Who's the Boss? - Erin McCarthy Page 0,70

me realize I had totally lost my mind. I was in love and acting crazy. So freaking typical.

After ten minutes, during which I started sweating, and stubbed my toe on the corner of the grill, I finally found the hickory and started hauling it out to get the smoker fired up. The key to the perfect brisket was a steady temperature and an even smoke. Sean and I had debated using applewood but then decided it was too sweet for the flavor we were going for with our meat.

I dumped wood chips, wishing every single thought I had didn’t take me back to Sean. It was distracting. After a decade of living in New York I was used to people being around me all the time. Pressing in, brushing against me on the subway, rushing past, earbuds in talking loudly on their phone. Not to mention the hiss of the sidewalk grates, the honk of cars and cabs, and the regular sound of sirens wailing through the air.

Other competitors, the judges, my co-workers didn’t distract me. Just Sean and the sight of his muscular arms beneath his rolled-up chef coat sleeves, and the occasional grin or wink he shot my way.

It was a problem.

Fortunately, tending the fire was a solitary and steady job and between working on prep for side dishes to be made in the morning, I was hovering, fussing over the smoking chips like they were a newborn baby. If the wood was oxygenated enough it would cause thick, dirty smoke on the brisket.

“Those announcers or judges or whatever the hell they are are driving me crazy,” Jeff said, coming up beside me and reaching for a bottle of water from the cooler.

“What announcers?” I asked, glancing at him.

Jeff looked at me like I was insane. “You don’t hear that yapping? Oh my God, it’s incessant, like my ex-wife.”

Given that it might have been the most words I had ever heard Jeff string together at once, I paused in what I was doing to stop and listen. All I heard was standard noise. Chefs calling out orders, grill lids slamming shut, and the traffic from the nearby expressway. “What are they even saying?”

“They’re discussing techniques but mostly they’re gossiping. They’ve been standing outside our station for at least five minutes. They interviewed a couple people at Woodstock first but now they’re just standing there filming for a stream, I guess.”

“Gossiping?” Now I really stopped to listen. “Why would announcers be gossiping?”

“I have no idea. But they’re talking about you and Chef.”

I slammed the door to the smoker shut so hard I nearly knocked the whole damn thing over. “What? What do you mean? They’re introducing the competitors?” My heart rate jumped and my throat felt tight. Then I immediately shushed him before he could talk so I could try and listen to the announcers.

Jeff was right, they were standing directly in front of our station, filming with a hand-held camera under one of the lights that had been set up to illuminate the event. It was a man and a woman and since they were only a few feet away, it was easy to hear what they were saying.

“Rumor has it they’re a real-life couple,” the woman was saying.

What the actual hell. “Why would they be talking about that?” I was totally outraged. “Who cares?”

“Maybe that’s why she’s letting him treat her like a pit bitch.” A man chuckled.

Chuckled.

Fucking chuckled.

“Did he just call me a pit bitch?” I said, my voice going up three octaves.

“I don’t think so.” Jeff watched me uneasily. “And keep your voice down. They’ll hear you.”

I grabbed a cheese grater, rage rising in my blood like red-hot molten lava.

“What are you going to do with that?” Jeff asked. “Give her a pedicure? Chef!” he called out. “We have a, uh, situation.”

Pit bitch. Pit. Bitch.

A decade of hard work and this little creep, whoever he was, had reduced me to a pit bitch, the person who tends the fire for the real chef.

My vision blurred. I could smell the hickory smoke and feel the cool stainless steel of the table beneath my hand as I used it to hold myself up. I thought, for a second, I might pass out.

Sean appeared while I was still trying to control my breathing and not murder the man talking shit about me right in front of our station.

I felt like Seinfeld when Newman pulled crap with him.

Martin.

This had to be Martin’s doing.

Though I realized that was insane. Martin