When I Fall in Love

by Susan May Warren

  “I don’t know. It’s hard to carve out your own legend when you have brothers like Darek and Owen. One is the town hotshot, the other the hockey hero.”

  “And you—what are you?”

  Her question stumped him. He’d never exactly known. “I am the brother in the middle. I was always either following in Darek’s shadow or setting up Owen for the win. I guess I’m still trying to figure out where I belong.”

  Her voice turned low. “You’re the best brother, in my opinion.”

  He didn’t know why, but her words found soft soil and burrowed in, sweet and nourishing.

  She smiled at him, the wind teasing her black hair around her face. He fought the urge to catch a strand, press it between his fingers.

  His voice fell soft, almost a thought more than words. “What is it about you, Raina? Where did you come from? How is it that you simply appear one day in my life as my champion? You’re so . . . undefeatable. You make me believe we’re going to win.”

  Her smile dipped a little, and she looked down as if embarrassed.

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  She shook her head. “I just . . . You make me feel like I’m a part of the team.”

  He frowned. “You are a part of the team.”

  “Like you want me on the team.”

  He did want her on the team.

  And then he got it. It wasn’t about just being a part of a community. It was about being chosen by him. Wanted by him.

  His gaze traced from her eyes to her mouth, and his throat suddenly got very dry. He reached for a bottle, uncapped it. Drank a swig of soda.

  It ignited his entire body on fire. He looked at her again.

  “Can I ask you something . . . silly?” She had caught her lip between her teeth.

  Without thinking, he reached up to ease it free, then kept his hand cupped to her face. “Yes, anything.”

  “My aunt said . . . well, that you had a lot of girlfriends . . .” She looked away. “I’m sorry. That was stupid—”

  “No—it was . . .” He could hardly breathe for the pressure in his chest. “No, Raina. I have a lot of girls who are my friends. I find girls easy to be around, but no . . . I haven’t dated many girls in Deep Haven or beyond.”

  He searched for her eyes, and she met his, her bottom lip caught in her teeth once more.

  He couldn’t help it. Gently he ran his hand behind her neck and drew her close, searching her gaze a moment for permission before he touched her lips with his.

  Her mouth tasted sweet, of her soda and the honey mustard on the wraps. Her response was soft and just eager enough to urge him on, even as she put her hand to his chest. For a second, he thought she might push him away, but she grabbed his shirt and pulled him closer.

  Casper scooted in and wrapped his arms around her, deepening his kiss.

  Raina. Who knew such happiness could be found hiding in Deep Haven?

  She fitted herself to his body and seemed to relax in his embrace. And that’s when he heard his father’s voice, thrumming deep in his head: You’ve been a gentleman, right?

  So far, yeah. But he hardly had gentlemanly thoughts sparking in his brain at the moment. In fact, he had her locked in his arms on the beach as the sun began its descent . . .

  Casper ran his hand over her cheek and lifted his head.

  Her eyes hung on his, the slightest smile at the corners of her mouth.

  Maybe he’d sit right here for a while. He wound his fingers through hers. “How did you know about this place? I thought only locals knew about Paradise Beach.”

  Just like that, her expression darkened. “Uh . . . I . . . I don’t know. Maybe . . . maybe Aunt Liza?”

  Oh yeah, Liza, of course. Still, he sensed a funny shift in their moment, in the way her hand loosened and she started to pull away.

  He gripped it, holding on. “So did she tell you that this is the perfect beach for finding agates?”

  It seemed to work. “What are agates?”

  “Tiny, beautiful rocks that look like mini granite stones. Treasures embedded in the shore.” He wanted to pull her into his arms again. More, he wanted to reach inside to that dark place and pull out her fear. To make her feel safe, wanted.

  Yeah, he wanted to fix her. And maybe, just a little, he could.

  “Will you help me find one?”

  Casper nodded. “I think I can do that.”

  A STORM FRONT had rolled in since their beautiful evening, thunderstorms hovering over the island of Oahu, sending a gray pallor over the last day of competition. Waves thundered onto the shore, almost deafening, and the pitter-patter of rain suggested their crowd might be meager today.

  Still, nothing could sink Grace’s buoyant spirit.

  She’d already won. Because last night Max had finally taken her in his arms. She could still feel his embrace around her, taste his lips on hers.

  She’d slept a total of two hours, maybe, but this morning everything buzzed with anticipation. She buttoned her chef’s jacket, glancing at Max, hoping for a smile.

  He wore his game face, freshly shaved, looking dark and intense. She’d guess it was his hockey face. Owen had a similar expression.

  He’d met her after breakfast, already in competition mode. She tried to tease him, but he just looked at her with steely, serious eyes.

  For a second, she feared that he regretted their romantic, glorious evening, but then he’d taken her hand, holding it in his iron grip as they advanced to the tents and the crew trailers, splashing through puddles, then breaking into a run when it started to rain. He’d nearly shoved her into the trailer.

  “I’m not going to melt, Max,” she said, laughing, but he didn’t smile. As if he might truly be protecting her.

  So maybe she’d wait until after the competition to tell him that she loved him. She meant to say it last night, but . . . despite his affection, the words still glued to her chest. She wanted to say it once, forever, to the right man.

  To Max.

  “Five minutes to set.”

  Max began to breathe deeply. “Did you know that we’re on Facebook? And that videos of our show are on the Internet?”

  She nodded. “My mom told me yesterday. Sorry; I would have mentioned it to you—I forgot.”

  He drew in another breath, blew it out.

  “Are you nervous? You seem nervous.”

  He smiled then, but it was all teeth, nothing of his eyes. “We got this.”

  For the first time, she didn’t believe him.

  They stood with the hippies and Palani as he introduced them. A bigger crowd than she expected sat in the stands and their cheers rose for Max, who waved.

  She expected him to take her hand as they manned their stations, but instead he walked ahead of her.

  Like a man to an execution. Wow, he was really wired. Or maybe tired. Or . . .

  What if he regretted kissing her?

  She pressed a hand to her roiling stomach. Smiled into the cameras. Game face—she had one too.

  Then Palani spoke into the mic. “Today’s ingredients for the final round, the dessert course, are . . . kiwi, macadamia nuts, carob chips . . . and our challenge ingredient: Spam!”

  Spam? She glanced at Max, who was frowning.

  “Ready?” Palani said.

  “We can do this,” she whispered to Max. He didn’t look at her.

  “Go!”

  Grace ran for her basket, turning over the ingredients. Kiwi and carob chips. They were like chocolate, and Spam was . . . it was soft, right? She picked up the basket, raced back.

  Max looked almost white.

  “What should we do?” she said.

  “Uh . . .”

  She wanted to shake him, or maybe slap him hard, but he was just staring at her, like a walleye out of water.

  “Okay,” she said, “how about . . . chocolate . . . um . . . ?”

  “Mousse.”

  She met his eyes, saw a flicker of the man she knew. “Mousse. That’s
good. And what if we candy the kiwi? I’ll brunoise it, and we’ll put it in the mousse.”

  He nodded, enthusiasm lighting his voice. “Good. And we’ll roast the macadamia nuts, use them as garnish.”

  “Max, you’re brilliant!” She wanted to kiss him.

  Max grabbed the Spam, opened it, and dropped it in a bowl as she peeled the kiwi. He dumped the carob chips into a double boiler on the stove, stirring for a moment before he added the Spam.

  She grabbed the coarse ground sugar and measured a half cup into a pan, added water, started it boiling.

  Max took his chocolate mix off the stove. He disappeared into the pantry, returning with eggs and cream and adding them to the mix.

  Meanwhile Grace dropped the kiwis into the dissolved sugar mixture, turned it to low, and grabbed the macadamia nuts and some butter.

  Behind her, she heard Max begin to whip the mousse. “Don’t forget vanilla,” she said as she chopped the nuts. “Maybe even some honey.”

  “Yes. Right.”

  She threw two tablespoons of butter into a hot pan, tossed in the macadamia nuts, a handful of kosher salt. She put the salt down, then after a minute, rescued the nuts, setting them to cool.

  “How’s the mousse?”

  “Nearly whipped.” He took the kiwi off the stove, spooned it out, and set it on a baking tray, then shoved it into a dehydrator. “Thirteen minutes.”

  Grace grinned at him.

  He grinned back, and the memory of holding his face in her hands stirred inside her.

  Across the stage in the next kitchen area, they heard a crash, then swearing.

  The hippie wife stood holding a blowtorch, her tray of Spam on the floor.

  A twitter went through the crowd as the husband and wife scrambled to find a new can of Spam and rescue their dessert.

  Grace turned away and headed for the dehydrator as Max added another half cup of sugar to the mousse.

  The kiwi seemed sticky yet dry enough to brunoise. She dropped the fruit onto the cutting board, julienned it, then turned it and cut it into tiny sections.

  “Six minutes,” Palani called.

  Max had the mousse in custard cups, chilling in the freezer. Grace grabbed the sugar, the macadamia nuts, and tossed them together.

  They were working without comment now, Max grabbing the plates. Grace took the custard cups from the freezer and plated them in the center. Max dabbled the fruit on each one while she dusted them with macadamias.

  They stepped back just as Palani called time.

  The hippies had barely finished plating, their presentation a mess.

  “I think they made a kiwi cobbler with blackened Spam,” Max said.

  “We got this,” Grace whispered. She reached for his hand, but he put it behind his back, chef-like.

  Okay.

  She held her breath as the hippies presented their dessert. Ten thousand dollars. She hadn’t truly given the money any real thought until now. Ten thousand dollars would help her buy equipment, even rent a commercial kitchen. She could be in business by the fall . . .

  “Interesting,” Rogers said. “I’ve never had blackened Spam before, but you managed to pull it off, even with the fiasco.”

  “I like the macadamia crust on the cobbler—I just wish your dish had a bit more pizzazz,” Tonie said.

  How hard was it to make cobbler, really? Oh yes, they had this.

  Grace took their tray forward and set it before the judges. “We have a carob Spam mousse, topped with candied kiwi and roasted macadamia-nut garnish.”

  Keoni raised an eyebrow, a smile hinting on his face.

  Rogers nodded, and Tonie glanced at Max with a smile.

  Grace stepped back, bit her lip. Held her breath.

  She pinpointed their demise on Keoni’s face, the first to finish his spoon of mousse. Disappointment, almost pain, creased across it.

  Then Rogers grimaced and lunged for his water.

  “Oh, this is terrible!” Tonie actually took her napkin and spit the mousse out.

  Beside her, Max hung his head, even as Grace stood there, stunned. “What—? I don’t understand.”

  “Do you know the difference between salt and sugar?” This from Tonie, who had finished her water and asked for more.

  “I do—”

  “Well, something isn’t right. I’m not sure if it’s the kiwi or the mousse, but this is inedible.”

  Grace couldn’t move. She mentally retraced her steps. Sugar—she’d put that on the right side of the stove, the salt on the left, but maybe she’d picked up the salt . . . Or what if she’d given Max the salt, and he’d mistaken it for sugar? They’d been working so fast that—

  “I think our winner here is clear,” Rogers said. He motioned the hippies to the front, even as Palani announced Grace and Max’s fate.

  Chopped.

  She stood stunned for a long moment, until she finally felt Max’s hand on her arm. He led her offstage and she watched, still numb, as Palani presented the couple with their check.

  They’d lost. How could they have lost? They were so brilliant, so resourceful, such a magnificent team.

  Max had turned away, a hand cupped behind his neck.

  “This is my fault,” she said, realization slowly burning through her. “I gave you the salt—or rather, I set it down, and you probably mistook it for sugar. Or maybe I salted the kiwi—oh, Max, I’m sorry.”

  He looked at her, his eyes fierce, almost angry. Then he shook his head. “I’m so sorry, Grace,” he said quietly and walked away.

  She stood there, frozen, rain dripping down the sides of the tent as he walked to his Mustang, got in, and drove away.

  Max couldn’t look at himself. Couldn’t face the person he’d become, especially after seeing Grace’s face when the judges tasted the mousse. He’d nearly bolted then, but he’d stayed until the end.

  But when she blamed herself . . . he nearly lost his stomach right there.

  He felt like he’d put the puck in his own team’s net.

  He went straight to his hotel room, opened his duffel, and began to pack. He didn’t fold anything, just shoved it as fast as he could into the bag.

  Grace had already sent him a slew of text messages, and now he reached for his phone and turned it off, slipping it into the pocket of his shorts. He didn’t need a message from Grace to tell him what kind of jerk he’d become. How he’d completely betrayed them. He already knew.

  He’d thrown the contest. He knew perfectly well which ingredient he was adding to the mousse when he reached for the container.

  For a second there, he thought he wouldn’t have to do anything to slide into second place. The hippies always managed to wow the judges, present something creative but local, giving the food a Hawaiian twist.

  Then they had to go and drop their Spam. And in a blinding flash, Max knew, just knew, he and Grace would win.

  That’s when he became a saboteur, a shyster, a betrayer.

  He couldn’t face her.

  He picked up the duffel, threw it over his shoulder. He’d buy a ticket when he got to the airport. He took the stairs down so he wouldn’t see her, spied on the lobby for a long moment, then scooted across it to the checkout counter.

  “Did you enjoy your stay, Mr. Sharpe?”

  He kept his voice low. “Yeah. Sure. It was great.” He pulled his baseball cap lower over his eyes. Please don’t let Grace walk in right now.

  The thunderstorms had dried out, a warm sun beginning to bake the pavement, evaporate the puddles. The air hung on to the moldy, thick odor stirred up by the rain. Muggy. On a day like today, the surf should be calling him. He had planned an afternoon of celebration. They’d surf, and then he’d seriously considered telling Grace how much she meant to him. Approaching the idea that maybe they could have more.

  Until, of course, Brendon’s phone call. The rude awakening to the brutal fact that Max would never escape who he was, even in Hawaii.

  When he’d agreed to his brother�
��s plan last night, he hadn’t actually thought they might win.

  He should have known better—should have known Grace better. He did know her better.

  “I see you’re checking out early. Are you unhappy with your stay?”

  “No. Of course not. It was fine, just fine.”

  “Can I inquire as to the reason you’re leaving early?”

  “It’s personal. Just check me out.”

  The woman bent her head and he regretted his tone. Apparently he hadn’t enough gentleman left in him to be kind even to the hotel staff.

  “Would you like to book for next year? We have a special—”

  “No.” He winced, forced a smile. “But thank you.”

  “Thank you for visiting with us, Mr. Sharpe.” She kept her polite smile as she handed him his receipt.

  He shoved it in his pocket, went outside, and gave his keys to a valet. Then he hid next to a palm tree until the valet brought back the Mustang.

  Dropping the duffel into the backseat, Max got behind the wheel and gunned it. He’d never felt like such a chump in all his life.

  He turned on the radio, trying to drown his thoughts. The country station came up, a song about running out of moonlight.

  He should have stayed on the beach with Grace. Should have never answered his phone. But then what? His brother might have appeared with a company of reporters, forcing his hand.

  He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, cutting through traffic, driving too fast. He earned a horn and gritted his teeth.

  Brendon had called him selfish. It fit. The magnitude of his selfishness could flood his throat and choke him.

  In fact, he remembered Grace’s words from their day at Pearl Harbor: I don’t really care about anything on that list but a man who loves Jesus and loves me.

  He did love Jesus. But until recently, his belief affected only him. He didn’t have to focus on anyone but himself and only had to trust his future—not anyone else’s—to Jesus.

  But the minute he let Grace into his life . . . Well, he didn’t know if he had enough faith for that.

  The traffic screamed by.

  This was why he shouldn’t fall in love, why he shouldn’t put his heart out for a woman. Why he should have never, ever shown up on her doorstep in Hawaii. The fact that she was Owen’s sister only made it worse because, guess what—now Owen had more reasons to hate him.