Chapter Nineteen
Avery was at the family breakfast table at the end of the week, thinking he’d done a damn fine job these past few days of not looking like a forlorn sad sack.
Yet Aunt Brett dropping a kiss on the top of his head as she set the skillet potatoes on a trivet and then Wyatt ruffling his hair before adding the stacked French toast with berries to the table had him scowling.
Jack delivered huevos rancheros, and Chance brought over the sausage and bacon platter, each of them giving him an empathetic look that made him groan.
“Y’all can knock it off about now,” he said. “I had a life before Layla Jenson. I’ll have a life after Layla Jenson.”
“Yes, but why is it over?” Wyatt asked. “The romance. Not your life. Just to be clear.”
He clicked his tongue. And said, “Duly noted.”
More of the family came in.
So the gang’s all here to witness my misery.
He slid a glance toward Jack. Who said, “I don’t know what to tell you, cuz. Wish I did, but I can’t predict this outcome.”
“Outcome’s already been decided,” Avery deduced. “So let’s talk about anything other than Layla. Or me.”
“That’s going to prove difficult,” Luke said as he came through the wide opening to the large kitchen. He handed out white envelopes to Avery, Chance, Jack, and Brett. Then pulled up a chair and fixed himself a plate.
Avery waved his envelope in the air and asked, “What’s this?”
“No idea what’s contained within,” Luke told him. “I’m only the messenger.” He didn’t quite settle in, saying, “Oh, and there’s also this.” He whipped out a folio from his back pocket and placed it on the table next to Jack. “Compliments of Uncle Caleb.”
“What the fuck?” Jack said under his breath.
His low tone didn’t matter.
“Jack Royce Reed,” his mother warned.
“I know, I know. But ...” His gaze shifted from her to Luke. “What the heck is going on?”
Luke shrugged. “He came by my restaurant yesterday. Swore he wanted no trouble. Said something about making amends, but he knows he’s not permitted on the ranch. So he asked me to pass these along. I stole a peek at the fat one, Jack. There’s cash in there.”
A collective gasp from the adults filled the otherwise quiet room.
While Ale and Hunt munched on French toast, several looks were exchanged.
Avery was the first to speak.
“I’m glad he’s finally taking responsibility for his actions,” he said, “but I don’t want to know squat about what he’s up to, what his plans are, or what he has to say.” He stood, went to the island, and depressed the lever for the trash and recycle bins, tossing in his sealed envelope. “Makes no difference to me.” He turned back to his family and said, “Y’all have a nice breakfast.”
He stalked out.
Three weeks without Layla in his bed was twenty-one days too long.
Avery had plenty to do. Without doubt.
But there were mornings and fleeting moments throughout the day and then the nights when he just couldn’t stop thinking of her body pressed to his. Her beautiful face, her glowing eyes, her sweet smile. And her voice. He could almost hear her whispering in his ear when he was prepping a meal or taking a shower. When he was drifting off to sleep, with her on his mind.
They’d bypassed the Mondays they might have been able to get together at the ranch without even saying a word about it. The evenings had just slipped by. And neither did more than text here and there.
It seemed like wasted opportunities, yes. And yet ... it’d become self-preservation. For both of them, he was sure.
Avery had stopped digging his hole.
Unfortunately, there was still the finale to get through, where the winners would be announced.
Brodi sent a detailed email of what he should expect, by way of a cameraman and technician showing up to include him in the live conference feed that would feature all the contestants.
The production was set up in the outside portion of the chuck hall, with the entire family gathered, plus the wranglers and the ranch hands. And Whit Tatum.
Avery paced anxiously along the back patio. He wore the outfit he’d borrowed from Jack the day he’d met Layla, hoping it was some sort of good luck charm. He had, after all, scored with her that evening (ha, ha). He prayed he did the same with the judges and audience, in a different capacity.
Jack propped his shoulder against one of the thick cedar columns and said, “You can’t change the outcome by wearin’ a hole in those floorboards.”
“I’m well aware.” Didn’t stop Avery from pacing some more.
“Do you even care that much about the money?” Chance asked. “Or is it more about the girl?”
Avery’s head snapped up. He gave a nod of acknowledgment for the weighty question. And said, “If I don’t win, I’ll do endorsements if I can, to pay Jack. But there’s no signing on the dotted line to get the girl back.”
He and his brother stared at each other.
Then Avery’s gaze flashed to Jack. Whose brow rose.
Avery felt its meaning straight to his core.
He let out a half snort.
“Don’t get me going in that direction,” Avery said. “She’s not a ranch dweller, Jack. She’s got wanderlust in her veins.” He’d felt that way about her from the beginning. And it was something he wouldn’t try to alter.
“Well, this live stream’s about to start,” Jack reminded him. “So you’d best get your game face on. Win or lose, you put on one hell of a show, Avery Reed. You should be damn proud of yourself. We’re all proud of you.”
That was crucial to Avery. And everyone knew it.
He took a moment to absorb the love and affection. And accept the surge of dignity that came with having done his absolute best with this show, with honorable intentions.
Then the tech removed the cover from the big-screen TV that was mounted on a rolling stand, and he connected to Light Your Fire, which hadn’t yet launched. Though the logo and Layla’s vibrant smile were front and center.
Avery pulled in a long breath. Let it out on a rush of air. Forced his bunched muscles to loosen.
It wasn’t that he was so tense over whether he’d be in the top two.
He was nervous about seeing Layla. Downright nervous.
Mostly, he knew it’d be harder than hell to act casual when his pulse was racing and his adrenaline was surging. When his heart was pounding, his gut clenching.
Christ, he almost wrung his hands in anticipation.
He wasn’t left in suspense, though.
Suddenly, there she was, welcoming the audience, excitedly talking about this finale, and then saying, “We have some epic clips from each contestant, and I have follow-on questions they’ll be answering live, one-on-one with me. But first, let me remind y’all of who these fierce competitors are, each of them having a shot at fifty or one hundred and fifty thousand dollars—and the title of Best Bunkhouse Cook!”
Square images of the ten contestants appeared on-screen, three on either side of Layla lower in the frame, and four running across the bottom. She started in sequential order of their boxes, corresponding with the week in which they’d competed.
“We have Cramer Dillon up first,” she said, “from the outskirts of Odessa, Texas. Y’all will remember Cramer’s old-fashioned bunkhouse kitchen, with callbacks to some of the great German and Chinese bunkhouse cooks from the late 1800s.”
The facility was small and tidy, just right for a wrangler outfit of six to eight, with a mix of antique and modern enhancements that made it efficient, yet authentic looking.
Layla posed her questions, and Cramer answered, his box expanding to share the screen with Layla only.
She continued through the contestants, displaying their setup and recapping humorous anecdotes from her time with them. Making her even more likable, more relatable.
When she got to Avery and all his family gathered around at the chuck hall, the cowboys and ranch hands in the background, she said, “Entering the TRIPLE R is like coming home.”
The instant tinge of emotion to her silky voice almost choked Avery up.
He didn’t need to glance around to know that was the effect she had on the women assembled.
“It’s serene, it’s majestic, it’s overwhelming.” She gave a soft laugh, apparently to chase away the hint of melancholy. “The green pastures stretch for miles and miles. The shady trees and bluebonnets are plentiful. Add to that a large herd of cattle and stables full of horses—not to mention all the homes and outbuildings—and you have a breathtaking generational ranch that is also home to champion pitmaster Avery Reed.”
Scenes of the ranch morphed into Avery sharing the screen with Layla.
“How are you, Avery?” she asked. With a shimmer in her tiger eyes.
“Doing just fine, darlin’.” He resisted saying, Better, now that I’m seeing your beautiful face.
But he was damn sure his own eyes gave him away.
Indeed, she smiled delicately and said to the audience, “I knew Avery was a contender when I researched him for the show. Certainly, he has the skill set. But when I met him in person, at the Memorial Day Weekend BBQ Bash that his cousin Jack Reed and Jack’s cohost, Jillian Parks, orchestrated, I had the opportunity to view Avery’s indoor/outdoor bunkhouse kitchen facilities. And learn specifically why he’d be fantastic for this cook-off.”
Avery grinned, knowing where she was going with this.
Layla continued. “I heard the conviction in his voice when he indicated he’d be up bright and early the morning after the three-day event to feed the wranglers and the ranch hands ‘a feast fit for kings.’ Not missing a beat, not taking any downtime for himself. And that’s because he feels the staff on the TRIPLE R are deserving of his best, every day. Because they give theirs. Every day.”
The shimmer turned into glistening.
Off to the side, Wyatt sniffled.
Layla said, “And he not only backed up that commitment, but he also brought a level of difficulty and intrigue to the competition with his pits and his recipes. In addition, he’s surrounded by a cohesive, caring—and talented—family, and has a competent assistant in Ritchie.”
“Thank you for acknowledging him, darlin’,” Avery said, “because he’s earned it.”
He shook Ritchie’s hand. The guy swelled with pride.
Avery chuckled. “Don’t go getting too cocky on me now,” he teased. “I still need you here, not thinking you should be working at some fancy steak house in Dallas.”
“Not even on my mind, sir,” Ritchie asserted. “Got no cause to leave the ranch. I’m just a few solid tosses away from cornhole champion in our ongoing tournament.” He winked.
Those “on set” erupted with laughter. Because there was no such thing happening.
Layla fanned her face. “Watch out, Reed men. Ritchie just might outshine y’all in the charisma department.”
He beamed. “Why, thank you, Miss Layla.”
“Okay, again. Maybe don’t flirt with the host so much,” Avery chided.
With a solemn look, Ritchie told him, “Wouldn’t know how or where to begin, Pitty. The most flirtin’ I do is with the hens when I need ’em to lay more eggs for breakfast.”
This kept the family and staff in stitches.
Layla attempted to stifle a giggle but was unsuccessful.
Avery nodded and said, “Well, I suppose that’s all the time I’m going to get. Right, Layla?”
“We are on a schedule,” she concurred. “So y’all hang tight till we get to the scoring.”
She moved on to the last three contestants.
While their camera was off, Ritchie said, “Sorry I ate up your time, sir.”
“Ritchie, the scores are already tallied, and the winner already determined. This segment has no bearing whatsoever, other than for entertainment value. And you provided it. My hat is off to you.”
That seemed to send Ritchie straight into the stratosphere as he bobbed his head like he was the damn rooster.
Avery had to walk away so he didn’t burst. Not only with laughter but also with pride.
Though when Layla introduced the next portion of the show, he moved back into place, where the cameraman had done his blocking to ensure Avery was aligned with his angles.
“So now we’re down to the moment of truth,” Layla said with a more serious visage and tone. Except ... “Well, actually there are two moments of truth.” She rolled her eyes in a comical fashion. “My faux pas.”
Todd appeared in the frame and set a vault on the table alongside Layla. He worked the combination, opened the door.
“We could have used some suspenseful music there,” she said. “Couldn’t spring for a soundtrack, Todd?”
He smirked. Then stepped out of the frame.
“Inside are the individual lockboxes for our fabulous cooks,” she explained. “We have the combined scores for each of the meals that were evaluated. Five in total. Then there’s the final score, which comes from the viewer analytics to determine which cook ‘stole the show.’”
Wyatt quietly clapped her hands together, as though she was convinced this honor was going to Avery.
And if it did . . .
“The audience likability score is weighted and will be added to each contestant’s overall standing,” Layla expounded. “So ... shall we get down to business?”
Avery was on pins and needles. He assumed his competition was too.
Layla started at the beginning once more, sharing the meal scores with Cramer, declaring for that particular round, “Out of a possible seventy-five stars, you’ve been awarded seventy-two! Excellent job!”
The others didn’t fare quite so well, until she reached Willet Hayes, who received seventy-four.
Avery winced, on the inside.
Seventy-four was a high bar. With only one point away from perfection, Willet was going to be tough to beat.
Layla said as much, looking a little concerned, though trying to hide it. Luckily, she had this hosting gig down pat and kept her perky disposition.
“Now, Avery,” she said after retrieving his scores from his lockbox. “You brought some alternate elements to your segments. A shift from grills to the pit. Plus, the pizzazz of the TRIPLE R, and your family. Also, only you and one other bunkhouse cook serves this large of a group, Willet Hayes. While your technique—meaning your trenches—does count toward your scores for mastering your recipes, the size of the staff you feed does not.”
He nodded. “Doesn’t matter if it’s an outfit of two or twenty, Layla. The quality has to be high and consistent.”
“Very good answer, cowboy. Now ... let’s get to it.”
He suppressed a groan.
Because, yeah, that’s exactly what he’d like. Only not in the context presented.
She was all soft and sensuous in a pretty baby blue lacy dress with bell sleeves and a flared hem. She had on light-brown boots with blue accents. Her loose curls were draped over one shoulder. Her eyes were smoky, and her lips were rose gold, with a shimmer to the gloss.
Every inch of him ached for her.
But that was neither here nor there.
He tried to stay focused on the results she was about to reveal.
She reminded him, “The judges rate each meal from one to five. For a possible fifteen stars per meal. For your turducken, Avery ...” She opened a small, sealed envelope and extracted three note cards to show the audience. She smiled. “You received a perfect fifteen.”
So why didn’t his chest loosen?
Yes, he knew why. Her. So ... moot.
She moved on. “For your campfire breakfast, Avery ...” She repeated the process with a different envelope. “You received fifteen stars.”
Wyatt gasped. God love her for being so invested, but she was putting him more on edge.
Layla continued. “For your pig in a pit ... a score of fifteen.”
He could barely breathe. Telling him this contest meant more to him than he’d let on.
“Your venison, which the judges felt had the absolute correct amount of juices and smoke, has nabbed you another fifteen.”
Fuck, fuck, and fuck, yes!
He had a chance here. Granted, there were three others who didn’t have their scores yet.
But he did have a chance!
At this moment, winning was about more than giving Jack some restitution. It was about proving he’d always had the expertise and the talent to take titles. But something—someone—had held him back.
No more.
He was breaking through all that.
And if he won, it’d be his victory. Not anyone else’s.
Though ... he spared a glance at Ritchie, grinned, and amended that thought.
It’d be their victory. And he couldn’t ask for a better assistant. Couldn’t be happier that he’d mentored Ritchie in a way that he should have been mentored by his dad.
That was water under the bridge now.
Avery actually felt freed from that shackle, knowing money was flowing to Jack from Caleb, even if it took him till his dying days to pay his debt. Even if he never did fully pay the debt. It filled a slim crevice in Avery’s conscience. And that was something.
“So,” Layla said, “your last score for this round, Avery, comes from your desserts. And let me just tell you, heaven’s missing a baker. The scents alone were divine.”
He chuckled. “Honey, you might want to work on your pickup lines.”
Her smile was the vibrant one that always stole his breath.
Hell, every smile of hers stole his breath.
She told him, “I’m shocked I didn’t gain ten pounds just eyeballing those Dutch ovens when you removed the lids.”
“Wouldn’t bother me in the least, darlin’.” He winked.
Her breath seemed to catch. And it had nothing to do with them potentially outing themselves. That was probably already a given, from the second the cameras were on them on day one.
“For your last offering, Avery Reed ...” Her voice quavered—just a hint, so that he might have been the only one to notice, he was that attuned to her. “You have yet another perfect score of fifteen.” She displayed the cards.
Applause from his favorite peanut gallery ensued.
Yet he heard Layla say, “Congratulations. That puts you in the lead.”
For now.
He would have breathed a sigh of relief, but she still held him captive.
“With seventy-five stars, Avery, you are currently the chef to beat.”
The cameraman cut him off so Layla could give the next contestant his scores.
Avery’s family gathered around him. The cowboys and staff shook his hand, not only in a celebratory way but in gratitude for what he offered them, when he could just be throwing hamburgers and hot dogs on the grills to fill their bellies.
At the end of the first round, they were all back on-screen, live.
Layla made the grand announcement: “Our winner of the technical, quality, and presentation portion of this competition is ... Avery Reed!”
He and Ritchie shook once more.
Layla said, “Now for the curveball.” She made a sketchy face and added, “The scores given by the viewers and subscribers can turn this competition on its ear. Although no more than twenty-five points will be awarded overall from the audience, they will affect each cook’s current standing. What I say about that is, in addition to bringing your best recipes and practices to the table, at the heart of what you do as a bunkhouse cook has to be a genuine love and respect for the people you’re cooking for. That’s what drives you to get up before the crack of dawn and work until the sun goes down. What makes you determined to find the superior meats and produce that fit your budget—and get creative when you’re running low on pennies.”
Avery felt that to his core.
All of it.
“Also,” Layla continued, “when you infuse personality into what you do, that’s a bonding with those around you that makes you a superstar. Let’s find ours, shall we?”
In his peripheral vision, he expected to see Wyatt biting her nails. But she and Jillian were huddled together, hands clasped, with confident expressions on their faces.
That made him feel good.
Jack gave a thumbs-up.
Aunt Brett blew him a kiss.
Mateo gave a fist pump.
Garrett had a solid nod.
Riley and Luke gave a shared You got this look.
The twin boys and the dog ... well, hell’s bells, they were riveted.
Humph.
He grinned.
Perhaps he didn’t need the title after all.
The support of this ranch was what mattered the most.
And he knew Layla was rooting for him too.
So.
He was ready when she went back through the lockboxes, containing their final envelope. Though she changed the order of contestants as she read the results, making it random to ratchet up the intensity, the excitement.
Clever girl.
Some scores increased substantially. Some barely moved the needle.
When it came down to Willet and Avery, he further admired her strategy.
Dramatic effect to the extreme.
She said, “Willet Hayes, you have an audience rating of ... twenty-five!”
Oh. Fucking. Shit.
Avery felt a jerking low in his gut. This was no longer about a needle. It could come down to the thread.
“In the event of a tie, I’ve created this twist,” Layla said. “The two cooks will decide whether to do a head-to-head cook-off of the judges’ choosing for all the glory ... or split the first- and second-place prize money between them—and share the title.”
“I’m not sharin’,” Avery said.
“Neither am I,” Willet agreed with a grin.
This had become an all-or-nothing moment.
Though ... that wasn’t totally true.
Avery’s audience score could place him below Willet ... or any of the others who had lesser points.
This could be the bane of social media and influencers’ “influence.”
There were sponsorships and endorsements on the line, after all. They required customer stimulus. The right spokesperson with the right presentation.
This audience could be considered a consumer focus group to determine who might be more suitable for promoting products. It might not be Avery, after all.
Layla seemed to understand all the stakes and said, “Literally anything could happen here. The entire competition comes down to how the viewers related to and enjoyed Avery Reed.”
Jesus, like ... hmm, no pressure there.
He spared a glance at Jack, who gave a decisive No worries nod.
That wasn’t how Avery felt.
He’d found himself on the ragged edge.
As Layla had said ... anything could happen.
She didn’t rush the results, relaying a few more tidbits about the top contenders.
Until Avery didn’t think he could take much more.
As though she sensed this, she said, “All right. Moment of truth, y’all.”
Yet she stalled out—conveying how crucial this was to her.
Then she seemed to force herself to move forward. “Seriously, best of luck to everyone.”
She peeled apart the sealed flap.
Inhaled deeply.
Glanced down.
And said on the exhale, “Twenty-five points to Avery Reed.”
His family exploded.
“For a perfect one hundred points,” Layla continued, emotion tinging her voice. “Avery Reed, you are Light Your Fire’s Best Bunkhouse Cook!”
While his people further went wild, he stared at Layla.
She smiled sweetly. And added, “Congratulations, cowboy. You did it.”
His heart wrenched. Excitement over winning warred with their bittersweet ending.
Todd reappeared on-screen and popped the cork on a bottle of champagne while Brodi tossed confetti in the air.
And that was what happened in all the perimeter frames.
Layla said, “Every supplemental camera crew brought along bottles of bubbly so that all the chefs can celebrate a fantastic season. Willet, kudos to you for such a close competition—and congrats for being our runner-up!”
More corks were popped, and the techs were the ones to sprinkle the confetti, so the entire production looked like one big New Year’s Eve party.
Avery had difficulty tearing his gaze from Layla, but he had a huge group swooping in to hug him or pat him on the back.
Somewhere amid all the hoopla, he found Ritchie, pulled him to him, gave him a hug, then clasped his shoulder.
With gratitude and that fatherly emotion again, Avery said over the din, “I can’t thank you enough for all you do, Ritchie. This victory is for you too. You earned more than aprons and gloves, son. You get another bonus. A big bonus.”
Ritchie’s eyes misted. “I keep tellin’ you, it’s not about the bonuses. It’s about havin’ a family again. Havin’ a roof over my head. And havin’ someone like you to trust and rely on me.”
“That I do. Now ...” Avery glanced around and said, “Someone get this man a glass of champagne!” And he wasn’t talking about himself.
Regardless, his aunt delivered two flutes and kissed Avery on the cheek, then Ritchie. “You both make this ranch proud.” A tear tumbled down her cheek. “Don’t you ever forget that.”
She hugged Avery, then Ritchie. Then went for her own glass.
Avery and Ritchie tapped rims and drank.
Layla’s voice snagged Avery’s attention as she said, “That’s a wrap on this season. Keep an eye on socials for what’s next to come! Thanks to all our contestants, the audiences, and our sponsors—which you’ll find listed on our sites and also on-screen as soon as I’m done with this last cheers to y’all.” She raised her glass. Sipped. Then said, “Go on now. Light your own fire!”