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But none of that made this any easier for me, because I was worried. Worried as hell. Worried like crazy, and the only thing I could do was hole up in my kitchen—at home or at work—and prep for the final competition at the end of the week. But cooking was the perfect job for a person who was a professional worrier, especially one worried about something like chasing down a dangerous killer in what was basically a war zone.
“I can’t do this!” It was so damn frustrating, having all these feelings you couldn’t do anything about except feel them. Which brought on another, scarier realization. I really couldn’t do this, constantly worrying if Jackson would come back from work. It was too much, especially with Aunt Bette on my plate. “Damn.” And I’d been so close, too.
Which meant it really was time to get back to work. For the moment, that meant stepping up my game if I wanted that first-place win this weekend. And I did. I really did. If I was doomed to be a romantic failure, then I was determined to become a professional success.
My beef had been cooked to perfection last weekend, but the Texas beef classification was vague and that hadn’t even been the worst of my sins, in my own opinion. The guys who’d placed first and second had really kicked my ass on the sauce, which was disappointing and disheartening to admit since sauce was kind of my thing. What I needed to do was stop thinking so traditionally—and maybe do a little more thinking about food and less about men, which sounded remarkably like something Aunt Bette used to say when she’d caught me daydreaming as a kid. Which was always.
Thoughts of adolescent daydreaming pulled me right back down the path of worrying about Jackson, wondering if he was safe or if someone had him in their sights. I wondered if he had a gun with him. If he was even alive. He’d been gone two days already and there hadn’t been any texts or calls—not that I had expected there to be, but I’d hoped.
I had really, really hoped.
And look where that got you, my conscious poked viciously. Hoping was what had gotten me in this predicament in the first place, hoping Jackson wanted to talk about us. A real us. A serious and real version of us.
But he hadn’t called.
I let out a heavy sigh and turned back to the ingredients laid out before me. I had bigger choices to make.
“That sigh sounds like… a lot.” Rafe’s familiar voice brought a smile to my face and I turned to see him smiling back.
“Hey. I thought you had an out-of-town training coming up?”
“Two days after you take the pork ribs and the overall trophy, I leave. I need to judge this for myself.” He patted his ridiculously fit midsection and grinned. “Make sure everything is up to my standards.”
I let out a loud laugh. “You have the culinary standards of a frat boy.” When he pretended to look offended, I shrugged. “Which is perfect, because that’s about where my skills are today.”
“I’ll have my barbecue without the pity party, thanks.”
I glared at Rafe, but there was no heat behind it because he was right. Absolutely friggin’ right. “It’s not pity,” I insisted stubbornly. “I’m feeling a little defeated, I guess, after this weekend. My meat was good, really damn good, but theirs was better. And the sauce completely blew me away. Me, Rafe!”
“Sorry to say it, but the other sauces had more creativity than yours. That Bloody Mary barbecue sauce was fantastic. In a blind taste test, I would’ve guessed it was yours.”
“Thanks, I think.” That only confirmed what I already suspected, but it didn’t make me feel any better. “I just need to do better. Hungry?”
“Always.” Rafe patted his belly with a sigh and my shoulders relaxed. Rafe was a friend. He was slowly becoming the closest thing to family I had left. “You okay?”
I nodded and tried to flash a smile I didn’t feel, but it failed. Miserably. “Yeah. More worried than I should be. About everything.”
“Jackson?”
I nodded. “Among other things, yeah.”
“Bette?”
I nodded again. “And the competition and my business. Everything,” I said again on an even heavier sigh that did nothing to lighten my burden .
Rafe slung an arm around my shoulder and turned me away from my table of ingredients and toward the food on the stoves. “Why don’t you tell me all about it while you whip me up something delicious?”
I snorted a laugh. “Delicious? You were at the competition this weekend, maybe you ought to go somewhere else.”
“Wow.” He stood and stared at me, his arms folded over his chest. “One third-place finish is all it takes to steal your thunder? I’m shocked and disappointed.”
