Hungry Heart

By Meg Benjamin

Sous chef Darcy Cunningham is less than entranced with small-town Konigsburg’s obsession with barbecue. But her future career requires expanding her culinary horizons, so she talks the Barbecue King, a.k.a. Harris Temple, into taking her on as his apprentice.

Learning Harris’s professional secrets wasn’t supposed to include falling for his spicy blend of smoky sexiness and laid-back charm.

Chico Burnside specializes in flying under Konigsburg’s small-town radar, but lately life has been going a little too smoothly, even for him. Hoping to shake things up a bit, he talks Harris into teaming up for Konigsburg’s first barbecue cook-off. But once shy scientist Andy Wells catches his eye, Chico’s got more on his mind than brisket. Like enticing her out of her shell to show her just how tenderly a big guy can love.

Each book in the Konigsburg series is STANDALONE:
* Venus in Blue Jeans
* Wedding Bell Blues
* Be My Baby
* Long Time Gone
* Brand New Me
* Don’t Forget Me
* Fearless Love
* Hungry Heart

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Aug 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781640633261

Meg Benjamin

Meg Benjamin is an award-winning author of romance. Along with her Luscious Delights series for Wild Rose Press, she’s also the author of the Konigsburg, Salt Box and Brewing Love series. Along with these contemporary romances, Meg is also the author of the paranormal Ramos Family trilogy and the Folk series. Meg’s books have won numerous awards, including an EPIC Award, a Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award, the Holt Medallion from Virginia Romance Writers, the Beanpot Award from the New England Romance Writers, and the Award of Excellence from Colorado Romance Writers. Meg’s Web site is http://www.MegBenjamin.com. You can follow her on Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/meg.benjamin1), Pinterest (http://pinterest.com/megbenjamin/), Twitter (http://twitter.com/megbenj1) and Instagram (meg_benjamin). Meg loves to hear from readers—contact her at [e-mail].

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 by Meg Benjamin. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

2614 South Timberline Road

Suite 109

Fort Collins, CO 80525

Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

Select Contemporary is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Edited by Lindsey Faber

Cover design by Fiona Jayde

Cover art from iStock

ISBN 978-1-64063-326-1

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition March 2014

Rerelease August 2017

Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

About the Author

Discover more Entangled Select Contemporary titles…

A Day of Pleasure

Cinderella Screwed Me Over

One Sinful Night in Sao Paulo

Boiling Point

As usual to my family: Bill, Ben, Josh and Molly, to my wonderful editor Lindsey Faber, and to my agent Maureen Walters. And to all the wonderful Texas barbecue cooks whose creations I’ve enjoyed over the years: Bill Miller’s, Barbecue Station, Cooper’s, Grady’s, Salt Lick, etc., etc., etc.

Chapter One

So what’s the big deal around here with freakin’ barbecue?

Darcy Cunningham was taking a brief break from dishing up the Rose’s signature potato salad for the hordes of conventioneers streaming across the lawn of the Woodrose Inn. She’d made up about three gallons of the stuff that morning and it was moving briskly, even though she had to admit it was a little heavy on the lemon juice.

She frowned. She needed to work on the dressing. Make it less Niçoise and more down home.

Joe LeBlanc gave her a brief smile that was more like a lip twitch. Keep your voice down when you say that, darlin’. If anybody hears you bad mouthing ’cue, they’re likely to take away your temporary Texas citizenship card. As head chef of the Rose restaurant, Joe had more years as a Texan than she did, although he still had his Louisiana drawl.

Darcy managed not to grimace. She didn’t really think of herself as a temporary Texan. She was a cook who was currently plying her trade in Texas. Cooks didn’t exactly have homes—not if they wanted to keep moving up. Moving up usually meant moving on, although she was happy enough in her current job as the Rose’s sous chef. Very happy, truth be told. But happy wasn’t necessarily what chefs were supposed to want. Chef de cuisine jobs were what chefs were supposed to want.

And she did want that. Honestly. She did.

Everybody in the Hill Country acts like barbecue has some freakin’ mystical quality. She frowned again, rubbing the back of her hand across her damp forehead, which didn’t do much since she was wearing plastic gloves. Like it cures palpitations or something.

How do you know it doesn’t? Joe’s grin was more pronounced this time. Good ’cue has been known to cure a lot of life’s ills.

Darcy grimaced. So has good tomato soup, but I don’t notice anybody suggesting it’s another version of holy water.

Joe shook his head. You’re just mad because we don’t cook our own.

Damn right I am. Darcy’s jaw firmed. Since when does the Rose outsource its cooking? It’s not like we can’t do a brisket. Or a pork loin. Or a few racks of ribs. Hell, Joe, we could do one smokin’ grilled turkey.

He shook his head again. You’re already off base, Darce. Grilling isn’t the same as barbecue. At least not Texas style barbecue.

Darcy opened her mouth to reply, but he raised a hand. You want the truth, it’s easier to let somebody else do it. I’d love to cook ’cue myself, but we don’t have the space or the time. So we pass it to the King, and he does us proud.

She glanced across the gentle slope of the river bank outside the Woodrose Inn Event Center, currently dotted with picnic tables. The diners all seemed to be having a good time, she’d give them that. Most of the conventions got their choice of barbecue or a fajita bar for their final meal at the Rose, and she had to admit most of them chose the barbecue, even though the fajita bar really rocked.

She would have thought a bunch of high-dollar types would prefer something a little more upscale than brisket and potato salad, but this crowd was chowing down on their barbecue with gusto. They didn’t even seem to mind that they were drinking beer instead of the wine that usually went with the Rose’s banquet menu. Hell, some of them were drinking iced tea. With sugar.

At least serving the outdoor barbecue meant she got a chance to dress down a little. Normally, she wore her chef’s whites and black beanie. They were her working clothes, after all. But for this she wore jeans and a black Rose T-shirt, along with her running shoes. The dress code might be western casual, but she spent way too much time on her feet to wear boots.

The other cooks and assistants were all in jeans and Rose tees too, although Jorge, the line cook, wore a black cowboy hat that made him look a little like he was planning on robbing some of the guests at gunpoint.

Joe, of course, wore his chef’s whites and black beanie. As chef de cuisine at the Rose, he never appeared in anything less that his full uniform. Of course, he wasn’t actually running the barbecue, just checking in to make sure Darcy was doing okay. In a few more minutes he’d head back to his kitchen.

She checked the line again and paused. The figure at the far end, currently sliding a hotel pan full of sliced brisket into place on the table, was maybe as far removed from Joe LeBlanc as she herself was from Julia Child.

He wore the standard jeans and boots with a black western shirt that had seen better days. His black hat was a lot more battered than Jorge’s, even though it sported a pheasant feather in the band. His brown hair was on the longish side, curling over the edge of his collar. His mirrored sunglasses caught the sunlight as he glanced her way.

She turned back to her potato salad, gritting her teeth. The Barbecue King. What male over the age of ten would call himself the Barbecue King, for god’s sake? It wasn’t even Fred, The Barbecue King. He had no name attached, other than King.

The Barbecue King appeared to be aware that she’d been staring at him. He strolled her way easily. Darcy felt like growling. She didn’t have time for this.

He stood in front of her service line, frowning slightly as he removed his sunglasses. Now what exactly do you call this?

She looked up into dark eyes. Laughing, dark eyes. She managed to unclench her jaw enough to answer him. Potato salad.

He glanced down at the container in front of her, then back up again. Potato salad?

She nodded, her jaw clenching again.

He folded his arms across his chest. His surprisingly broad chest. So just what exactly does this potato salad have in it?

Potatoes, she ground out.

He nodded, forehead furrowing in thought, then leaned against the side of the table. Good start. And?

She blew out a breath, folding her own arms to mirror him. Feta cheese, kalamata olives, chopped scallions, Dijon mustard, red wine vinegar, lemon juice, a little of this, a little of that.

He nodded slowly, the corners of his mouth inching up. "Feta cheese? DayJohn mustard? Olives? No, not just olives, kalamata olives?"

Darcy sniffed. You have something against kalamata olives?

He shrugged. Not sure. So far as I know, these olives never made any aggressive moves in my direction. On the other hand…

On the other hand?

He blew out a breath. They wouldn’t find a place in my potato salad.

Darcy’s jaw stayed clenched. Too bad. They seem right at home in mine.

He shook his head sorrowfully. Oh my, my, my—I can see from this short conversation that you’re Not From Around These Parts. It sounded to Darcy as if his drawl had just gotten heavier.

She placed her hands on her hips. You’re saying I have to be from around these parts to make potato salad?

He nodded. It helps. It definitely helps.

Darcy gritted her teeth again. She could tell him she’d graduated from culinary school. She could tell him she’d worked in kitchens all around the country, and a couple outside the country. She could tell him she was the sous chef at one of the premier restaurants in the Hill Country.

She could tell him to go fuck himself.

Instead, she picked up a paper plate and plopped a spoonful of her potato salad in the middle of it. Try it.

I’ll like it?

She shrugged. You won’t dislike it. She handed him a fork.

He took a tentative bite of salad, narrowing his eyes and screwing up his mouth as he chewed. Then he set the plate down again carefully. Interesting.

She placed her hands on her hips. Does that mean good?

It means interesting. Lots of flavors. He shrugged. Kind of tasty.

Her chin went up mutinously. "Tasty means good."

It is good. Only…

Her jaw began to ache from tension. Only?

He shrugged again. Only it’s not potato salad. It’s a salad that has potatoes in it. Also feta cheese. And kalema olives.

Kalamata.

She should just let it go. She really should. She had things to do, damn it. But when had she ever backed down from a fight? A salad that has potatoes as its main ingredient, which this salad does, is automatically potato salad. Therefore, QED, this is potato salad.

He gave a long, somewhat sorrowful sigh. Nope. I regret it. I truly do. But you’re wrong. Potato salad is more than potatoes.

As I pointed out, Darcy said silkily, this salad does, in fact, include more than potatoes.

Yep. It does. On the other hand, it’s missing some essentials.

Such as?

He held up his hand, counting off on his fingers. No pickles. No hard-boiled eggs. No celery. No celery seed. And DayJohn mustard is definitely not what you put in potato salad. French’s. That’s what you put in potato salad. That’s if you’re doing mustard potato salad. If you’re doing mayonnaise, you got yourself a different set of essentials. Howsomever, no matter what kind you’re doing, potato salad doesn’t include cheese. Any kind.

One part of Darcy wanted to tear the Barbecue King a new one. The other part, the female part, was noting the way his lips curved up when he smiled, showing a hint of white teeth and the way his dark eyes tipped up at the corners, almost almond-shaped but not exactly. The Barbecue King was, in fact, hot.

Darcy wasn’t sure why she found that fact annoying but she did. She told her female part to take a hike. Right, she snapped. A purist. Got it. So you don’t believe in experimenting? Trying new ideas?

He shrugged. You can experiment your heart out, long as you don’t experiment with barbecue.

She let one eyebrow arch up. Potato salad isn’t barbecue. It’s a side.

He shrugged again. It’s not the main event, true. But it’s part of the mix. And as such, it shouldn’t be tampered with.

Why not? What makes barbecue above change? All cooking changes over time.

Maybe. If things need changing. But you don’t mess with perfection, sweetheart. He gave her another one of those grins.

She decided to ignore it. What’s perfect about it? You got meat cooked over a fire. That’s just a foundation.

Foundation for what?

This time she shrugged. What do you want? Cut it up, you’ve got soup or stew or stir fry. Leave it whole, you can add sauces from béarnaise to au jus. Sauté it, you’ve got pan juices. Add some butter and shallots, plus showmanship, and you’ve got steak Diane. Cooks have been messing around with meat for generations.

He shook his head. And all of that makes it taste like something it isn’t. Barbecue makes it taste like meat. That’s why you see all these people lined up for third helpings.

Darcy glanced back at the line snaking around the nearest live oak. There were indeed a lot of people headed back for more brisket and ribs.

Hey, King. Joe stepped beside her, folding his arms across his wide chest.

The King grinned at him, pushing his hat back on his forehead. Evening, chef.

Looks like we’re running low on ribs. Got more?

The King nodded. Yep. More of everything. Let me get it off the smoker. He turned back toward Darcy, eyes still bright. Nice talking to you, ma’am. Maybe we’ll do it again sometime.

She thought about saying something cutting, but Joe was standing next to her and the King was a Rose contractor. Plus, she didn’t really feel like it anymore. Even though the King was clearly full of it.

Maybe, she muttered.

Joe raised his eyebrows as the King ambled back across the grass. Making nice with the help?

She shook her head. Guy’s an asshole.

Guy’s a wizard, Joe corrected. That brisket of his is pretty close to Best of Breed.

Darcy raised her gaze briefly, watching the King saunter toward his van, emblazoned across the side with the words The Barbecue King, along with a logo that involved a crown, a smiling cow, and a cooking fork. Three smokers sat on the drive next to it although Darcy couldn’t see smoke issuing from any of them.

If you say so.

Joe shook his head, grinning. Play nice, Darcy. Maybe you can pick up some pointers on ’cue.

She frowned. Pointers on ’cue. Anything’s possible. She glanced back toward the King’s rangy figure as he disappeared into the back of his van.

She was not, repeat not, watching his ass.

…

The King threw three more foil-wrapped racks of ribs into a hotel pan, cursing his own lack of foresight. Hill Country Texans preferred beef ribs, but a lot of these people were from out of town. He should have figured on more pork ribs for this crowd.

If they ran out, he’d try pushing the beef ribs a little harder. He might be able to make some converts. And next time he’d try using his brain instead of his gut.

He carried the hotel pan to the serving line, dropping the ribs into the cooler behind the servers. The foil would keep them warm and let the flavors build a little while they sat in the cooler, and they wouldn’t sit there long enough to do any harm. At least LeBlanc was smart enough to use heat lamps on the meat rather than a steam table. The King would probably have done some screaming of his own if anyone had suggested letting his barbecue steam off its flavor for a couple of hours.

Actually, LeBlanc was a very smart man and a very smart chef. The King knew only too well how lucky he was to have gotten the contract with the Rose. Selling ’cue from the food truck in downtown Konigsburg was his bread and butter, but the contract with the Rose gave him enough to pay his suppliers in advance, which, in turn, guaranteed that he’d get the quality of meat he needed. Nothing like a little cash upfront to make people take you seriously.

He glanced back down the serving line toward the woman who apparently didn’t take him seriously at all. Darcy Cunningham. He’d gotten her name from one of the servers, who’d fortunately been way too busy to think anything was odd about the Barbecue King wanting to know the name of the Rose’s sous chef.

Darcy Cunningham was, in fact, one smokin’ sous chef. He watched her now, dishing up her version of potato salad with grim efficiency. Her ice-blond hair was tipped with magenta and she wore a couple of rings in each ear. He was willing to bet she wore a lot more than a couple when she was off duty. Her black T-shirt was just tight enough to show off her gently rounded breasts and her not-so-gently defined biceps. Chef’s muscles. He could just see the end of a tattoo extending from the edge of her sleeve when she reached forward.

One very tough babe. She might remove his nuts for practice. He wasn’t sure why he found that so hot, but he definitely did.

Probably a sign of declining mental health. He couldn’t argue with that. Whenever his dick started getting involved, his mental health tended to suffer.

She was still dead wrong about the potato salad, though. Correction: the salad that happened to contain potatoes but wasn’t technically potato salad at all.

He grinned as he returned to the truck. She was right about one thing—potato salad was definitely a side, and his own side dishes on the truck were, in fact, nothing to brag about. He farmed out the potato salad and slaw to a cut-rate caterer in Konigsburg, and he made the beans himself. None of it was exactly blue ribbon quality, but none of the customers complained about it, which the average barbecue worshipper would have done about Ms. Darcy’s stuff. In spades. He shook his head. Feta cheese. Great god almighty. The woman was mental.

Also very cool. Although judging from her reaction when he’d pitched a little flirtation her way, the chances of them getting together for anything more serious than a shouting match were small indeed.

He picked up an empty hotel pan and started back toward his truck. Looked like they’d need more brisket in a few minutes.

Harris?

The King managed to keep walking rather than freezing in his tracks, which was his first reaction. He also kept his head down. If he didn’t see whoever it was who was trying to talk to him, he could always plead ignorance later on if he had to.

Harris? It is you, isn’t it?

A pair of feet wearing bright pink nail polish and silver sandals appeared directly in front of him. He sighed. The combination of voice and fairly large shoe size told him who it was before he looked up. Hi, Docia.

Docia Kent Toleffson narrowed her eyes as she gazed at him from a slight height. Given that Docia was already around six feet tall, the addition of four-inch heels took her up above him. Her glorious red hair was piled on top of her head, which added at least three more inches. She was wearing slim-cut jeans and a tank top that seemed barely able to conceal her bounteous upper story. The King wasn’t sure he’d seen her since her wedding, which was now a good three years or so in the past.

He sure as hell hadn’t told her he was moving to her backyard in the Hill Country. He guessed that was going to get him chewed out right about now.

Harris? One red eyebrow arched up. The Barbecue King?

He shrugged. It’s a living. So how are…things? He tried desperately to remember any news he’d heard about Docia the last time he’d talked to anybody in the family. Of course, the last time he’d talked to anybody in the family was around a year ago, and who the hell knew what had happened to Docia since then?

‘Things’ are fine, she snapped. I’m still married to Cal, I still have my bookstore. The only item you may have missed is the birth of my son Rolf, but that’s a minor detail. What the hell are you doing here, Harris? And why didn’t I know you were doing whatever it is you’re doing?

No escape. Make the best of it. I’ve got a little catering business over by Oltdorf. And a food truck. Barbecue. So you’re part of the… he searched frantically through his brain for the name of the organization that was holding its convention at the Woodrose, …the Independent Merchants Association?

Docia shook her head, her lips moving into a dry smile. Nice try, Harris, but I’m not letting you off the hook on this one. How long have you been doing this?

Around a year. He gave her what was supposed to be one of his most charming smiles, although judging from Docia’s expression it wasn’t having the desired effect. I meant to call you, Dosh. Honest.

But the time just slipped away. Docia’s dry smile stayed in place. So you’re not working for the firm anymore?

He shook his head. Not for a while now.

How does Aunt Mel feel about that? And Gray?

About like you’d expect. His charming smile started to curdle. Could we talk about this another time, Dosh? They’re about to run out of brisket on the serving line. Or they would be if he let Docia go on interrogating him much longer.

She nodded. We will talk about this another time. At length. You need to come to dinner at our place. Meet Cal and maybe the rest of the Toleffsons, although not simultaneously. And give me enough time to worm all the details out of you.

Sure. He managed one more thin smile. Looking forward to it. Just like I’m looking forward to my next root canal.

Docia threw back her head and gave one of those great hoots of laughter that made him love her. No, you’re not. Not even slightly. But it won’t be as bad as you think. Trust me.

If you say so. He sighed. See you, Dosh.

See you, Harris.

He headed back to the van. Being anonymous had been fun. But it looked like the fun might be ending.

…

Darcy looked across the lawn toward the Barbecue King’s food truck. The spectacular redhead he’d been talking to was striding back across the field toward the dessert table.

Of course he had groupies. Hell, every chef she knew had groupies. Amazing how many women found the ability to throw a piece of meat on the fire an aphrodisiac. She pulled another tray of potato salad out of the cooler, narrowing her eyes as she studied the other trays still resting inside. She’d overestimated how much potato salad they’d need. Or possibly overestimated the demand for potato salad with feta and olives. And DayJohn mustard.

She sighed. She was a chef. She knew only too well about the vagaries of appetite. Sometimes people were willing to take variations on the classics and sometimes they weren’t. But it almost killed her to admit the Barbecue King might be right.

She frowned, shaking her head. He wasn’t right. There was nothing wrong with her potato salad. It just wasn’t what people around here expected. She’d hang on to the recipe and use it again sometime when she was cooking somewhere else. They’d probably love it in Anaheim. Or Las Vegas.

She ignored the slight tightening in her gut at that idea of working somewhere other than Konigsburg. Anaheim would be okay. So would Las Vegas. Or Kansas City. She couldn’t afford to get attached to a place. She needed to move on when the time came, when that chef de cuisine offer finally came her way.

She narrowed her eyes at the leftover potato salad again. They might love it in Anaheim but they didn’t love it here and now. And the Rose would be stuck with the excess. Joe would probably find something to do with it, add it to a Niçoise salad or something. Serve it at brunch on Sunday. But she hated to misfire like this.

Damn Texas. Damn purists. Damn barbecue. Damn the Barbecue King.

She glanced across the lawn again to see his lanky silhouette emerging from his van, carrying yet another foil-covered pan of meat. Broad shoulders, slim hips, outlaw hat sloping low over one eyebrow.

Oh yes. Most definitely. Damn the Barbecue King.

Chapter Two

Chico Burnside guided his pickup carefully over the rise in the road. On reflection it probably hadn’t been too smart to take this particular route back from Oltdorf on a darkish night, but he was feeling bored and itchy, and the possibility of a quick climb over some challenging roads rather than a slower slog down Highway 16 had awakened at least a momentary sizzle of anticipation.

That particular sizzle was long gone as he rolled slowly down the hillside, on the alert for potential potholes. He’d serviced the truck a couple of weeks ago, it was running like a champ, and he’d be damned if he’d end up with a broken axle because of his own stupidity. Evidence, if any was needed, that boredom could be dangerous.

It was largely boredom that had sent him off to Oltdorf that night rather than staying around the Faro saloon in Konigsburg as he usually did. He’d told himself he was checking out a new singer at the Oltdorf Hall who might turn out to be someone to book in the Faro’s beer garden. But in reality, boredom had sent him off into the night, and boredom had now gotten him onto this dark, treacherous road. Boredom was one dangerous mother.

The moon emerged from behind a cloud, but it didn’t do a lot of good. The hillside shaded most of the road and his headlights could only dent the considerable darkness now and then. He kept his gaze on the surface directly ahead, following the white ribbon of gravel that unspooled in front of him as he spiraled slowly down the hill. If memory served, there was a long, flat stretch coming up and then a few more curves before he reached the intersection with one of the state highways. A state highway which he’d gladly take home, foreswearing adventures for the time being.

He followed the last curve and then accelerated slightly as he finally reached the flat. A couple more miles and he’d be back on the highway again.

He almost didn’t see the car on the shoulder until he was past it, hidden as it was in the shadow of a pecan. It was actually the person standing at the front under the open hood who caught his attention more than