Hot Under Pressure (27 page)

The collection of vegetables and fruits and other ingredients he’d listed made sense individually, but when he tried to add them all up into a complete menu, they were nothing but chaos.

Which, come to think of it, made it a pretty good allegory for the story of his life.

Fingers snapping in front of his eyes jerked him out of his head and back into the challenge.

“You awake there, big guy?” Winslow was back, their shopping cart now full of items like chunks of pancetta and bottles of rice vinegar.

Beck stared down into the cart. It didn’t look like anything. Usually, at this point in a menu, he’d start to be able to see the individual components as elements of a finished dish. He could visualize what each dish would look like on the plate, how he’d stack the items or what he’d drizzle over top for that last burst of flavor and color, but right now?

It was all cardboard and plastic and paper. Nothing real, nothing substantial.

Nothing of himself.

“Are we doing the right thing here?” he heard himself ask.

Winslow’s eyes got big. “Hey. Are you okay?”

Pressing his mouth shut against the words that threatened to tumble out, Beck clenched his fingers on the wire frame of the cart, feeling the metal dig into his palms. The pain grounded him, made it possible for him to mutter “Not really.”

Winslow reached out and pried at Beck’s hands. “Quit that, you’re going to hurt something.”

“I already hurt something,” Beck said, and shit, now it was all coming out. “Someone,” he amended, pulling away from Win and rocking the cart on its wheels with a clang.

And he’d hurt her. He knew he had. The look on Skye’s face when she finally got it, finally figured out that she could do so much better than a violent, damaged, mute fucking asshole …

“Hey!” The alarm in Win’s voice penetrated the black fog hanging over Beck’s head. He blinked at his sous-chef and found the kid staring back at him with more than a hint of anger in his expression. “Beck, come on. Do not be doing this to me right now. I need you to get your head out of your ass and focus!”

Beck blinked, his jaw set as if someone had poured cement into the joints. “Sorry,” he rasped out. God, would he never be done needing to apologize?

“Don’t be sorry, man.” Win sighed, his fingers coming back to pluck at Beck’s stiff hands curled around the wire cart. “Tell me what’s going on. Maybe I can help.”

Beck snorted. That was sort of the whole issue in a nutshell, wasn’t it? “I never tell anyone what’s going on,” he said.

Win rolled his eyes. “Well, duh. Kind of noticed that. And most of the time, who cares, but now is not most times, Beckster. Now is the Big Time, and you need to quit withholding and let me in!”

“Everybody wants in.” He laughed, but it scraped his throat on its way out. “Pretty fucking funny, since most of the time I want out. There’s nothing to see in here, man.”

Beck dropped his head, his hair swinging forward to hide his face. It felt good to hide. Familiar, comforting.

Safe.

He stiffened. Holy Christ, was Skye right? Had he been taking the coward’s way out his entire life?

The memory of Skye with Jeremiah Raleigh rose up in his mind, as inescapable as a swarm of hornets. Beck had left Queenie Pie on his own, as soon as he found his boots. The last thing he saw before he pushed through the kitchen and out into the front of the house was Skye wrapped in a warm, loving, tender embrace.

Perfect, good-looking, fucking
heroic
Jeremiah Raleigh.

Jeremiah hadn’t yelled or thrown punches or stomped around. He’d opened his arms and invited her in.

And she’d gone.

She’d met his unblinking gaze over Jeremiah’s shoulder. Emotions were hard for him to read sometimes, but there’d been something in the deep blue pools of her eyes … pain and memories and the release they’d found together in purging some old wounds the night before.

But something else, too. Maybe a plea?

“I never know what people want from me,” Beck said.

Win leaned closer, brow furrowed, as if he’d barely caught the words.

Clearing his throat, Beck steeled himself and lifted his head. “No, that’s not it. I assume I know what people want, and that I don’t want to give it to them.”

“Sounds like a pretty unsatisfying arrangement,” Win said. “For everyone concerned.”

Beck huffed out a breath that could’ve passed for a laugh. “Yeah. It sure wasn’t satisfying for my wife.”

Win went on full alert, Beck could tell from the way he straightened as if someone had goosed him. “Something going on with Skye? Other than the whole divorce thing, and the bet about spending one last night together.”

Beck was ninety-five percent certain they’d already had their last night together, bet or no bet. “I’m really fucked up,” he admitted, the words torn from his chest as desperation got its fist around his heart and squeezed. “I don’t know what to do about it. Tell me what to do.”

Win sucked in air. “Shit. Are you serious? No one ever asks me what to do!”

That made Beck look his young friend in the eye. “We should,” he told him. “You give damn good advice.”

“It’s true. I am one emotionally healthy motherfucker.” Winslow preened for a moment before getting serious again. “Bottom line, man, is you have to decide what you want and what you’re willing to do to get it. No one can give you advice about that, and no one can do it for you—you’ve got to take a real close look at your heart, and then don’t puss out about listening to what it tells you.”

“Christ,” Beck said, feeling short of breath. “You should have your own talk show.”

Punching him in the shoulder, Win beamed. “Yeah, maybe on one of those channels where they don’t care if you swear a lot. Or Bravo! Bravo loves the gays.”

“It has nothing to do with you being gay,” Beck said, frowning.

Shit, this was awkward, but it had to be said.
Don’t puss out,
he reminded himself, and the surge of amusement gave him the guts to put his hand on Winslow’s shoulder. “It’s because you’re a good friend, you care about people. And you see things others miss.”

This time it was Win who ducked his gleaming shaved head, but only for a second. “Thanks, man. But I just caught sight of my watch, and holy cats, but we need to get moving here. I know I said to have a good long heart-to-heart with yourself, but we don’t have time right now.”

There was no time; every second ticking down on the clock brought them closer to the moment of truth, when they’d have to check out with whatever product they’d managed to acquire, and that would be what they’d cook.

But as Beck stood there in the produce department between towers of lemons and a bank of greens getting sprayed down with a fine mist of water, he caught sight of his competition racing toward the table full of fresh herbs across the wide aisle.

Skye’s chin was firm with determination, her movements swift and purposeful, with an economy of motion that Beck found as beautiful as any dancer. She’d been through so much, been so alone through most of it, but she was still here. Still in it, hoping and taking chances and trying to be happy. She was magnificent.

And he realized he didn’t need a lot of time.

His heart had been telling him what it wanted for years; he just hadn’t been listening.

And after this morning, he knew he only had one shot at getting it. His mission was clear.

“Dump this stuff, we need a new cart.” He fired off the order, feet already in motion.

Win jumped into action with a whoop and a curse, ready to follow his lead, and Beck took the extra five seconds to grab his sous-chef around the shoulders and haul him into a quick, very manly hug.

“What’s the plan, boss?” Win said when Beck set him back on his feet.

Beck ripped his prepared list of ingredients straight down the middle and took off at a ground-covering jog for the fish counter.

“We’re cooking from the heart.”

*   *   *

Skye had never been so distracted in her life. She’d be lucky if she made it through this challenge with all her fingers intact.

Usually cooking was where she lost herself, burying her fears and worries in mounds of juicy diced tomato and drowning them in gallons of homemade chicken stock. But today all she could think about was the look on Jeremiah’s face when he pulled back from hugging her and said, “Sunshine, we need to talk.”

She blinked, and suddenly the image morphed to Beck walking out of the Queenie Pie kitchen, head down, steps slow but steady, like a wounded lion.

They couldn’t leave it like this.

Across the kitchen, Beck and his sous-chef were just finishing stowing their groceries in the walk-in, stacked on a couple of speed racks for quick, easy access once the challenge actually began.

Eva Jansen had arrived a few moments ago with her assistant, Drew, and the two of them were checking through the kitchen, making sure everything was ready to go. If Skye was going to do this, she didn’t have much time.

Breathing in a deep breath of serenity and calm, Skye closed her eyes and imagined peace filling her up, like water poured into a cup.

She opened her eyes and saw Beck striding over to his station, his jaw dark with stubble and his eyes fierce, and her cup of serenity shattered.

Crap. That worked a lot better in yoga class.

Now or never, Skye.

Mentally hitching up her skirt, Skye marched over to Beck’s station. His sous, Winslow, saw her coming and got all big-eyed before fading discreetly away to talk to Drew.

Skye was grateful for the gesture toward giving them privacy, but she was very aware that she and Beck weren’t alone in this kitchen. Which was why she stopped a few feet away from him.

Distance was crucial to her sanity.

He watched her approach, his dark eyes deep and fathomless, shadowed by the sweep of his hair. It was loose, she noticed, but she knew he’d pull it back and out of his face before the cooking actually started.

She knew little things like that—things like the sound he made when he came, or the fact that he hated scary movies and preferred poetry to fiction. But did she really know him?

“Today we prep,” he said quietly, jolting her out of her thoughts. “And tomorrow, we find out who’s the next Rising Star Chef.”

Fighting down a blush, Skye lifted her chin and stuck out her hand. “Whatever happens, I want you to know … I’m proud to compete against you. May the best cook win.”

His gaze flared with a bright spark of passion when their fingers met, palms sliding together, but Skye wasn’t sure if it was desire for her, or the desire to win. At this point, it hardly mattered.

“I’m ready,” he told her. “And I’m looking forward to tasting your dishes. I know they’ll be great.”

God, so polite and stilted. As if they were strangers. Skye pulled away and tried to find a smile for him. “Okay, well, I’m sure they’re going to start the timer soon, so…”

“Is Jeremiah coming to the judging?” Beck asked, startling her.

“Oh,” she stammered. “I don’t know, I didn’t think anyone was allowed other than the judges…”

“They should make an exception for him,” Beck said. “He came all the way from Africa to see you cook.”

Sheesh, could this be more uncomfortable? Skye had to swallow three times to get rid of the painful lump in her throat, and before she could manage it, Eva walked up.

“Who came from Africa?” Eva asked, gray eyes bright and avid with curiosity.

“My…” Skye broke off. God, what was she supposed to call Jeremiah now, after the conversation they’d had once Beck left this morning? “Friend,” she concluded lamely, feeling the flush she’d been suppressing finally erupt like a wildfire and spread up her chest all the way to the tips of her ears.

“He’s in the Peace Corps,” Beck supplied, his voice unreadable.

“Wow.” Eva had a calculating look that made Skye nervous. “Well, I think we should invite him to join us for Skye’s tasting tomorrow afternoon. Beck, is there anyone you’d want to invite for your judging in the morning?”

Even in the midst of her dismay over this turn of events, Skye was avid to know the answer to that question. She watched Beck from under her lashes, taking in every shift and nuance of his expression.

Which barely changed at all as he said, “No. There’s no one.”

Skye’s heart, which had already been through the wringer today, shredded a little more.

Clearly taken aback by the uncompromising answer, Eva raised her brows. “Oh! Well, if you’re sure … then I guess it’s time to get this challenge started. I know you have a lot of prep work to do, so please take your positions and I’ll start the clock.”

Feeling like she’d barely survived an ambush, Skye somehow made it back to her station where Fiona stood sharpening their knives on a honing steel.

“What was that all about?” Fee asked, concern roughening her voice. She’d been worried about Skye since the shopping trip that morning, but there hadn’t been a moment to fill her in on the incredible developments of the past twenty-four hours.

Or maybe Skye just hadn’t known what to say about it all. Kind of like now.

“Nothing,” Skye said, straightening her stance and watching the clock for the moment to start. “Let’s just cook.”

Everything else would have to wait.

Chapter 26

Beck woke up at oh-dark-hundred, as alert and ready to move as if it were noon. He blinked into the darkness of the hotel room he and Win shared and tried to let himself be soothed by the rhythmic breathing coming from the other double bed.

Knowing what lay in store for him later that day, though … it would take more than a little light snoring and snuffling to calm Beck down.

Besides, mental prep was important. At least as important as the cooking they’d done the day before, and the finishing touches they would put on their dishes this morning before serving the judges at eleven thirty.

The judges, and Skye.

Somewhere along the way, this whole competition had boiled down to her. He still wanted to win—of course he did, if for no other reason than to repay the Lundens for everything they’d done for him—but all he could think about as he stared up at the hotel room ceiling was Skye.