Maggie bit at her lower lip as she scooted her mini cart down the fish aisle of the international market. Two weeks after her breakdown at Pineapple’s, she’d managed to make it to the Lone Star state.

Pineapple had been adamant that she meet his cousin during her three-day work trip to Dallas. She’d told Pineapple to give her time; she was super stressed about the event and needed to pull it off without a hitch before she could think about anything else, especially men.

The function she’d been hired to cater was a cozy meet and greet for subscribers of a local online dating service and doubled as a benefit for Muscular Dystrophy. She’d thought she’d find most of the ingredients for the event here at the eclectic grocery store which boasted goods and produce from all over the world from China to Africa to South America, but there wasn’t a French section to speak of. She hadn’t been able to locate large enough escargot to work with, or fresh ripe cherries for the clafoutis custard desert.

She tapped her foot and peered up at the industrial ceiling for answers. The pipes were exposed in a simplistic yet contemporary motif. She always wondered if the designers cackled at how much money they saved while still charging their clients top dollar when they asked for the more modern design.

After checking the clock on her phone, she shook out her hands to stay her nerves. Her time was short. Preparing French food required time and lots of it. Good thing she’d spent the entire day before her trip baking a hundred of her signature macarons. It wasn’t exactly her signature recipe. Elise, the French baker in Midway, had taught Maggie how to make an authentic French macaron, then Maggie developed her own sui generis flavors. Although she didn’t drink, Maggie considered it fate her macarons paired well with Veuve du Vernay Brut Rose wine since the vineyard where she worked most of her life was named Vernay Vineyard. The vineyard sold its grapes to the highest bidder, then the bidder did with them as they pleased, so Maggie didn’t actually know if the buyers ever made Veuve du Vernay Brut Rose wine with the grapes.

And so it goes with an item up for bid; the seller has little control of what a buyer does with their goods once they’re sold.

We are no better than our worst thoughts, settled on her mind. It was one of her mother’s favorite sayings when Maggie acted peevish and ungrateful.

Maggie retrieved the artisan lemongrass bar soap out of her cart and brought it to her nose. Sniffing soap in the fish aisle of grocery store in downtown Dallas was not exactly a day at the spa, but it could assist with transitioning her perspective to a more positive one. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. So what if I’m not French—like I thought my entire life? That doesn’t mean I can’t cook an amazing French meal and land my dream job.

It had shaken her when she’d read the DNA results two weeks back—not one percent. Not one speck of French blood. This past year she’d been crafting delightful French cuisine, all the while thinking she was discovering a piece of herself that had never been explored, to find that—nope—no French blood. She was forty-five percent Native American; no big secret there since her maternal grandmother spoke a native language and wore her hair in braids when her grandfather first met her. Her grandfather, the one they thought was French, turned out to be Greek and Italian. Or maybe just Greek or Italian and the other grandparents were a mixture as well. What a letdown.

We are no better than our worst thoughts. Think positive. A zesty Greek salad was a fave of hers, as well as a fresh caprese salad. Perhaps she could now specialize in Greek and Italian food?

But not today. Silver, her boss for the weekend, was expecting Maggie to prepare a compilation of rich French appetizers and deserts to spark romance in the hearts of subscribers of the local online dating service, Dallas Dating.

“Yes!” Maggie shouted when she caught sight of enormous scallops on the other side of the frosted glass. “Can I have five pounds of those, please?” she petitioned the attendant who scowled at Maggie’s outburst. Maggie didn’t mind the crusty look; her luck was turning up. She could still make Coquilles St. Jacques as planned with scallops smothered in cream, butter, and wine sauce, then sprinkled with savory mushrooms and shallots and topped off with freshly grated Gruyere cheese that would turn a golden brown when broiled to absolute perfection.

Maggie’s mouth moistened. She should have eaten at some point today, especially before coming to the market. Would she pass out from hunger right here in the middle of aisle? She was starting to think that a very real possibility as she stumbled to reach for the scallops.

“Do you have any fresh sushi, or deli sandwiches?” Maggie questioned the attendant.

The plump middle-aged woman shook her head. “We make fresh sushi in the mornings, but only enough for the lunch crowd.” She held her watch out in front of her as if her sight were failing. “And seeing as how we’re coming up on two o’clock, you’d be lucky to get the last pre-made sandwich from the Italian deli.” She pointed to the Italian section of the store.

“Thanks,” Maggie said with enthusiasm as she turned and bounced toward the deli counter. She let out a soft squeal of delight when she reached the counter to find one long sandwich resting behind the Mozzarella, Prosciutto, Pesto, and Plum Tomatoes chalk sign.

A young boy in his late teens smiled brightly at her. “Can I help you?”

“Yes,” Maggie almost screamed. “I’d like that sandwich, please.”

“You got it.” He quickly wrapped the sandwich in white paper, scribbled on the wrap, and set it on the counter with a thunk. “Anything else?”

Maggie shifted a few steps to one side to peruse the selection of olives. “I may want—” A large hand interrupted her peripheral vision as it retrieved her sandwich from off the counter. “Hey!” she exclaimed, turning to a wooly mammoth of a man dressed in baggy shorts and a stained t-shirt. He towered over her like a large white beast, but at least he didn’t smell like the Yeti he resembled. In fact, he smelled delicious enough to eat. Man, she was hungry. She regained her composure and narrowed her eyes at the Sasquatch making an appearance in a Dallas delicatessen.

“Thanks, Benji!” he said to the boy with a smile.

The teenage boy’s face grew scarlet as his eyes bounced from the hairy monster to Maggie and back.

“Benji, is it?” Maggie raised her brows. “You just wrapped that sandwich for me.” She pointed to herself.

The hairy giant waved Maggie’s sandwich in the air. “I apologize, but I really need this.” His milk chocolate eyes looked sincere, but what a jerk!

Maggie glared at Benji when he held up a poster featuring a pro football player on it for the hairy giant to sign. So, this arrogant guy had been a football star. Figured. Jocks did whatever they pleased.

She crossed her arms and tapped a foot as he turned his back to her and strode away. “I guess that’s what I’d expect from a self-centered, jerk-faced jock,” she called after him.

He waved the sandwich in the air but didn’t turn around to face her, which infuriated her even more. She clenched her fists. Why was she letting this guy get to her? Hunger. She didn’t do well when she reached near starvation. With a look of disdain, she directed her anger at Benji. When he caught her glare, he threw his arms in the air in defeat.

“Tell you what I’m gonna do for you.” By Benji’s tone and car-salesman-smirk, you’d think he was offering her a cruise to the Bahamas. He leaned into the counter and lowered his voice. “I’m out of fresh bread, but I’ll make you an Italian salad, on the house.”

She sighed out her resignation. “Thank you.”

We are no better than our worst thoughts. Be positive and a positive outcome will follow. She determined to finish the day with a smile on her face to compliment her optimism, and that cheerfulness would start right now.

“Benji,” she said in a softened voice. “I appreciate how you try to make everyone happy, even when your customers can be demanding and impatient.” She was speaking more of the inconsiderate football player than herself, but recognized she wasn’t entirely free of fault either.

Benji’s lips tilted up at the corners and his eyes brightened. “Anytime.”

* * *

Cole sprinted through the parking lot of the grocery store with the coveted sandwich in hand. The damp afternoon heat was downright suffocating, but he’d grown accustomed to the climate. What smothered him more than the dense air was the guilt that prickled at his conscience when he thought of how the petite, princess-eyed woman with the messy, muffin-hair bun laid into him. His actions could have come off as somewhat selfish, he admitted, but where did she get off calling him a jerk?

Benji always had a sandwich prepared for Cole on Thursdays. It had been an honest mistake. And once the sandwich was in his hands, he couldn’t let sweet Gracie down. It was her favorite, and she was known to be downright unreasonable without it.

He had gotten to know Gracie through a good friend on the team, Ace Sanchez. Gracie was Ace’s sweet step-daughter with Down syndrome who stole Cole’s heart the moment he met her. Cole started Tri-21 Ranch to help the trisomy-21, or Down syndrome, kids through equestrian therapy.

Cole stewed over the deli girl’s words during his thirty-minute drive back to the ranch. He pulled onto the gravel entrance to Tri-21 Ranch with her steel blue eyes still showering icy rain on his spirits.

When he reached the stables, a few of his football buddies were already booting up, as they liked to call it, when they swapped out their street shoes for their cowboy boots. The players who volunteered at the ranch proved tender hearted. Cole never expected such affection from the huge offensive linemen who were all aggression on the field. Bears with hearts of gold would be a good description for these men he now considered to be his brothers.

Cole jumped from his truck and lifted his chin to them in greeting. “Hey.”

They nodded back as Cole lowered the back of his truck to access the supplies he had purchased in town. “Mind helping offload?”

Cole hadn’t associated much with the offensive linemen before last year, being a defensive linebacker. His training sessions were often separate and with a different focus. The offensive linemen were a good deal heavier than he was—with substantially larger girths. They could inhale an entire pizza in a matter of seconds. Cole always made sure he had several large pots of chili or other simple but hearty dishes ready for his buddies to chow down on after their volunteer time.

When they finished off-loading, Cole strode into the grub house to check on the chili. The aroma of red meat, cumin, and chili powder saturated the air.

The dining hall, or grub house, wasn’t much more than a barn with large windows and expensive flooring. The high rafters were deep chocolate stained beams crisscrossing ten feet above his head. Twelve long, wooden tables divided the room equally. A few staff members bustled about the room.

Rosita pulled at his arm as she kissed his cheek, her customary greeting. Rosita was heaven sent. She ran the kitchen and organized the guests’ daily activities with precision and care.

“Señor, I can only work one more week.” Her compassionate face contradicted her destructive words as they whistled through the air like armed missiles. “My husband got a job as a CPA in New York City and we leave in two weeks. But no worry, I be here for your big date tomorrow night.” She winked at him before singing out, “I’m making something extra especial.”

Cole’s mouth dropped open before his eyes widened. Blowing out a breath, he regained his composure. “Congratulations!” he said with excitement. But what he meant to say as he watched Rosita skip away was, You can’t do this to me now. We have our big Tri-21 season’s end celebration at the beginning of June. That was only three weeks away. And this year, his ranch would be featured in one of those reality TV shows that spotlights the nation’s up-and-coming philanthropic outreaches. The camera crew and directors were set to arrive the day before the guests.

When football season ramped up, the ranch wound down. Cole’s future goal was to have a Tri-21 ranch in every state, fully staffed with horse whisperers and therapists to guide these precious Down syndrome kids and educate their parents on how to cope and best navigate the needs of their children. The reality TV episode could help him with that goal, or not, if he couldn’t find someone capable of taking Rosita’s place. Silver Sanchez, Ace’s wife, sprang to his mind. She was as event planner. She could salvage the event.

“Alexis,” he spoke to the speaker on the counter. “Call Silver Sanchez.”

It only rang once before Silver’s melodic voice answered. “Hey, Cole. What’s up?”

“Good News: I picked up Gracie’s favorite sandwich. Bad News: My arm was just cut off.”

“Dramatic much?” she said flatly.

“Seriously. My right-hand man, Rosita, just told me she’s quitting. I need your help.”

“Name it.”

“You know the Tri-21 Camp June 4^th through the 8^th that Gracie will be attending?”

“Yeah,” she replied with concern. “Do you need it catered?”

“Yes.” Instant relief washed over him. Silver would come through. “And I need someone on the ground to help coordinate and run everything behind the scenes when I’m helping the therapists, kids, and staff. Organization isn’t my thing. I need someone at the helm assisting the film crew, etc.”

“Oh.” Her intonation didn’t sound promising.

“Please tell me that Oh is an Oh, I’m so excited to do it.” He pulled at his thick beard. “It would pay extremely well.”

“I’m out of town that week. Gracie will still make it to camp, but she’s staying with my in-laws when Ace and I open up a new restaurant in Phoenix.”

“If you think of anyone—”

“Wait,” she cut him off. “I double booked tomorrow evening, so I hired a go-getter to help with an event, enabling me to focus on the bachelor auction. Why don’t you stop by at my other function before the auction and taste a few samples of the gourmet French dishes she specializes in? Come see if you two mesh.”

“French food at my ranch?” he questioned with amusement.

“You’re such a snob, Cole,” she rebuked him.

“How is that being snobbish?” He scratched at his head above his ear. “Seriously though, can she cook anything else?”

“Just stop by before you’re treated like a prized pig at auction and sold to the highest bidder.”

He tsked his tongue at her. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Sorry. I couldn’t help it.” She laughed. “The night Ace was auctioned off was super stressful and emotional for me, but it brought us back together.” Her voice lifted an octave as if she were drifting off to a fantasy land. “Tomorrow night could be just as magical for you.”

Instead of saying seriously sarcastically, he used the intonation to say, “Silver?”

“Just come to my other event and I’ll introduce you to her. I’m texting you the address now.” Her voice held an edge of irritation. “I’ll be there between four and five to check on things before I head back to the auction.”

He knew Silver was trying to help, and he’d be up a creek without her. “I appreciate it.” He replaced his sarcasm with gratitude. “Do you mind if a few of my buddies tag along to meet your French caterer? They’re helping me at the ranch and then giving me a lift to the auction.”

“Seeing as how the other guests will not have arrived by then, I’m sure you’ll all fit in the building,” she teased.

“You’re a funny lady.” He gave a courtesy laugh. “We’ll be there.”