the bunkhouse straightaway. And that beats livin’ on the streets.”
Emotion flickered in his eyes. Layla prayed the cameramen captured it.
Now feeling a bit misty eyed herself, she said, “I see why they nicknamed you ‘Right Hand.’ My guess is you don’t let anything fall through the cracks.”
“Oh, you can be sure I sometimes do,” he replied with a modest laugh. “But that’s what’s great about havin’ a mentor like Pitty. Seems to have three-sixty vision. Never misses a beat, even when I do.”
Ritchie’s admiration shone through. He had immense respect for Avery—the entire operation and the people running it.
“I don’t suppose you want to help me now?” Avery teased him. “If you’re done flirting with the pretty host.”
Ritchie chuckled again. “Sorry, sir. I sort of couldn’t help myself.”
“Can’t say as though I blame you. But we’ve got a lot of work to do if you and I are going to win this competition.”
Ritchie lit up even brighter. “Yes, sir!”
Layla’s heart nearly exploded.
There was no denying it was the “we” and the “you and I” that charged Ritchie. The man he revered was calling him a team member—a significant one. A partner, even.
So noteworthy, Ritchie had to take a few seconds to compose himself. That only served to bring fat tears to Layla’s eyes.
Okay, yeah, this family was totally upping the stakes. There’d not been this flood of feelings when she’d interviewed other contenders. They’d been so singularly driven, they hadn’t engaged in this way. Or, again, hadn’t had the big Why Avery did. Even Ritchie was a part of that concept.
Avery had several ovens to make, and as he completed one, Ritchie put the lid on and took it to the pit.
When he was done, Avery joined Ritchie, and he scooped coals from his firebox onto the lids of the ovens that were nestled over the rocks, covering them with glowing embers.
“The critical hit-or-miss here,” Avery explained to the audience, “is that I don’t want to overcook my eggs or my steak. Nor do I want to undercook my potatoes. So I have to surround the ovens but be mindful of what temperature I have from beneath and above.”
He collected more firewood to keep the flames burning to produce additional embers.
He returned to his prep station, washed up, and assembled the apple crisps for the secondary pit, sprinkling his brown sugar–cinnamon concoction, combined with nutmeg, lemon, oats, and flour, over the fruit Ritchie had sliced. He dusted each filled oven with cayenne pepper and vanilla bean powder.
Layla’s brow raised. “Always have to add an extra kick, eh, cowboy?”
He gave the low, intimate chuckle that made her breath catch.
“You know I like to add some spiciness to the sweetness,” he drawled.
“Indeed, you do.” The words tumbled from her mouth, unbidden. Followed by an audible sigh.
Oh, dear Lord, Layla!
She was all but wilting at his feet.
She cleared her throat and hastily said, “We have this recipe on our website. However, something tells me you cook to taste. Not to specific measurements.”
“You’re on to me, darlin’.” He grinned. “I’ve been making this recipe for over a decade. I just know how to bring it all together. Tasting and adjusting is definitely imperative.”
His gaze lingered on her, his brow twitching, discreetly. Her inner muscles contracted. She ducked her head once again, knowing she’d only give herself away if she looked at the camera.
She merely said, “Same with all your other recipes.” For their sexy times.
He chuckled again. Knowing how he affected her.
Layla forced herself to remain in “host” mode. She returned her attention to the audience and said, “Lesson here is that you want to experiment until you find your perfect flavorings.”
“That is one of the joys of cooking,” he chimed in.
“I do like that part, yes. But eating is more my jam.”
“And I appreciate your appetite, honey.”
“Just have to work in some exercise to keep us on our toes,” she replied.
They stared at each other.
Layla’s brain blipped out.
Avery’s teeth sank into his bottom lip. Briefly.
More microbursts ensued, deep in Layla’s core.
On the other side of the counter, Todd’s head cocked.
Brodi gaped, her eyes wide.
And the wranglers all gazed at them with blatant curiosity.
Layla shifted into Drive. She said, “Y’all, let’s be serious for a moment. The average Joe needs to incorporate stretching and cardio into their daily routine. These cowboys are on the range all day, burning calories, so when they come to the table, they require sustenance. And not just from steaks. Isn’t that right, Avery?”
“Darlin’, I’m all for pork, poultry, and fish,” he said, helping to bring the conversation around to something less provocative. “Just wait until I smoke a pig in my pit this week. Ain’t never tasted anything so juicy and succulent. Well ... once I have.” He outright wagged a brow this time.
So much for being discreet!
It was borderline cruel to be so bound to her lust. All she wanted was to rid him of his apron, rip open the snaps on his shirt, and crawl all over him.
Layla!
Are you just wallowing in the gutter of down and dirty thoughts??
Why, yes. Yes, I am.
And it was impossible to stymie the trill along her spine and the pulsating in her pussy.
So inconvenient.
She held a long-suffering sigh in check.
Now she knew how Jack and Jillian must’ve felt when they’d so obviously been trying to hide their steamy attraction to each other while audiences were homing in on it with such ease.
Layla had already seen similar comments on the Light Your Fire socials. Part of her job was to engage with the viewers when they posted. She was accustomed to the broad strokes—answering questions about a particular recipe or a preferred spice that someone used. Queries about the BBQ circuit/world. Different techniques. And the occasional “Tell us more about Contestant X, Y, or Z.”
For the latter, she provided official information, not specific commentary beyond her on-screen interaction with them. Especially when it came to female contestants. Layla didn’t want to compromise them in any way, personally or professionally.
Nor did she want to encourage any sort of stalker mentality. That was the highest of priorities on her list.
Thus far, no incidents of the kind had plagued any of her cook-offs.
Save for this one instance of her lusting after the hunky cowboy here and not being able to control her reactions to him.
Telling her today’s comments were going to be tough to tackle.
She collected herself for about the hundredth time and looked at the camera. “Now that I’ve given my PSA on being mindful of healthy choices, I’m going to reiterate that Avery’s breakfast bake is served with an arugula salad.”
He snickered. “And apple crisp, darlin’.”
She shot him a sardonic look. “Way to sell me out, cowboy.”
His sapphire eyes shimmered as he said, “As you alluded, these ’boys have a long, hard day ahead of them.”
“And they’re looking to eat. Do you start with the salad?”
“Just have to add the parmesan and almonds,” he told her. “You should get some nuts in your diet every day.”
Had anyone else said that, she wouldn’t have flinched. But one corner of Avery’s mouth quirked.
Her thighs went up in flames.
Again . . . Not! Helping!
Everything this man uttered held sexual connotations for her.
When she knew they either shouldn’t or didn’t!
Yet in her brain ... they did!
Oh, my God. I will die on the vine here, I’m so hot for this man.
“Shouldn’t you be checking on your casserole right about now?” she prompted. To take the pressure off her.
“I’ve got a few more minutes.”
“How do you know that?”
“I just do.”
“Can you be more specific?” she asked, latching on to the attention-diverting olive branch he’d offered. Sort of.
“Thing about the pit, darlin’, is that you have to learn cooking conditions. Practice with temperatures and how you best achieve and maintain them. Increase or reduce as necessary. You have to subject yourself to trial and error. Till you’ve developed a sixth sense for how long certain things take to bake, smoke, simmer, what have you.”
He was so smooth. So Matthew McConaughey explaining what sort of boating person you might be in Failure to Launch.
All laid back, but with expertise driving his monologue.
Layla’s questions withered as fast as she did.
Suddenly, he exclaimed, “Ah!” Clapped his hands together, and said, “We’re ready.”
Thank God!
Layla needed a reprieve from all the zings.
Avery and Ritchie retrieved the cast irons with wire handles and performed the obligatory dusting off with hand brooms. The judges were the first to be served again. While Ritchie tended to the buffet table for the cowboys, Layla got initial reactions from them, then joined The Three—and Avery.
“What I like most about this,” Judge #1 said, “is that the bake is hearty and yet not so dense that it’s chewy.”
“And the moisture is just right,” added Judge #2, “so that there’s no sogginess.”
“The eggs,” Judge #3 commented with a sigh, “are sublime.” She added, “Crispy edges and whites, and a center that oozes golden glory.” She enjoyed another forkful from her plate. “And the spices are just right.”
“These Scoville heat units are perfect for this early in the morning,” Judge #1 added.
And so on . . .
Layla tamped down a triumphant smile on Avery’s behalf.
You are Switzerland.
You are neutral.
The judges had questions of their own on technique, and Avery breezed right through them.
As was the custom, everyone dispersed. Even the wranglers cleared out after eating.
Layla sidled up to Avery as he was placing the judges’ plates and flatware into a busser bin.
“I narrowly made it through that episode,” she said. “Thing about you, cowboy, is that you possess self-awareness that’s alluring. You know who you are. You know what you’re doing. That’s a wild combo that can tear through an audience like a raging inferno.”
She showed him her phone.
“Look at these likes, loves, and flames—totally skyrocketing.”
“Meaning Ale is currently going batshit crazy?”
“Do not say that in front of your family. That’s a twenty-dollar term for the swear jar.”
With a laugh, he said, “Honey, you’ve already learned how I keep that swear jar from becoming a reality.”
“So you’re saving that leftover apple crisp for Ale.”
“To share with Hunt.”
“What a good uncle you are.” She kissed him. Then murmured against his lips, “What’s my reward for assisting with the cleanup?”
“Do you fish, darlin’?”
“What?”
Maybe her brain was a bit scrambled from his nearness because she didn’t catch on at first.
Then she did.
She perked up. “We’re huntin’ and gatherin’ for lunch?”
“Plenty of fish in the river. And I’ve got some plants growing in a special spot for gooseberry-custard pie and black currant cake.”
She closed her eyes for a moment.
He asked, “What are you doing?”
“Just calculating how many calories we’ll have to work off.”
“I do like how you think.”
He kissed her. Not the least bit chastely. She was certain Ritchie was blushing from head to toe.
She pulled away and said, “We’d better get down to the river, or we won’t have time to scale and fillet the fish. What are we making?”
“Depends on what we reel in. My hope is that we’ll do southern-fried largemouth bass tenders and smoked lemon-pepper trout. I’ll throw on some steaks to fill in any gaps. Add roasted potato wedges with a chipotle-ranch dip.”
“I ate some of your breakfast—stellar, by the way. But I’m hungry again.” She sighed. “Epicurean delight to the max.”
“If there’s anything in particular you want, just let me know.”
“Oh, you know, cowboy,” she said with a suggestive smile. “You know.”
He led her toward the stables, and they saddled up again. He directed them through a different pasture, away from the cattle and the cowboys.
They rode down into a grassy valley where the river widened and was gentler. There was an outdoor setup of picnic tables, Adirondack chairs, a huge deck with a ramada top, and more tables underneath.
They secured the horses, and then Avery retrieved fishing poles and gear from a storage bin.
Layla said, “Good of you not to ask me if I can hook my own night crawlers. We’re well aware how that conversation will end.”
“With me eating crow.”
He set the tackle box on a table and opened it.
“Moot, though,” he continued. “We’ve got artificial bait. Spinners, cranks, jigs. Plastic worms. Take your pick.”
Her gaze slid over the vast selection. She pointed to one quadrant of the trays and said, “I like the colorful ones.”
“Then colorful ones you shall have.”
She rigged her own line, and Avery whistled under his breath. Flashed her an I’m impressed look and then outfitted himself.
“You fly-fish as well?” he asked.
“Even tie my own flies.”
“Figures.”
They headed to the end of the pier and cast off in different directions, Layla somehow sensing this was going to be their own competition, especially given they had individual coolers.
She snagged a bass and glanced over her shoulder as Avery was pulling up a sunfish on his line.
“Awww, isn’t she purdy?” Layla joked.
He smirked. “Have to start somewhere, honey.”
“How’s this for a start?” She showed hers that she’d scooped into her net.
Now he scowled. “I will never hear the end of this.”
“And not just from me.”
“Keep at it, darlin’.”
They spent over an hour collecting fish. A nice bounty, if Layla did say so herself.
Not playing the sore loser, Avery said, “Let’s get back and gut these.”
She gave a slight pout. “But I wanted to skinny-dip.”
“Then you’d better get out of those clothes. We have about a half hour.”
She shucked her navy ankle boots, jeans, and a loose navy tee with a purposely faded circle in the middle and “BBQ Girl” stamped within, at an angle. Her bra and panties hit the dock while Avery stared at her.
Excitement shimmied through her.
She said, “Come on, now, cowboy. We’ve only got so much time.”
She spun around and dove into the warm water.
As she surfaced, pushed her hair from her face, and wiped away drops from her eyes, Avery dove in.
She circled her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist.
“This is so refreshing,” she told him. “This Texas sun can be unrelenting, despite it only being early summer.”
“That’s why we’ve got all these shady trees. Even around the chuck hall. Plus, portable AC units and fans that we can use outside to cool the air.”
“I do admire how you extend the luxuries to your crew. We filmed at a smaller operation in Louisiana that was complete bare bones, and the wranglers were sweltering in the heat and humidity. Tasty alligator, though—blackened and with a Cajun hot sauce. The bobcat was interesting. Just needed more flavor; the meat was a bit bland. Not that I made mention of this. I sample but don’t comment when it comes to the quality and taste of the food.” It was sort of drilled into her to reiterate this. Mostly because she was pressing her breasts against well-defined pecs, and that held the potential to skew her objectivity.
Avery gazed at her for several seconds that seemed to hold them suspended in time.
Then he grinned. And said, “That you’re willing to sample alligator and bobcat is one of the sexiest things about you, Layla Jenson. Not the sexiest thing. Your lingerie definitely gets my adrenaline pumping.”
“And you have a whole pig and white-tailed deer on the menu this week. Talk about turn-ons.”
“Not all people will agree.”
“I don’t get too wrapped up in ‘the hunt.’ But I can see where that can be offensive to others.”
“True. Though that’s hypocritical of me because we sell off our cattle to produce beef that ends up on people’s plates. So.”
“And hides that end up on sofas and jackets.”
He nodded. “It’s a sociological conundrum. My personal perspective is to each their own. I don’t oppose vegan material rather than leather. I also happen to like plant-based food—just not as my primary meat source. And I do eat fish.”
“Speaking of . . .”
“Yeah, we’ve got work to do.”
She shifted around to his back, hung on, and let him swim them toward the dock. She took the ladder up to the landing, and he followed.
“Guess I should’ve grabbed some towels from the bin,” he said.
“Give us a couple of minutes to disassemble our rods, and this hot breeze will have dried us.”
“You do realize that a couple of minutes of us naked will just lead to me taking you right here on a picnic table?”
She instantly gave up on her rod. “Do we even need the picnic table?”
Later that evening, Layla joined Todd and Brodi for dinner at the hotel in Serrano. A definitive Western establishment with heads mounted on the walls and peppers lining the menu.
“You’re going to want champagne with your dish, sweetheart,” Todd said. “In fact, I’m buying, and it’ll be of the expensive variety.”
She folded her menu and gazed at him. “I know our viewer and subscriber numbers are soaring. Did we hit some sort of milestone today?”
“Those numbers are exceptional, Layla. I’m almost thinking that Avery Reed can single-handedly give us the audience base and the additional sponsorships to warrant a sixth season.”
She pressed her hand to her mouth.
Damn it, she’d known Avery was a gold mine!
“But that’s not what we’re celebrating,” Todd said.
Her hand fell away. “What’s the occasion, then?”
He waited until they’d all ordered from the server who’d appeared—and indeed, Todd did select a private reserve bottle of bubbly.
Layla’s gaze narrowed on him. “You don’t spring for premium alcohol all that often. You win the lottery, and this is your way of telling us?”
“No, Layla.” His tone was level, though it had the potential to lean toward exuberant.
“You’re freakin’ me out, Todd,” she said.
“Me too,” Brodi added. “You look borderline ... happy?”
“You gals are giving me a rotten reputation.”
Layla laughed. “We’re just accustomed to your even keel.”
“Yeah, well. This is something significant to commemorate.”
“And it is . . . ?” Layla prompted.
He held them in further suspense as the server returned, popped the cork, and let Todd sample. Following his nod of approval, the server poured flutes. Then she put the bottle in a chiller.
Once she left, Todd raised his glass and said, “This is to Layla’s freedom.”
Layla was confused.
Yet they all clinked rims and sipped.
Her breath hitched as Todd grinned, then took a longer drink.
She did as well.
“Y’all are killin’ me here,” Brodi moaned.
“Okay, enough with me drawing this out,” Todd told them. “You clearly haven’t seen or read financial news of late, Layla.”
“What would be the point?” she asked in a dry tone. “That part of my life is over and done. And we all know I can’t try for a national or international commentator position. So.”
“Well, I keep an eye on financial journals.” He placed his cell on the table between them.
She felt an odd stab in her chest.
A tremor ran down her arm, so that she set aside her glass.
She stared at Todd.
“What do you know?”
He inhaled deeply.
On the exhale, he said, “Christopher Courtland is dead.”