Nina wouldn’t be reasoned with. “Things change, honey. People change.”
“In our stubborn family? No. Not really.” If Max knew anything, he knew that. He’d given up on hoping for more a long time ago.
“Fine, but situations change. If you don’t join the team … Max, we can win. We have a good team, but they’re green. It’s imperative that we pass the initial qualifying rounds and get chosen to represent the East Coast. Once we’re over that hurdle, I think we’ll be okay, but to get there, we need your help. I’m pulling the mother card here, Max. Give me some credit; I haven’t seen my oldest son at home in six years, but have I nagged you about visiting? No. I’ve flown out to see you when I could. But now I’m not asking, I’m telling. Whatever it takes, whatever happens after you get here, we’ll work it out. I just … you need to come home.”
Max’s throat tightened in defense against the almost undetectable quiver in his mother’s voice. Not so steely, now, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard her sound like that. Maybe when his grandmother died. Something was up, something more than this sudden obsession with winning the Rising Star Chef competition. And whatever it was, it was bad enough to make the strongest woman Max had ever known sound like she was about to cry.
“Just for the qualifying round?” Max clarified, wanting to be sure he understood what she was asking. “I get you a spot in the competition, and then I’m on a plane to Italy.”
“That’s all I’m asking,” she said, cautious happiness coloring her voice.
Gripping the phone tightly enough to make his fingertips go numb, Max breathed in the hot, wet air of Tokyo, heavy with the scents of fog and car exhaust, and said, “I’ll be on the next flight out.”
Chapter 2
Stepping off a plane and into the bustle of weekday New York City was like being tossed headfirst into raging whitewater rapids.
Good thing he remembered how to swim, Max mused as he tossed the single, beat-up duffel that held all his worldly possessions into the backseat of a cab, and climbed in after it.
He’d been navigating the furious, thrilling, dangerous waters of Manhattan since he was old enough to sneak under the subway turnstiles and hop a train going wherever.
No matter how far he traveled, or how many exotic foreign cities he saw, nothing from London to Marrakech could compare with the sheer jolt of electric excitement straight to the nervous system that was New York.
God, he’d missed it.
The cabbie swerved to avoid being cut off by a bus as they merged onto the Long Island Expressway, swearing violently in Bengali.
Max grinned as the guy cursed the bus driver’s ancestry, homeland, and manhood. “Bastard son of a motherless goat,” Max agreed when his cabbie stopped to take a breath.
The guy’s eyes in the rearview mirror lit up with surprise and pleasure to hear his native tongue from the random, scruffy white guy in the back of his cab. He launched into a stream of rapid Bengali, all liquid vowels and harsh consonants, that Max had no hope of following.
Holding up his hands in surrender, he said in English, “Sorry, man. I pretty much shot my wad with that one sentence.”
Having worked in kitchens around the world, Max could order food—and curse a blue streak—in more than a dozen languages. His polite vocabulary, on the other hand, was decidedly lacking.
The cabbie didn’t seem to mind. He switched to English, too, and they spent the last fifteen minutes of the cab ride comparing notes on the places they’d both been in Bangladesh, how beautiful it was, and how much they missed it.
It seemed to be Max’s lot in life to always be missing the amazing places he’d lived. He almost wished, sometimes, that he could be happy staying in one place.
Almost.
Until he remembered that staying in one place meant expectations, responsibilities, and the inevitability of disappointment. Whether his, or someone who counted on him, Max would take a pass.
As long as he could make a good life for himself out of cooking his way around the world and winning the occasional culinary competition, he’d keep on rolling and gathering no moss.
Weird fucking phrase, anyway. He was never sure if gathering moss was supposed to be a good or a bad thing. But he’d always loved the Rolling Stones.
He was impressed when the cabbie got them through the rabbit warren of narrow Greenwich Village streets to the corner of Barrow and Grove without needing any directions. The restaurant loomed in front of the windshield, as stolid and immutable as ever. Max felt everything inside him tensing up as if he were heading into a hotly contested war zone. Stuffing it down, he paid the cabbie and hefted his duffel onto one shoulder.
Enough stalling, Max.
He breathed out, long and slow, then inhaled another deep breath through his nose, imagining himself filling up with peace and serenity.
He had a feeling he was going to need it.
The restaurant dining room was empty of customers, but the place wasn’t really open yet. The front-of-house staff was starting to get set up for lunch, going through the familiar dance of clean white tablecloths and gleaming glassware. Max didn’t recognize any of them; not surprising, considering the high turnover rate among servers in Manhattan. They looked up curiously as he strode between the tables, but Max tipped them a nod and kept moving toward the kitchen.
He’d always found that a confident stride and a straightforward gaze kept people from questioning his right to be places he had no real business being.
Making it to the kitchen door with no hassling, Max blew out a breath and braced himself, then pushed it open.
Here goes nothing.
The kitchen wasn’t as active as Max remembered—only a single lone chef doing prep. Max frowned. Was there a lunch service today? There ought to be at least three prep chefs busily chopping vegetables and making stock. Where was everyone?
Stepping farther into the kitchen, Max stared at the one guy over in the corner, who seemed to be working industriously enough for ten chefs. His head was down, only a hint of short brown hair peeking out from under the bill of his backward baseball cap. Max grinned at the familiar Yankees logo for a second before realizing with a start that he was looking at his younger brother.
Tension shot through him, but he plastered on a grin and repeated his mantra.
You gotta give love to get love.
“Danny! How long has it been, man?” Max dropped his duffel and walked over to drape an arm around his kid brother’s shoulders.
Despite the mindfuck of being home for the first time in six years, despite the lingering hurt of knowing the kid hated him for leaving, Max found himself sincerely happy to see Danny.
“Too long,” Danny said, barely sparing him a glance as he shrugged Max’s arm off.
Apparently, the reverse wasn’t true for baby bro. Okeydokey, then.
Danny’s hands hadn’t paused in their machine-gun-fast knife work, the rat-a-tat-tat of his blade turning a few big pieces of candied ginger into a perfectly uniform pile of honey-amber cubes sticky with sugar. Max stepped back to watch, impressed by the kid’s precision and concentration.
Although he really wasn’t such a kid anymore, Max reminded himself. “Dude,” he said, as easy and casual as could be, “I know it’s been a while, but hey, the phone works at both ends.”
Danny snorted, unimpressed.
“Or you could’ve come visit me when Mom did. You would’ve loved Morocco.”
There it was, the flicker of an eye that told Max he had his brother’s interest piqued. “Oh yeah? Better than Tokyo?”
“Different. The air is hotter, drier. Thick with spices. And some of the desserts—you should’ve tasted them, they would’ve given you so many ideas…”
Whoops, wrong thing to say. Whatever headway he’d made in loosening Danny up was lost; the guy’s shoulders tensed up practically to his ears, and his voice was rough with some suppressed emotion when he said, “I don’t need new ideas. The desserts w
e make here were good enough for people like Frank Sinatra and Rudy Giuliani—I don’t see any reason to change. Besides, there’s only room for one person in this family to be a carefree world traveler, and it ain’t me.”
The slice of guilt was quick and deep, but Max muscled through it with the ease of practice.
“Well, Danny boy, you might not have missed me, but I sure missed the hell out of you.”
He wrapped his arm back around his brother’s shoulders and squeezed, but Danny stayed stiff and resistant, the distance between them a deep, silent chasm.
Taking in a cleansing breath of calm and serenity, Max started, “Look, Danny. I never really got a chance to say good-bye to you, but—”
“It’s fine,” Danny said, stepping away to grab the white plastic tub of granulated sugar. “Don’t worry about it.”
It very obviously wasn’t fine, but Max had a feeling he wasn’t going to get any further with his brother right then. Calling on the patience he’d worked so hard to hone and deepen, Max gestured around the mostly empty kitchen. There were a few guys working the line, but Max didn’t recognize them. “Where is everyone?”
“Dad likes to give the team the day off when we’re practicing for the competition at night.”
“Sure, so they can’t hand him any lame excuses about being tired from service.” Max nodded, familiar with his father’s wily ways of extracting peak performances out of his employees.
“Yup.”
“But you, he cuts no slack, whether you work lunch or not. Am I right?”
Danny’s shoulders went rigid as he hunched over his cutting board. “Don’t start, Max. Forget what I said before, about the world travel and all that bullshit. I’m here because I want to be.”
Max scowled. “Sure. Because your dreams have never extended beyond the confines of this one restaurant.”
Instead of whirling to face him, Danny hunched over the board and sped up his knife cuts, turning a peeled apple into julienned strips so thin they looked like the translucent fringe on a Moulin Rouge dancer’s costume. Max watched him for a long moment. “How much pastry you doing these days, anyway?”
“Plenty,” Danny said, but the words were strangled, forced out through a clenched jaw. “Working on a gingered apple tart right now. And it’s my position on the team, after all.”
“Right, the team, the team.” Max sighed. “I guess you’d better tell me the deal with that, since I’m supposed to be jumping in and leading it to victory.”
Danny snorted. “If you want to lead, you might have a fight on your hands.”
“Whoa,” Max said, backing way the hell off. “I’m not Fearless Leader Guy—I only meant what Mom said, about handing out tips and tricks for dealing with competition. I’ve got no interest in calling the shots.”
“Yeah, you’ve made that crystal clear.” Danny didn’t say anything else, but then, he didn’t have to. They both knew what he meant.
Danny loved baking—since they were kids, he’d been doing stuff with chocolate that wasn’t natural—so all he’d ever wanted was to take over as pastry chef at Lunden’s Tavern. Whereas Max, the elder son, the all-around chef who loved coming up with new recipes and trying new techniques—he was supposed to be the executive chef after their dad retired, and carry on the family tradition of being boxed into the stifling, rigid prison of The Way Things Have Always Been Done.
It was why he left home. Max wouldn’t give up his own dreams and ideas for the future—and Gus refused to accept it.
The Way Things Could Be Done. Max loved the thrill of risk and challenge that raced down his spine at the thought of shaking things up. Of taking his family’s West Village institution of a restaurant and making it … new. Fresh. An exciting blend of tradition and innovation.
Neatly sidestepping the landmine, Max said, “So who’s on this crackerjack team of culinary studs? Anyone I’d remember from the old days?”
Because he was a stand-up guy, Danny let him get away with it. “Maybe; depends how sharp your memory is. There are at least a couple of new guys, too.”
“Yeah? They any good?”
“One of them is the best fish cook I’ve ever seen,” Danny told him. “Brand-new guy, just hired a few weeks ago to replace…” A muscle ticked in Danny’s jaw, and his eyes went flinty enough to raise the short hairs on the back of Max’s neck.
“Replace who?”
“Not important. Anyway, Beck’s a killer in the kitchen. Hell, maybe out of the kitchen, too—no one knows much about the guy, other than that when he’s cooking, he runs his station like the fate of the planet hangs in the balance. He cuts no corners, accepts no shit off anyone, and takes no prisoners.”
“Oh good.” Max stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned against the counter beside Danny’s pastry board. “My favoritest thing ever! A tough guy. Lay you dollars to doughnuts he’s got a thick neck, a shaved head, and no sense of humor.”
“Uncanny,” Danny deadpanned. “How did you guess? Except for the part where you’re totally wrong. He’s a big guy, but his hair’s longish. Longer than yours, Buzz Cut. And he doesn’t crack wise too often, but when he does, it’s extra hilarious. And speaking of hilarious, there’s Winslow Jones. He’s our prep chef.”
Max snapped his fingers. “I think I know him! Did he stage in Provence?” He’d met a young black chef named Winslow Jones—and how many guys with that name could there be?—when he was in Avignon learning how to make perfect ratatouille from a tiny, white-haired lady who spoke no English.
Winslow was doing his stage, a sort of unpaid culinary apprenticeship, at the ratatouille lady’s grandson’s restaurant, and Max had instantly bonded with the short, quirky, smack-talking chef. Maybe it was the expat thing; there was something almost magical about reconnecting with another person from your own country when you were living among people who didn’t speak your language. But Max couldn’t actually picture anyone not liking the guy—he was funny as hell, and he kicked ass on the line the few times Max had invited himself over to the restaurant kitchen to watch them cook. What more could you ask for?
“Yeah, he mentioned having met you over there when Dad hired him.”
Max snorted. “That was a tactical blunder. I’m surprised Dad didn’t fire him on the spot.”
A muscle ticked in Danny’s jaw, but all he said was, “Win is solid. We’re lucky to have him—but not as lucky as we got with Jules.”
Max felt like a dog hearing a knock at the front door. All systems alert! Potential fun ahead!
“Jules. Jules. I seem to remember a Juliet hanging out with you, the two of you following me around, looking to get into trouble. Same girl? I bet it is. A chick on the team. Score. Come on, dish it up. Is she hot now? I bet she’s hot.”
Danny shook his head, amusement relaxing the tense line of his mouth. “Is that all you ever think about?”
“No! Sometimes I think about food. And beer. Scuba diving. Horse races. The color cyan. I’m a complex and multilayered flower, Danny.”
“Well, Jules isn’t for you.” Danny swept the flat of his knife across the cutting board and scooped up his apple fringe, depositing it in a big rectangular plastic tub. “She’s a damn fine chef, Mom and Dad adore her, and most importantly, we need her. The team can’t win without her—we’ll smoke the time challenges with Jules on board. You’ve never seen anything like this girl when it comes to knife work. Hand to God.”
Max hopped up on the counter. “Sooo … you’re saying hands off the merchandise? Keep my distance? No touchy, no feely?”
Danny rolled his eyes. “She also happens to be a friend of mine. A good one, so lay off, okay? You must’ve banged a billion girls, from Paris to Sydney. Aren’t you done yet?”
“Never,” Max declared. “And I resent your slurs against my chivalrous character. My heart burns for the pure, sweet love of this paragon of virtue, this goddess of sweetness and light and the perfect brunoise, this … what did you call her again?”
“Jules,” said a husky, somehow familiar female voice from behind him.
Every hair on the back of Max’s neck stood up as if someone were blowing a warm breath over his skin.
When he passed through Bangkok, he’d learned to take note of that feeling—a couple of times, it was all that saved him from getting run down by one of the motorized rickshaws they called tuk-tuks.
That prickle saved him from getting his pocket picked in Rome, from a snake bite in Sao Paolo, and from dancing with a yakuza’s girlfriend in a Tokyo club.
So when he felt it now, in the middle of this nearly empty kitchen in his family’s restaurant, he was understandably wary. Sliding off the counter, he turned slowly, hands loose and ready at his sides, pushing his weight onto the balls of his feet.
Prepared for anything.
Anything except … her.
Chapter 3
It figured. Less than two months after swearing off men for good—and dating coworkers in particular—the hottest chef Jules had ever seen stood in her own damn kitchen.
Max Lunden. In the unbearably delicious, sinfully tempting flesh, and wasn’t it a cleaver to the back of the neck that she even noticed how hot he was?
Not that it mattered. Whether she liked it or not, they were going to be working together, and that meant she couldn’t afford to notice anything about Max Lunden beyond his cooking skills.
In the testosterone-laden world of professional restaurants, it was hard enough for a female executive chef to earn and keep the respect of the male chefs under her. Sleeping with them? Almost never a good tactic. If she’d learned nothing else from Phil the Phucktard, as Danny always called him, she’d learned that.
Max gave her a long, slow, sweeping glance like a head-to-toe caress. Not to be outdone or intimidated, Jules returned it.
God. She hated—hated!—the fact that he was still tall. Still broad in the shoulder and lean through the hips, all scruffy along the jaw and still with that casual disarray to his light brown hair that made him look like he’d perpetually just stepped off a sailboat.
Too Hot to Touch Page 3