Tamed by a Texan. Tanya Michaels
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the expanse of blue overhead. Country music piped through discreet poolside speakers, accompanied by the melodic rush of a small landscaped waterfall that ran over natural-looking rocks. The shirtless man drifting lazily on an inflated lounge chair grinned. It was a damn good day to be Ty Beckett.
“But then,” he drawled aloud, “every day is a good day to be me.”
From the nearby patio table came a grunt. “Don’t get too comfy,” his business manager cautioned without looking away from his laptop. “We have to clear out soon. You have an interview with an entertainment reporter from the Statesman at three-thirty and that restaurant opening tonight.”
“Too bad we couldn’t invite the reporter here to Cody’s place and do the interview in the pool. Did you see the picture with her byline? Bet she looks smokin’ in a bikini.” At his manager’s reproachful silence, Ty added, “I’m just sayin’.”
Ty sighed. “You are no fun, dude. Not that you ever were, but you’re even less so lately.”
Stephen Zigler glared over top of his sunglasses. “You mean now that I’m married and have a baby on the way and generally choose to act like an adult? I swear, if Donna wasn’t plagued by round-the-clock cravings for that secret-recipe potato salad of yours, I’d drop you as a client.”
“When we’re on the verge of hitting it big? No, you wouldn’t.” Ty stuck his hand into the water and paddled toward the steps. Despite the bright sun, the early-March temperature would be too brisk for swimming if the pool weren’t temperature-regulated. He climbed the stairs, glancing around at the sculpted yard and Cody Black’s million-dollar Barton Creek mansion. “Someday I’ll have a place like this.”
Stephen turned, his expression startled. “You sound serious.”
“I am.”
“Yeah, but…it’s you. Sounding serious. I didn’t think you knew what the word meant.”
Ty ignored the gibe. Despite Ty’s devil-may-care persona, his manager knew better than anyone how hard the celebrity chef worked. Well, not a full-fledged celebrity yet. But he was definitely on the right path. Last night, for instance, he’d been hired to cook for the three dozen closest friends of country music star Cody Black, who’d wanted to celebrate his fortieth birthday with an “intimate” dinner. As her gift, Cody’s wife had booked them a European vacation before his next tour started; they’d left this morning. Cody had invited Ty to stick around for a few hours and enjoy the pool and high-tech game room.
Nathan Tyler Beckett, the skinny kid who’d grown up in a series of south Texas trailer parks, wouldn’t have even believed a house like this existed.
“I’m gonna grab a shower,” Ty said, “and make sure all my stuff’s packed up from the kitchen. Then we’ll hit the road.”
Two hours later, Ty sat in an upscale Austin restaurant while a beautiful blonde smiled across the table. As much as he enjoyed looking at her, her questions were all ones he’d heard before. His mind kept wandering from the mundane conversation to the appetizer sampler they’d ordered. The fried pickles tasted too much like the inside of a deep fryer and whoever was responsible for the bland travesty of aioli should be shot. Other offerings were intriguing, though. He was trying to dissect the ingredients of the house Loco Guacamole, which included not only pumpkin but—
“I’m sure my readers will be interested to know, how’d you get hooked on cooking in the first place?” the blonde asked.
He flashed her a practiced smile. “Would it make me sound desperate if I said I started cooking because I wanted to impress women?”
Her cheeks turned a rosy-pink. “I don’t think anyone could ever mistake you for desperate, Chef Beckett.”
“Ty. Please.” He widened his grin. “It all began back in middle school with Family and Consumer Sciences, which was their fancy name for what used to be called Home Ec.”
There were grains of truth in his stock answer. He had, after all, taken Family and Consumer Sciences, which included a cooking component. But Ty hadn’t been there for the cute female students. He’d wanted the free food each lesson brought, supplementing the state-funded school lunches he qualified for because of his family’s poverty level. By the time Ty was thirteen, he’d been growing like a weed and constantly hungry. Beth, his single mother, had never been able to put much on the table. During his teen years, there had been times late at night or even in the middle of class when he’d catch himself fantasizing about food with the same intensity other guys his age probably daydreamed of cheerleaders.
But he didn’t share those memories with anyone. Ever.
“So what’s next for you?” the reporter asked. “I know you’ve traveled extensively, helping new restaurants find their feet and developing menu items before you move on to the next challenge. Some of us wonder, will Chef Ty Beckett ever settle down?”
Not until the price was right. He’d followed specific strategic opportunities, constantly building on his name and reputation, rather than investing in a place of his own.
“You never know,” he said enigmatically. “But as for what’s next, I’m one of the ten semifinalists in a cooking competition that will be filmed in Fredericksburg this month. Fans will have to watch the show to see how I do, but I can tell you right now, I plan to win.”
A cable network had hinted this show was his informal audition. Ty had done televised segments before and was popular with audiences. Male viewers liked him because he eschewed fancy French terms they were suspicious of and offered grilling advice real men could use; women loved him because… Well, women just loved him. If Ty won this Frederick-Fest competition, getting his own show was a done deal. He could be a household name one day like other famous chefs before him.
And being a household name paid well.
His companion leaned back against her side of the booth, looking impressed. “Your skills are legendary,” she conceded, looking him up and down in such a way that made him wonder just which skills she meant. “But I’m sure the other nine chefs are very talented, too. You believe you’ll beat them?”
Ty gave a decisive nod. “Bet on it.”
Chapter Two
“Can’t sleep?” Amy Winthrop stood at the edge of the kitchen wearing an oversize University of Texas Longhorns jersey that fell almost to her knees.
Grace looked up guiltily from the batter she’d been stirring. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.” Maybe middle of the night cupcake experimentation hadn’t been such a good idea.
Her roommate waved a dismissive hand. “It wasn’t you. I’ve screwed up my sleep cycle for all eternity. The job I had before this, I rarely got home before five in the morning. A bunch of us would clean up the bar after closing, then go for breakfast at one of those twenty-four-hour diners. I’m trying to retrain myself to be normal.”
Grace grinned at the woman’s eggplant-purple hair, which clashed spectacularly with her burnt-orange shirt, and sparkling eyebrow ring. A row of small hoop earrings curled up her left ear. “Retrain? That implies there was a time when you were normal.”
Amy grabbed a dish towel off the counter, wadded it and threw it at Grace, who laughed.
The two of them had hit it off within minutes of meeting each other last fall. Grace had been in Austin for the weekend and ordered one of Amy’s drinks, which had been exceptional. They’d talked on and off all night as Amy served other patrons. Before Grace left, she’d impulsively pulled out a business card for The Twisted Jalapeño. “You ever want to relocate to Fredericksburg, you have a job waiting for you.”
Still, Grace had been shocked when Amy walked into the restaurant six weeks later. Amy and her fiancé had called it quits and she needed a change of pace. Meanwhile, Grace, who’d been living with her mom at the time, had agreed with Ben and