When I Fall in Love (Christiansen Family) (15 page)

“Uh, Max, I thought this was just a local competition. It’s not going to be on any cable shows, right?”

“I don’t know. I think they’ll broadcast it locally, but no, I don’t think anyone outside Hawaii will see it.”

She couldn’t place the feeling inside her
 
—relief? Or maybe disappointment?

Well, they probably wouldn’t even be chosen.

“Let’s eat,” Max said, guiding her toward the food, his hand warm on the small of her back.

A lavish buffet of appetizers spread out as if hinting at the competition awaiting them. Grace left Max and perused the delicacies, reading the cards. Chicken yakitori, spanakopita, assorted dim sum, shrimp tempura, oysters Rockefeller, salmon roulade, ahi poke, sashimi, and grilled garlic shrimp skewers.

Behind her, Max had picked up a plate, started to fill it. Grace, however, had lost her appetite, strangling a bit on the taste of her own imminent failure. The knots in her stomach multiplied.

“I need some air,” she said and headed away from the table, out toward one of the smaller lanais. She stepped into the balmy heat and drank in the cool ocean breeze.

“Are you okay?”

The man, dressed in a black suit, black shirt open at the neck, was nursing a glass of red wine on the next lanai. His words left the tinge of an English accent in the air.

“I’m fine. I’m just . . . nervous, I guess. I didn’t expect to be here. I only came to Hawaii to learn to cook for my sister’s wedding, and suddenly I’m in this crazy contest.” She turned away from him and stared out at the ocean. “Don’t get me wrong
 
—I want to win. I think we can win. Or . . . thought so until now. My cooking partner is so talented. It’s just . . .” She closed her eyes, breathed in more air.

“Just?” he said quietly.

“Lots of pressure. All those cameras watching our every move. And . . .” She looked out toward the ocean, the darkness, the mystery. “I don’t want to let him down.”

“I see.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the man as he took a sip of his drink. He considered his wine, then her, his blue eyes latching on to hers. “Be yourself, keep an open mind, and do your best. I have no doubt you’ll blow everyone away.”

What kind words, and being delivered with that British accent didn’t hurt either. “Thank you.”

He nodded, lifted his glass to her, then turned to go inside.

“They’re introducing the contestants,” Max said behind her.

She followed him inside and stood next to him. From the podium in front, Keoni was introducing the contest and this year’s field of entrants. Six teams all vying for entry, with five slots. Keoni singled out a brother-sister team of native Hawaiian descent, a hippie husband-wife team who ran a café on the North Shore, and a father-son pair from the base at Pearl Harbor. The sight reminded Grace of her father pairing with Owen.

That might be fun to watch.

She recognized the two ladies from their class, gussied up in Hawaiian dresses and leis. They waved to the crowd, giggling, as they were introduced.

When Keoni called their names, Max took her hand and raised it with his above their heads. Nodded to the crowd with a “bring it” athlete’s expression.

Super. She’d forgotten his other persona, the hockey player, the guy who didn’t know how to lose. Aka ninja chef on overdrive.

Grace let go of his hand as soon as he lowered hers and wrapped her arms around her waist. She barely heard the names of the last contenders, muscle-built brothers from California who’d flown over for the competition and waved from their perch by the appetizer table.

“When do the interviews start?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Max said, looking over her head around the room, anywhere but at her.

“Max! I didn’t know you were going to compete!”

Grace could have predicted the voice came from Tonie, the blonde. She watched as the woman wrapped an arm around Max’s neck.

Max kissed her on the cheek, his smile warm. “You look gorgeous, as usual,” he said, so much charm in his voice that the dark burn in Grace’s chest could turn her to cinders.

Tonie smiled, lifted a shoulder. “I would have gladly been on your team if you’d called me.”

Uh, I’m standing right here.
Grace shook her head and made to move away, but Max caught her with a hand to her back. “Have you met my teammate? Tonie Addison, this is Grace Christiansen.”

Grace held out her hand, found Tonie’s slim and cool in hers.
The woman’s eyes held a glint of challenge even as she smiled. “Nice to meet you. Are you a chef?”

Grace couldn’t help it. “Yes. I’m the kitchen manager for a restaurant in northern Minnesota.” She didn’t have to mention it was a pizzeria, right?

“Lovely.” Tonie’s gaze flicked over Grace, her expression hooded. “I wish you the best of luck.” She smiled at Max, then moved away.

“I want to go home,” Grace said quietly, not necessarily to Max, but he caught it.

“What?”

She glanced at beautiful Tonie, with her shimmery skin, the way she could glide through a room.
Tonie
looked like the perfect partner for Max, the one who could help him win any competition.

Grace just looked like a girl trying way too hard. She rubbed her arms. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. This was a terrible idea. We’re going to get destroyed, knocked out in the first round.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to do this. I feel stupid.”

“Well, you don’t look stupid,” he said gruffly. She probably wore too much hurt in her eyes because suddenly his expression changed. He took her by the elbow and walked her toward the door.

Keoni intercepted them. “Are you leaving?”

Max nodded, and Grace couldn’t look at either of them. Somehow she’d wrecked this entire evening.

“Grace isn’t feeling well,” Max said quietly.

Keoni nodded, something enigmatic in his eyes. “I see.”

“Sorry, dude.”

Keoni said nothing as Max led her outside, handed his ticket to the valet.

“Max, you should stay. I’ll get a cab
 
—”

“No.”

She didn’t know how it was possible to shiver in Hawaii, but she felt as if she were standing in the middle of a Minnesota snowstorm at the height of January.

In fact, in that moment, she longed for it.

Grace just
had
to wear that dress.

Just when Max had all his feelings tightly in check and somehow managed to keep himself safe from her effect on him, she had to appear in a dress that could make him forget his own name.

It skimmed over her body like a glove, flaring out just above her knees, the V-neck tempting his eyes to travel where he could get into big trouble. She wore heels, accentuating her beautiful legs, and with her hair piled on top of her head, blonde curls dripping down around her face, she looked nothing like the woman he’d spent the last two weeks with, covered head to toe in her white chef’s apparel.

The moment the elevator doors opened, his breath had squeezed from his lungs, the band around his chest cutting off even his heartbeat. Images from their practice sessions over the past week flashed before him
 
—flour on her chin that he longed to nudge off with his thumb, the way she laughed at his hockey stories while perfecting her poke, even her teasing towel whips as she shooed him away from her manapua dough.

He could nearly hear the walls crumbling, a gritty, brutal crash that left him weak as she floated off the elevator, turning his world to Technicolor. He hadn’t realized he’d been living in black and white and muted grays until that moment.

He smiled . . . or thought he did
 
—he couldn’t remember. And
he’d tried to compliment her but had only a vague recollection of something terse emerging from his mouth.

However, whatever he’d offered wasn’t enough because he’d hurt her
 
—he got that when she looked at him in the car, her blue eyes holding back pain.

Right then he’d wanted to pull off to the side of the road, turn to her, and . . .

And . . .

And this was why he agreed to escape the reception. Because if Keoni looked at her again like he’d seen a wave at Mavericks, Max just might toss the surfer chef into the drink. He hadn’t missed her conversation with Chef Michael Rogers on the lanai either. The man had stepped inside the door and gulped the rest of his wine like a shooter of tequila.

Well, Grace did that to a guy. Appeared in his life and knocked the wind right out of him. Max could use his own stiff drink. Or maybe a run down the sand into the cool breeze, the darkness, to clear his head instead of thinking about . . .

“Are you mad at me?”

Grace sat beside him in the convertible, clasping her scarf in front of her. The wind played with her hair, tugging at it, twining long golden strands into the breeze.

“No,” he said but conceded that yes, he sounded angry. Or maybe just focused, although she might not know the difference. He schooled his voice. “No, I’m not angry. I’m . . . I wanted to get into the competition.”

Actually, that wasn’t remotely the truth. He couldn’t care less about this competition, other than its giving poor, desperate him a reason to spend more time with her. As if he could truly teach her something.

Grace could cook circles around him
 
—he’d figured that out on day three when she’d rescued his haupia. He might have taught her how to make a few Hawaiian dishes, but she knew exactly what to add to enhance flavor. She’d even suggested a few substitutions, thinking on her feet. Two days ago she’d created a mouthwatering chicken curry variation to manapua. Yesterday she made mahimahi tacos with fresh cilantro slaw that could make a man follow her to the mainland.

Not that he would, because they were only vacation friends. Just here for another week.

He couldn’t think about that either. Because in a week, it would all be over, every glorious minute where he’d duped himself into believing this would be enough.

Except if she dropped out of the competition, she might also drop out of class. Even get on an airplane.

He couldn’t move, his hands white-gripped on the steering wheel.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to be in it also,” she said quietly. “I don’t know what came over me. I just . . .”

He glanced at her, and
 
—oh no, was she crying? Max grimaced and pulled into the nearest parking lot, one stretching along Waikiki Beach, and turned off the car.

For a long moment, he said nothing, only listened to the waves wash to shore, back out again. How had he turned into such a jerk? “I’m sorry. I know I sounded mad and probably even overly competitive
 
—”

“It’s my fault. I saw those cameras and . . . and your friend Tonie and . . .” She looked away, wiped her cheek.

His friend Tonie? “C’mon. Let’s take a walk.” He leaned over, locked his cell phone in the glove compartment, then got out, circled the car, and caught up to her as she opened her door.

“Wait.” He knelt before her, took her slim ankle in his hand, and silently unbuckled her shoe. He did the same with the other, then picked up her spiky heels. In them, she’d stood nearly to his nose, her beautiful eyes so accessible, her lips only
 
—

Yes, this was much better. Now she stood to his shoulder, her power over him diluted.

Until she reached up and pulled her hair out of its twist. When it trickled into the wind, he turned away, letting her shoes dangle from two fingers. He toed off his own shoes as they reached the sand, shoved his socks in them, and took them in his other hand.

His feet sank into the cool, creamy mortar as he led them along the shoreline. A full moon hung over them, turning the waves to an icy shimmer, the water frothy as the surf thundered to shore. He could make out a group of night surfers hot-dogging.

Grace walked beside him wordlessly.

He dug deep, hoping for the right words. “After my dad died, I quit hockey.”

She glanced at him, frowned.

“I couldn’t play anymore. All the joy had gone out of it for me, and it seemed pointless. After all, if he wasn’t there watching my games, why bother?”

They passed the beach area of one resort, moving toward the light of the next. “And then about halfway through the season, my uncle Norm woke me up early one morning, and he and my mom all but wrestled me into the car and drove me to the arena. My old team had a tournament, and they forced me to sit in the stands, watching.”

She had turned to watch him speak
 
—he saw it out of his peripheral vision. But he continued to stare ahead at the glimmering
darkness of the ocean, the memory an ache so ripe he could feel it tightening his throat.

“I longed to be on the ice. To hear the roar of the crowd, but also to feel my own power as I skated toward the goal, juking out the goaltender, slapping in the puck. I love the ice. I love playing. I knew that if I gave it up, I wouldn’t be honoring my dad. I’d be turning my back on what he wanted for me. What I wanted for myself.”

She had caught her lip between her teeth and now stared at the ocean too.

“I couldn’t stay in the stands, so at the end of the first period, I went into the locker room and talked to Coach. He let me sit on the bench with the team, and the next day at 5 a.m. I showed up for practice. I haven’t walked off the ice since.”