The sky above stretched to the horizon, so deliciously blue he could taste it, drink in eternity in a quenchless gulp of joy. From here, four stories up, he overlooked the entire rim of Waikiki Beach and the long pier that jutted from shore, where sunbaked ten-year-olds dove from the end for tourist tips and beachcombers pressed divots in the sand, only to be tsked by the vigilant sea. Catamarans, their tall masts like church spires, moored on the sand, a lure for snorkelers longing to explore the reefs offshore.
Beyond the curve of the beach jutted the dark magnificence of Diamond Head, the dormant volcano. From the jagged rim, a man might too easily mistake himself for an albatross and take flight, to soar over the expanse of blue ocean, the lush rainforest to the northeast, the cobble of skyscrapers of Honolulu, the snorkeling cove of Hanauma Bay, and the bodysurfing beaches on the southeastern shore of Oahu.
The delicate fragrance of plumeria, tuberose, and jasmine, the flowers of the lei that he’d received yesterday upon arrival and that bedecked the lush resort landscaping, sweetened the sultry morning air, but behind the aroma lurked the salty lure of the ocean, the scent of adventure, danger, and mystery.
In truth, the taste of peace rather than the culinary delights lured Max to Hawaii every year. Here, his life quieted, and his inevitable future felt tenable. Hawaii vanquished the bitterness that too easily coated the back of his throat. Freed him to breathe.
It distracted him with the sense that maybe his tomorrows could be rich.
He needed the distraction because Grace’s words as he’d dropped her off at her room had chased him into his sleep, all four jet-lagged hours.
You don’t have to take care of me, Max. I’ll be fine.
She probably would be. Which meant he should be relieved and not gnawed by the fear that she’d miss today’s culinary tour. He’d never seen such a vicious case of airsickness, and somehow, over the course of the six-hour flight, his annoyance turned to admiration for her tenacity. For the way she joked through her bouts of nausea. For her determination to finish the crossword puzzle even after her fifth trip to the bathroom. To play through the pain.
Yeah, she had Owen’s stubborn athlete genes, and that only made it easier to help her. After all, he owed Owen.
Clearly, however, she didn’t know about Max’s part in Owen’s injury, because when they finally got around to talking hockey and Owen, she seemed less than abreast of the details.
And he certainly wouldn’t be the one to reveal how they’d gotten into an after-game, on-ice brawl with a few players from an opposing team. How, in the middle of the fight, he’d accidentally slammed the butt of his stick into Owen’s eye socket.
Accidentally. But the fact that he’d filled Owen’s position on the first line and ended the season with a personal scoring record stirred the guilt in his gut.
Which was why Max had helped Grace retrieve her luggage and given her a ride in his rental car to the resort. Why he’d helped her to her room and even fetched a bucket of ice, just in case the nausea continued.
He’d done his part, and she was probably right. She could take care of herself. She didn’t need a babysitter.
But Jace had failed to mention that his future sister-in-law had eyes that could make a man forget why he was flying to Hawaii in the first place.
Max leaned over the rail, searching for her in the breakfast crowd eating on the veranda. He spied a woman in a floppy beach hat that gave him pause, then decided to scan the crowd in person. He stepped off the balcony into the cool trapped air of his room, his skin prickling against the sudden change, grabbed his sunglasses and a hat, and headed downstairs.
He could live incognito in Hawaii, with his cargo shorts and printed floral shirt. A regular beach bum, although by tomorrow, he’d add a chef’s cap and apron.
Today’s activities on the school’s schedule included a morning tour of the open markets and a tasting of some of the island’s best specialties. Kālua pork stands, fresh poke from the seafood market, sweet pineapple, malasadas, baked manapua, and maybe they’d end with a late lunch at one of the many cafés that served loco moco, another island specialty.
Max took the elevator to the open-air lobby, then headed outside to the terrace, where diners ate at teakwood tables. A long buffet of mangos, papaya, passion fruit, kiwi, Hawaiian breads, and fresh and smoked seafood gave guests a taste of Hawaiian breakfast. An omelet chef, however, stood ready at the far end, for those with a more traditional palate.
Max wandered around the terrace, searching for Grace.
“Max! I thought I saw your name on the class list.”
Max turned at the voice, smiled. “Keoni. Dude, great to see you.” He extended his hand and caught the grip of his favorite Hawaiian chef. “Are you guest teaching this week?”
Keoni wore his hair in a long black ponytail, more surfer than chef with his dark, sea-salted skin. He had probably hit the waves this morning, already found his aloha spirit. He wore his shirt open, his doggers low, and resembled nothing of his accolades as one of the island’s most decorated chefs. But only two years ago, Chef Keoni had dived headfirst into a season of Iron Chef Hawaii and emerged the winner.
“Absolutely. And scouting talent for this year’s Honolulu Chop competition. We’re doing a four day cook-off at Honolulu Days. You’d be perfect for it. We want more than locals—we want people who love Hawaii, even if they are haoles.”
“Hey, give me three weeks, I’ll be as local as you. How’s the surf?”
“Junk. All slop. But tomorrow the waves are supposed to be bombin’. Maybe we can catch some after class.”
Max’s gaze roved around the diners as Keoni talked.
“You’d better land yourself some vittles before the tour leaves.” Keoni glanced at his dive watch. “You have about fifteen minutes before we pull out.”
“No problem.” He clamped Keoni on the shoulder. “Catch ya.”
Max stood for a moment on the veranda, watching the breakers offshore, soaking in the heat of the morning. He’d spent too long on the ice, needed the sun to sink some vitamin D into his bones, shore up his body for the next season.
Before he could stop himself, he headed back to the lobby and hit the up button for the elevator.
He’d just check on Grace, make sure she’d woken up. After all, jet lag could play tricks on a body, especially one as wrung out as Grace’s. He wasn’t babysitting, just . . . caring. Because of Owen.
He found her room at the end of the hall and knocked. Waited. Knocked again.
He finally heard her shuffling to the door. The bolt clicked and she eased the door open, blinking against the sunlight in the hallway. “Hello?”
“Aloha,” he said, probably brighter than he needed to. He schooled his voice. “Uh, you know we leave in fifteen—or maybe ten—minutes, right?”
She opened the door wider, rubbed her eyes. She wore a white T-shirt, and blue-painted toenails poked from the too-long hem of her yoga pants. A black eye mask mashed her hair on top of her head. If he didn’t know better, he’d peg her as hungover.
She shook her head and pressed a hand to her stomach. “Uh-oh.”
“Do you need to sit down?”
“Maybe.” She slid to the floor, bracing the door open with her foot.
He crouched on the other side of the threshold. “Are you still sick?”
“I can’t tell.” She pulled off the mask. “I don’t think so.”
“If I say the words exotic food tour, how does that make you feel?”
She made a face.
“Right. Okay.”
“But—don’t worry about me. I’ll stay here, lay out in the sun, try to figure out why I said yes to this trip.” She closed her eyes, leaned her head against the door.
“You’re not going to leave before the fun starts, right?”
“Isn’t this the fun?” she said and chased it with a grin. Yeah, Jace had also neglected to mention the smile.
Max answered it with a smile of his own
. “I’ve been on this tour a couple times before, so what do you say we opt out and I take you on your own tour? We’ll head up to the North Shore, watch the surfers, then visit the turtles on our way home. And along the way, if you’re feeling up to it, we’ll stop in at the shrimp trucks.”
Her smile dimmed. “No, Max. You’re so sweet, but . . . I’m not stupid. On the plane, when you didn’t know who I was, you offered to show me around. I realized from your offer to a stranger that you were hoping to not have to spend time with me, the girl waiting in Hawaii. I know this is your vacation. And I know how hard you work. So really, I’ll just sit this one out and read a book. Be free.”
Max couldn’t pinpoint why her words stuck a needle in his chest, why suddenly it seemed as if the buoyant joy of the morning evaporated. Wasn’t this what he wanted?
Clearly his mouth wasn’t listening to his brain. “Are you sure? It’s a gorgeous day.”
“Which is why you should be out enjoying it. Go on your tour, Max. Enjoy yourself. I’ll be fine.”
Absolutely. Of course she would be. And this was exactly what he’d hoped for. “Right. Okay, then. Get well.”
“I will. You have fun.”
She stood, closed the door.
Have fun. That’s why he was here, right?
He took the elevator down, walked outside, and found the group waiting for the Hawaiian Culinary Adventures shuttle near a towering palm tree. Two women in long sundresses, their hair pulled up to expose necks the color of cream, huddled together taking vanity shots, giggling. A couple in their midfifties—him with a baseball cap, her in a pair of khaki shorts and a pink T-shirt—sat on the cement wall. He glanced at their name tags: Chuck and Marnee Miller.
Oops, he’d forgotten his own name tag. He looked around for Keoni. Instead he spotted the registration area, where the hostess stood behind a small table with a rack of bags, leis, and folders filled with the course schedule. She wore a sarong and a tank top with an orange lei strung around her neck. Her silky dark hair and creamy mocha skin suggested a native heritage. “Aloha,” she said, smiling.
“Hi. I’m Max—”
“Sharpe. I know.” She smiled at him. “Welcome back.”
“Yeah. And . . .” He wasn’t sure why, but he leaned over to view her sheet. “Can I pick up Grace Christiansen’s registration packet too?”
“Sure.” She gave him his bag and added another lei around his neck. Then she handed him Grace’s supplies.
Maybe he’d simply take them to her quickly, before they left, so she knew what to expect.
Max took the stairs to the second floor, then jogged to her room. Paused.
What was he doing? She’d made it abundantly clear that she didn’t need him—maybe even didn’t want him. His heart as well as his mouth had decided to check out of the commonsense conversation he’d been trying to have with himself.
Go on your tour, Max. Enjoy yourself. I’ll be fine.
He’d simply leave her registration information at the desk and ask them to call her room. Later. After she’d had more sleep—
Wait. Through the door, he could hear something. Ragged breathing, even . . . crying?
“Grace?” He knocked on the door quietly, gently.
The noise stopped with a quick gasp of breath.
Oh no. “Grace, let me in.”
“No. I’m a mess and I don’t want to wreck your vacation.”
“You won’t wreck my vacation. How am I supposed to have fun when you’re back here crying? Why are you crying?”
“Because I’m so disgusted with myself. I’m—”
Suddenly the door yanked open. Indeed, her eyes were red, her face chapped. Sheesh, she was really crying.
“Because I hate that I’m such a disaster. I don’t want to be the girl who gets so sick on the plane that she grosses out the entire cabin.”
“No one was grossed—”
“Or the girl who is afraid to eat shrimp fried on a stick.”
“Actually, they grill it—”
“I mean, I’m a foodie, for pete’s sake. Or I’m supposed to be, right? I love cooking and this trip is all about food adventuring. It’s just . . .” She took a long breath. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
He braced his hand against the doorframe, leaned down, and met her eyes. “Let me show you around Hawaii. Just for today. If you hate it, you can go home—I’ll drive you to the airport myself.”
“I hate that you are missing your food tour. That you are here babysitting me. I want you to have fun.”
“Who says I’m not having fun?”
She cocked her head at him, shook it. “You might be the nicest person I’ve ever met, Max. No wonder Owen liked you.”
Clearly she didn’t know him that well. And that made her the one person he could hang around with safely. The one person he could relax with, without fear of giving her the wrong impression.
And just in case they both needed that definition . . . “Yep. Owen was like a brother to me.”
In fact, that could be his secret weapon. Because if she started thinking they might have more, he could always tell her exactly how he’d wrecked Owen’s life. Or if he got really desperate, how he had only now, and nothing of a future, to give her. Just these three weeks of fun and relaxation and adventure.
But maybe that was enough.
Grace was going to fall in love with Hawaii if it killed her.
Thankfully, so far the prognosis was a slow, even delicious, demise. Overhead, the sky hung a canopy of brilliance, the clouds thick and spongy, the smell of summer, freedom, and the sea scenting the air as they drove along the shore, lazy and carefree. She wore a sundress, flip-flops, and a pink baseball hat.
Like she might be this kind of girl, a woman who shucked off life in trade for adventure.
Max had taken down the top on his convertible Mustang rental and now tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to some country music station. “‘I wish you’d stay,’” he half hummed, half sang, his baseball hat backward on his head. He glanced at her from behind his mirrored aviators. “Stomach feeling better?”
She nodded, although she could admit to a small curl of something amiss inside.
Had Max not happened by, her entire vacation might have been spent staring at Hawaii from her balcony. In fact, if not for Max, she might have taken a flight home this morning. Or a ship, although that might not have been any better.
If not for Max . . . Well, she didn’t deserve his kindness, and she knew it. But maybe it had more to do with her brother than her. She got that.
He turned down the radio. “Think you could handle an early lunch?”
Grace nodded. “Although I read in my packet that tonight we are having a luau.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty tame. They do that the first night so that you get accustomed to Hawaiian food. We’ll spend the rest of the three weeks learning to make some of the specialties.”
“I saw the recipes. What is poke?”
“Pronounced pokay, like okay. It’s fabulous. A raw seafood salad—they usually make it with fresh ahi.”
“Raw?”
“You know, a lot of cultures eat raw fish. Especially Asian. But even in Minnesota we eat raw fish.”
“We eat smoked fish caught out of Lake Superior. My father buys smoked herring and trout down at the fish house for our guests.”
“Your family runs a resort, right?”
She leaned back, let the sun bake her face, her arms. The traffic had slowed as the road narrowed. The ocean combed the shore just beyond a rim of palm trees and sea grasses. She could drink in the view for hours. Hawaii. Wow.
“Our place is called Evergreen Lodge Outfitter and Cabin Rentals. But it burned down last summer, so we’re rebuilding.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, it was terrible. But my older brother, Darek, has a lot of plans to upgrade, so it’ll probably work out for the good. Give us a few years and the place will be incredible.”
“And you work at the resort?”
“No, I work at a pizza joint.”
“That’s right.” He glanced at her again. “No delivery.”
He remembered? After six hours of conversation, a crossword, and calling the flight attendant for another cool cloth for her forehead? “I make a mean spinach pizza.”
“I’ll bet you do,” he said, flashing her a grin.
Maybe, no, she couldn’t eat.
“So what else is on the menu at the cooking school?”
“Poi, of course. Which is sort of a Hawaiian pudding. And lomi-lomi salmon, another staple on the luau table. We’ll probably learn to roll sushi too.”
“So a gal has to learn to like raw fish.”
“Might be helpful. We’ll make manapua also. It’s a sort of breaded pork dumpling. And the finale will be laulau. It’s . . . hard to explain. It’s made with pork, or sometimes chicken, and butterfish and wrapped in taro leaves, and then in ti leaves and steamed. It’s amazing but can be tricky to make.”
“Max . . . how many times have you attended this cooking school?”
“Well, this would be my third time.”
His third time?
“Why do you keep coming back to the same school?”
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Shrugged but didn’t look at her. “I like Hawaii. And . . . cooking. And here . . . well, it’s relaxing.”
She could almost grab it, the sense of something more, lingering outside their conversation. As if, past his carefree demeanor, Max might be hiding something. “Why don’t you buy a house here?”
He laughed. “No. I don’t own property. That would get complicated.”
“You could get a little vacation house, invite your teammates after the season, cook for them, show them the island. You could let your family use it, and then someday, if you get married, you could honeymoon here, teach the kids how to cook, maybe even surf. Pass it down through the generations, make a real family place.”
When he tightened his mouth, she had the strange feeling she’d said something wrong.
Max pulled off the highway into a dirt parking lot. A white food truck marked with graffiti like a modern-day guest book was parked next to a grouping of tables shaded by red, green, or blue canopies. A line of tourists snaked from the walk-up window.
When I Fall in Love Page 7