Hot Under Pressure (31 page)

And then Win was gone, and it was just Beck, alone in the hall with the woman who’d made him a part of her family.

He felt his throat clamp down on the words that wanted to pour out—gratitude for her flying all this way, just to be there for him, for the way she’d always talked to him and accepted him, for helping Skye earlier when she broke down.

But when Nina came forward and grabbed his hands, all Beck could say was her name. “Nina.”

Giving his fingers a squeeze, she said, “I wish I could stay and find out how this all turns out, but I have a feeling I already know. And I’ve got to get back home—no telling what that stubborn husband of mine has convinced those kids to let him get away with.”

Maybe the switch had gotten flipped back, Beck thought, because it was harder than he’d expected to bend down for a hug and say, “It means a lot to me that you came.”

He felt her smile against his shoulder. “Well, I had to meet this Skye Gladwell, didn’t I? Had to make sure she’s good enough for you.”

“And?”

Nina stepped back and gave him a watery smile. “She’s a sweet girl, Beck. A little confused, and life’s given her some good knocks that sent her off course—but if she’s as smart as I think she is, she’s going to get things back on track real quick.”

Suppressing a pang of disappointment that Nina didn’t seem to have any information on what Skye had decided, Beck gave Nina’s hands one last squeeze and glanced at the closed kitchen door right across the hall from the judging chamber.

Skye was in there, watching the timer tick away the final few moments of her last challenge in the Rising Star Chef competition, probably hurrying to get her plates clean and pretty and ready to present to the judges.

He could go in right now, ask her to choose, once and for all—but he’d screwed with her enough for one day. For the first time, Beck wondered if it had been massively unfair of him to unload all that stuff on her right in the middle of the final challenge.

Shit. He hoped he hadn’t thrown her off too badly. He didn’t want to win because he’d undermined his competition with confessions of love and undying devotion.

He wanted to win because he’d finally figured out how to cook from the heart.

But then, that was something Skye had always instinctively known how to do. She’d led with her heart from the moment he met her.

What was her heart telling her now? In just a few minutes, he’d know.

Chapter 29

Of course. Of fucking course, the first person Beck saw when he said goodbye to Nina and let himself into the judging chamber was Jeremiah fucking Raleigh.

The hero.

Already seated in the chair second from the end, where Nina had been, Raleigh had his elbows on the table and his dark-blond head bowed over his hands. Beck watched the guy pick restlessly at the linen tablecloth for a long moment.

He looked uncomfortable. Out of place in his coarse canvas jacket and faded T-shirt, sitting at this beautifully set table, with its crystal stemware and polished silver and fine china.

Beck felt a completely unwelcome stab of empathy.

Delaying the inevitable, he strode over to the judges’ end of the table and stuck out his hand.

“However this goes today,” he said, shaking Claire Durand’s slim hand, “thanks. It’s been an honor cooking for you.”

“I’ve enjoyed this year’s dishes very much,” she said. “In fact, I’m not sure we’ve ever had a better pair of finalists. Truly, we should be thanking you.”

Beck smiled and shook Devon Sparks’s hand, too, but when he got to Kane Slater, the guy looked him right in the eye and said, “Your food was great, but I’ll always remember what you said, too … about how sometimes things that don’t seem perfect for each other go together and make something new and amazing.”

Casting a sidelong look at Claire Durand, who appeared slightly pink in the cheeks, Kane finished with, “You inspired me, man. Is it gonna piss you off if I use some of what you said in a song?”

Beck surprised himself by laughing. “No, man. It won’t piss me off; I’d be thrilled. I’m a big fan of your stuff.”

Shocked delight widened Kane’s eyes. “No shit? Well, that is just cool.”

“Oh, get a room, you two.” Eva Jansen sauntered up to the judges’ table. “But not really, because it’s time to get started. Chef? If you’d like to take a seat?”

Beck’s mouth dried out. He wouldn’t like to take a seat, thanks very much, but he didn’t see how he had much choice about it.

He sat.

Jeremiah Raleigh gave him a tight smile and shifted in his chair as if he’d been sitting there long enough for his ass to fall asleep.

It was probably petty and immature to be glad about that, Beck decided, but so be it. He’d never claimed to be heroic, unlike some guys he could name.

And then he felt like a dick, so he stuck his hand out one more time and said, “Hey. Glad you could make it.”

Which was true; much as Beck might wish the guy out of existence, since he
did
exist and he was obviously important to Skye, Beck was glad Jeremiah was there to support her.

Jeremiah blinked as if he were surprised to be on the receiving end of a handshake instead of a black eye. “Thanks. I wanted to be here for her this time; I guess I missed a lot of other chances to show her I cared.”

Again with the reluctant empathy. Beck was abruptly kind of sorry that getting what he wanted meant he’d be taking the most amazing woman in the world away from this sad-looking guy.

Of course, there was no guarantee it would go down that way. And if what Skye decided was that Jeremiah Raleigh would make her happy, then Beck wanted that for her. Even though it would suck out loud for him.

Beck wiped his hand on his jeans and tried to think of something else to say. It was a little like chewing glass, but he managed.

“Look. I’m pretty sure Skye understands why you spend so much time away from her. She called you heroic when she talked about what you do out there with the Peace Corps. It’s not like you’re off in Vegas playing the ponies or something.”

It’s not like you left her when she was alone and pregnant to go off and do something she hates, like fighting.

But Jeremiah was giving him a funny look. “Thanks, man.” Then he shook his head and made a quiet, laughing, snorting sound. “Now it makes more sense. I didn’t get it before.”

Before Beck could ask what made sense, the judging chamber door opened and he forgot everything but the fact that he was about to see Skye again for the first time since he blurted out that he loved her, in front of God, the judges, his sort-of-adoptive mom, and everyone.

And there she was in the doorway, holding a tray and looking nervous. He wasn’t sure how he could tell she was nervous—her color was better than the last time he saw her, and her eyes were bright blue. She moved into the center of the room with a quick, lively step, no hesitation at all, and she gave the judges a smile.

But still, he could tell she was nervous.

Maybe it was the fact that her gaze darted to the other end of the table, Beck and Jeremiah’s end, only once.

After that, she focused exclusively on the judges, speaking clearly and concisely about her dish and what it meant to her.

The white-haired pixie-ish looking woman from Skye’s team set a bowl of soup in front of Beck, and he inhaled the steam rising off its pale surface.

“This is an asiago broth with a surprise in the middle—a single butternut squash raviolo with walnuts and brown butter. It’s a subtle flavor, and the raviolo is … well, I guess that’s me, during my childhood and teen years. I felt as if I had to hide who I was, because my parents and their circle of friends had … let’s just say, very specific ideas about what makes a person worthwhile, and I don’t really fit the bill.”

She gave a wry, self-deprecating shrug, but Beck still kind of wanted to hit something.

Skye left without looking at Beck’s end of the table again, and he tried not to worry about what that meant. Probably it meant she was trying to keep her mind focused on the challenge and not get sucked into personal issues the way Beck had. He couldn’t fault her for that.

And once he tasted the broth and the plump, perfectly tender pasta with its burst of autumnal flavors, he couldn’t fault her for much at all.

“That’s very good,” Jeremiah said, staring down at his bowl in what appeared to be real surprise.

“Yeah, she’s got something special.” Beck savored his last spoonful of salty, cheesy broth. “Hasn’t she ever cooked for you before?”

“Not really.” Jeremiah shook his head, looking pissed at himself. “We met at a party at her parents’ house, so it seemed like whenever I was in town, we had to spend time with her parents. I don’t know, that’s just how it developed, and I’m not in country enough to bother keeping a place here, so her parents usually put me up. It’s nice of them, but when Skye’s with them … she’s not the woman who could make this dish.”

Beck knew what he meant. “Being around her parents always makes Skye dial herself back.”

Jeremiah nodded, still staring down at his bowl. “That’s part of why I asked her to come back to Africa with me—I wanted to get her out of that house, away from her family.”

That went through Beck like a harpoon, hooking his heart. He couldn’t even argue with the sentiment; he’d wanted to break the chains that bound Skye to her parents, too. But if she went all the way to Africa with this guy … she’d really be lost to Beck.

He shook his head to clear it. Fuck it. Skye didn’t need to go to Africa for Beck to lose her.

The door opened, and Skye was back, this time with a small salad of roasted beets, arugula pesto, and bright, jewel-like segments of orange.

“The play of savory and sweet here symbolizes the night I got my first kiss—and all the kisses that followed with the man I married.”

Beck stared at her. He knew she could feel it, because her cheeks went almost as red as the beets on his plate, but she still didn’t look at him.

“I wanted this dish to be bold, exciting, a wake-up call for the senses, because that’s how I felt at that time in my life—as if I was waking up for the first time.”

The memory of Skye as she’d been that first night swam before Beck’s eyes, and while he was savoring that, the real Skye whisked herself out of the room.

Left with nothing to do but taste her dish, Beck let the citrus bite of the orange tighten his tastebuds and play with the deep, earthy sweetness of the roasted beets. The pesto dressing had a bite to it, a spiciness from the arugula that Beck loved. She was really bringing it today, cooking with dash and vitality.

He swallowed and allowed himself to realize the truth. There was a very real possibility that he could walk away from this day with nothing at all.

She could very easily win the RSC competition, and then go off to Africa with Jeremiah Raleigh and leave Beck with … nothing.

Nothing but the knowledge that he’d stood up and risked it all for the chance to be with the woman he loved.

Spearing up the last segment of orange, Beck knew he’d do it the same way again, if he had the chance.

*   *   *

Skye pushed back into the kitchen and bent over, hands on her paisley-covered knees, for her now-traditional post-serving hyperventilation.

God.
She just hadn’t counted on how flipping difficult it would be to stand ten feet away from the man she loved and not go vaulting over the table to kiss the life out of him.

“I’m not going to tell you to breathe again,” Fiona said, already stacking the next round of plates on the trays. “You never listen anyway. Is there anything I can do that would actually be helpful?”

“You’re already doing it,” Skye gasped, pushing herself upright and rushing over to check the plates before they went out. The tray held six small, individual cast-iron ramekins, each one filled with a creamy, hot vegetable gratin, the swiss cheese topping golden brown and bubbling. “These look gorgeous, thank you.”

“Of course.” Fiona studied her for a long moment, and Skye read the worry in her friend’s pale blue eyes. “You gonna be okay?”

Skye looked down at the plate, tweaking a fennel frond garnish. “I think so. This next one is the hardest, but it’s important.”

Unspoken was Skye’s conviction that if Henry could break free of a lifetime of tight-lipped, closemouthed silence, she could share a little bit of her grief and loss.

“I’ll be right behind you,” she told Fiona. “Just give me a second.”

Fee nodded and hefted one of the trays, leaving Skye alone in the kitchen. Bowing her head, Skye centered herself and breathed in. She imagined the breath bringing her serenity and calm, filling her up, but all the time, she was aware of that black hole of grief deep inside—the part of her that couldn’t be touched or filled or changed.

It would always be there, she knew. Oh, it was smaller than it had been right after she lost the baby. She could go days without thinking about it or noticing it. But it never went away … and the truth was, she didn’t want it to.

The idea that she might one day forget filled her with horror and a sick sort of fear that made her stand there, breathing deeply and futilely, for another few moments.

There’s not enough breathing in the world to make this easier.

“Right,” she said aloud, psyching herself up. “You can do this.”

Holding her head high, Skye picked up the tray and marched across the hall. Fiona had already laid her plates down on the judging table, and she came forward swiftly to grab Skye’s tray.

Immediately missing the weight and purpose of the tray in her hands, Skye found herself twisting the drawstring holding her pants up. She had to force herself to clasp her hands calmly in front of her.

“What we have here is a gratin of roasted fresh fennel, carrots, parsnips, turnips, and fingerling potatoes, with a mornay sauce and Gruyère cheese on top. Please be careful; the ramekins are very hot.”

She waited until everyone was looking down at their gratins, blowing on steaming spoonfuls of fork-tender veggies covered in decadent cream sauce, before she spoke.

“This dish represents loss. It’s pure comfort food, an upscale version of the casserole you bring to a grieving family—this is the kind of dish I made for myself a lot after…” she swallowed, blew out a shaky breath. “After I lost my baby.”