When I Fall in Love (Christiansen Family) (27 page)

But if she’d needed him, she would have called and
 
—

Oh, he did know her better than that. He stepped into the shower. Tried to figure out what to say.

Hey, Grace, I know we haven’t talked, and I said I’d help
 
—

Grace, what’s the deal? Why haven’t you called me?

Grace . . . I need you. Please forgive me.

Yeah, he hadn’t the foggiest idea how to start.

But he got out of the shower, dressed, and sat on the bench, holding his phone in his hand, her number on the screen. Maybe he’d just start with . . .

“Hello?”

Her voice jolted him, sending a thousand currents of heat through his body. He swallowed, dug up his voice. “Grace? It’s Max.”

Silence.

Then, “Hi.” To his surprise, a hint of warmth layered her voice. Wow, he didn’t deserve that, but he leaned into it.

“Hi. I was just checking . . . I mean
 
—” He blew out a breath. “Grace, I’m sorry I haven’t called you. I sort of thought that maybe you didn’t want to talk to me.”

She sighed. “No, Max. It’s just . . . I don’t want you to feel obligated to help me. You got roped into this, and I’m letting you off the hook.”

He tried not to lunge too desperately to refute her words. “No
 
—I want to help. How can I help?”

Please, let me help.

“I hear you’ve got a magazine shoot Saturday.” He could see her, dressed in a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, her blonde hair in a messy ponytail. The ache filled his chest, turned his voice ragged. “I could . . . We could
 
—”

“Oh, Max, it’s just a disaster.” Her voice broke a little then, and there she was, his teammate, the woman who, for a while, felt closer than any friend he’d ever had.

“What’s going on, 9B?” He took a chance with that but couldn’t help the tenderness in his voice.

“I threw around a few different menus and finally settled on poke and manapua, misoyaki butterfish . . . but I couldn’t find butterfish anywhere, so Casper ordered it sent in, and we just found out it’s on its way to Milwaukee, not Minneapolis. It’ll get there and the dry ice will be dissipated and I’ll have rotten gourmet fish
 
—”

“There’s no butterfish in Minneapolis?”

“I’ve called every fish market, but they only have the usual
 
—tuna, salmon, some local varieties, and shellfish. One place hadn’t even heard of butterfish. I tried to substitute with mahimahi, but even that I have to fly in. And the worst thing is if I don’t get it today, I’m sunk. The butterfish has to marinate for
at least
twenty-four hours.”

He got up, closed his locker. “Okay, so the butterfish is taking a side trip to Milwaukee. You know, there’s not a lot to do in Milwaukee. No surfing, no parasailing
 
—”

He got a giggle and it only urged him on, like the roar of the crowd.

“Listen, I got this. You don’t worry about a thing.”

“Max, you don’t have to
 
—”

“Please don’t say that, Grace.” He grabbed his stuff and left the locker room. “Because I do.”

She sighed and didn’t fight him. “Thank you.”

“Come to Minneapolis. The butterfish will be waiting for you.”

“I’m actually in Minneapolis. I’m staying at my sister’s.”

She was?

“Um . . . how would you feel about a trip to Milwaukee?”

“Now?”

He could hardly keep himself from shouting. “Uh-huh. I’ll pick you up in an hour?”

“Seriously?”

“Grace . . .”

More laughter. “Right. I’ll be ready.”

He hung up and pushed through the double doors to the parking lot. The rain had stopped, the slightest hint of sunshine breaking through the clouds.

Max had chartered a plane to fly them to Milwaukee and rescue their butterfish from the coastal food market, the mistaken destination of her order.

The sheer generosity of his action took Grace’s breath away, and by the time they’d returned from their adventure Thursday night, her determination to keep him off the playing field of her heart had taken serious hits.

She kept clinging to her moment on the beach, when she’d recommitted her heart to Jesus. She hated how fickle it now proved to be, how easily she turned to Max, hoping he might pull her into his arms. Reignite the flames that he’d stirred in Hawaii.

“Ready to flash sear the ahi?” Max stood at his stove, a beautiful stainless steel gourmet appliance that fit perfectly in his condo kitchen. In fact, she could live forever in his made-for-an-Iron-Chef work area. A Sub-Zero fridge, a long black quartz countertop, two sunken sinks, and a bar for guests. It all looked into a living room with an oversize leather sofa, a flat-screen TV. On the screen, a rerun of an old Blue Ox game played on the NHL channel. Max barely looked at it as he cooked.

This Max she recognized, the one dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, barefoot and wearing an apron.

This was her favorite Max.

Or maybe it was the fact that cold and nervous Max, a man she nearly didn’t recognize, had vanished two days ago, somewhere over Eau Claire.

Sports-cover Max had met her at Eden’s door, tucked her into his Audi convertible. He slicked up well
 
—she knew that
 
—but to see it in person unnerved her. He’d worn a suit jacket over a printed tee, a pair of fancy shoes with his jeans.

Grace, on the other hand, had destroyed Eden’s apartment looking for something that didn’t feel like either a Saturday afternoon on the sofa, watching the Lifetime channel, or Sunday at the park. She finally settled on skinny jeans, a sleeveless shirt, and sandals.

She still felt underdressed and silly sitting next to Max Sharpe in his fancy convertible, driving to the airport and being treated like she was royalty.

After they’d climbed aboard the plane, Max shucked off his jacket, sat down across from her, and smiled. It was the smile, the same one he’d given her just before he put a snorkel mask on her face, that hinted at the man behind the polish. The troublemaker who pushed her, even surprised her with what she was capable of.

Oh, her fickle heart had wanted to push her into his arms at that moment. She stayed planted in her seat, however, listening to him talk about team injury updates and forecasts for the next season
 
—all stuff she’d never heard him mention before, as if he hadn’t wanted to broach the hockey topic.

Maybe forgiving him for hurting Owen had freed Max to share this part of his life with her.

He’d then turned to menus and recipes.

“Why don’t you flash sear the ahi for the poke, for those who can’t manage fully raw fish?”

Then he’d moved on to her dessert problem. Sure, they had a cake ordered, but Eden also wanted something Hawaiian
 
—

“What about a macadamia nut–coconut cake? You could serve it with a warm coconut glaze.”

Yeah, she’d wanted to kiss him right then, and it didn’t help that the shine in his eyes, the warmth, told her that he’d missed this too.

They made ingredient lists as they flew over Wisconsin’s heartland before touching down in Milwaukee. He’d suggested dinner out, but she reminded him of their marinating schedule.

How she loved a man who would fit his life around the seasoning needs of a fish.

They arrived home after dark, but instead of dropping her off at Eden’s, he’d brought her back to his place.

No romance on the agenda, he worked with her to whip up the
marinade, a mixture of sake, mirin, sugar, and miso. He’d stored it in his refrigerator, turned, and high-fived her.

She would have preferred a hug, but maybe that wouldn’t do her any good. Not if she hoped to stay untangled from the disaster looming at the conclusion of Eden’s wedding when he walked out of her life for good.

Now Max finished searing the ahi, plated it, and put it in the fridge to chill. Meanwhile, she’d diced the green onions and thinly sliced some Maui onion she’d found at the food market he’d taken her to yesterday. Next she prepared a sauce with a dab of mayonnaise, pickled ginger, masago and shoyu from the Asian market, sesame oil, and Hawaiian salt that he just happened to have in his cupboard.

She’d died and gone to culinary heaven.

“We’ll plate it with a swirl of the mixture, then the ahi and some greens and the onions.” He held a towel in his hand. “Let’s see how the cake is doing.”

They’d prepared the cake in individual Bundt pans, and it saturated the kitchen with the aroma of the islands
 
—nutty coconut, fresh vanilla bean. He opened his oven, pulled out the pan. Set the spongy cakes on the baking board. “We’ll let these sit for a few minutes, then remove them from the pans and poke holes in them. When we get to Jace’s place, we can warm them, then pour the glaze over.”

Eden had rightly chosen Jace’s place for tonight’s photo shoot, although they could have easily taken the shots here in Max’s beautiful kitchen overlooking the Mississippi River.

“What’s next?” he asked.

Next? Oh. “We’ll grill the butterfish at Jace’s, and I have a Waimanalo salad with greens, an orange, an avocado, goat cheese, and macadamia nuts.”

“Yum.” He tossed the towel on the counter. “I think we’ve got this, 9B.”

The name took her breath, just for a moment, and she nodded, hating the sudden rush of tears and her still-tender heart.

She turned away, untying the apron.

“Grace, are you okay?”

She nodded again but didn’t look at him, just tossed the apron over a chair and headed for his bathroom.

Grace washed her hands. Stared into the mirror. He hadn’t done anything, really, but be kind to her, and if it weren’t for that night on the boat, she might dupe herself into believing that they were
 
—could be again
 
—friends.

She closed her eyes. “Lord, You know I gave my heart to You. And that was for keeps. So help me to keep Max in his rightful place. Help me not to start wishing for things I can’t have.” She spoke the words softly so she could hear them, remind herself. “Help me trust You.”

Do you love Me, Grace?

“You know I do, Lord.”

Then feed My sheep. Be his friend.

She blew out a breath. Yes, she could be a friend.

“Grace, we gotta go!”

She exited the bathroom and saw that he’d packed all the food in various containers. A real traveling gourmet. A reminder to check on service supplies and the staff at Eden’s venue struck her as she picked up the warm cakes and followed him out of the condo.

He put the food in his trunk, stacking it carefully. “It’ll be fine for the trip to Jace’s.”

She trusted him
 
—the man seemed to care more for her photo shoot than she did.

Although, admittedly, the spread would get her the recognition she needed to launch her business. A business that Max had helped her set up yesterday online. A few clicks to a web template and suddenly she felt real.

Grace’s Catering, “Distinctive food for distinctive events.”
She even listed her cell phone number and displayed pictures of their cooking event that he’d grabbed off the Internet.

Yes, he made her feel real.

“Thank you, Max,” she said as they drove to Jace’s.

“Hey, it was fun.”

Fun. Like “Hey, let’s shoot some hoops, play some hockey” fun. Buddy fun.
Okay, Lord. I can be his friend.

When they pulled up to Jace’s, Max let the valet park his car while they brought the food upstairs. Jace met them at the door in a pair of dark dress pants, a gray metallic shirt, a black tie. Inside, Eden had spiffed up too, wearing an emerald-green dress.

The power couple.

A photographer worked to set up the shoot in the dining area. A man about Grace’s age
 
—young, hip, wearing jeans and a printed button-down shirt rolled up at the sleeves
 
—adjusted photography umbrellas to even the light. The writer for the piece had commandeered Eden for an interview.

Grace felt a little like the hired help as she entered the kitchen, but Max appeared anything but fazed as he unloaded their supplies.

Eden excused herself from the interview and sidled up to Grace. “So . . . how is everything going?”

“Fine,” Grace said, almost too cheerfully. But she didn’t have time to explain. Especially with Max firing up the oven. “Oh no, I need a broiler pan,” she said to Eden, but Max produced one from the drawer under the stove.

Broiler pan, check. It only reminded her that everywhere she turned, Max kept saving her.

“Go out to the deck with Jace. We got this,” Grace said, wishing she felt her words.

Max looked at her, winked.

Oh, boy.

She put the butterfish in to bake, then plated the poke. Meanwhile, Max warmed the cakes in the oven, then made the coconut sauce.

“Did I hear correctly that you’re Maxwell Sharpe, from the Blue Ox?”

The writer had come in off the deck, nosing around the kitchen. A blonde with curves, wearing black slacks, a white blouse and vest, she leaned over Max, a little too much interest in her posture.