Too Hot to Touch

by Louisa Edwards

  “Any reason we need to stick around?” Max asked, already imagining dragging Jules off somewhere private and secluded, so they could finish what they’d started that morning.

  Gus looked torn. “You don’t want to size up the competition?”

  “We are the competition,” Max said, giving his father a grin.

  Gus liked that. His eyes gleamed as he said, “Yeah, you’re right. And you’re all probably sick of this place. Plenty of time to study up on the enemy teams once we know who’s in the finals with us. All right, all right, don’t fret, woman! I won’t say it again until we get the final word. I promise. Now. Drinks are on me at Chapel!”

  Beck, Winslow, and Danny all cheered—to be expected, no chef worth his salt ever passed up free booze. But it was Jules’s wide smile and flushed cheeks that made Max want to groan.

  As the whole pack of them moved toward the exit doors, excitedly recounting the entire suspenseful event, Max lengthened his stride to catch up to Jules.

  “There’s really not a chance in hell of convincing you to ditch this party and invite me back to your apartment for a private party of our own. Is there?”

  She glanced around once, quickly, as if to make sure no one had heard. Then she smiled up at him. “Not a chance, no. Your dad deserves to share this with us, and this is the only way he can right now. Besides. I don’t know about you, but I could really use a beer.”

  Resigning himself to the still very enchanting sight of Jules with her clothes on, at least for a few more hours, Max laughed. “I love that you drink beer.”

  “The cheaper, the better,” she affirmed. “Although I admit to a fondness for Asian beers. Sapporo is my favorite, if I had to pick one.”

  Max slowed his pace slightly, allowed them to fall to the back of the group, then reached for her hand. She tensed for a moment, but when he curled his fingers around hers, she squeezed back. “Maybe one day we can drink Sapporo together in Tokyo. I’d love to show you the city, introduce you to the guy who taught me everything I know about Japanese food. I think Harukai-sensei would actually like you—and he doesn’t like anyone.”

  A shadow passed over her face like a cloud scudding across a blue sky, but it was gone before he could interpret it. “That would be incredible.”

  But as they made their way out to the street, and followed the group toward the A-C-E stop at Thirty-fourth Street, Max couldn’t help feeling like she meant the most literal definition of “incredible”—as in, something impossible to believe in.

  If I were truly Zen, I’d pull back. Try to want less, let her come to me, be happy with what I have.

  He sighed as they caught up to his family and Jules casually disengaged their fingers.

  Too bad he seemed to have lost his knack for Zen.

  Chapter 17

  The interior of Chapel, the after-hours bar of choice for many of Manhattan’s hardworking chefs (along with an assortment of avant-garde actors, performance artists, off-duty cops, exhausted nurses, and punk rock aficionados) seethed with illegal cigarette smoke, flashing lights from the platform stage in the corner, and the heaving bodies of people thrashing to the music pouring from the speakers.

  Some local band was on tonight; Jules thought she’d seen them at Chapel before. The neon-haired lead singer threw herself around the stage like a pinball, careening into her lanky bass player and getting a manic grin and shove back to center stage for her trouble.

  Jules could relate. Her whole life felt like a game of pinball lately, bouncing from joy to fear and back again. It was nice to be on one of the highs at the moment, she reflected, taking another drink from the ice-cold bottle of beer in her hand and leaning her elbows back on the bar.

  She was pleasantly warm and fuzzy, the frenetic energy of the bar passing through her in waves, keeping her from having to think or talk or do anything other than exist in the moment.

  Very Eastern philosophy, she decided. Max would approve.

  Where was he, anyway?

  He hadn’t been glued to her side all night, but he was keeping tabs on her, Jules knew. Every now and then, she’d feel someone’s gaze like a warm palm trailing over the back of her neck, and without even needing to look up, she’d know it was Max, checking in. She got the same glow of happiness every time they made eye contact. It was nice, to feel like someone cared if she was having a good time.

  Ah, there he was. She finally located him at the other end of the bar, in the midst of what looked like a very involved discussion with Beck. The large, taciturn chef was more animated than Jules had ever seen him, his face alight with interest.

  Jules shook her head slowly, the move unbalancing her enough to make her glad she was braced against something as solid as the scarred wooden bar that ran the length of Chapel’s main room.

  “What’s up?” Danny appeared beside her, clinking his glass to her bottle and leaning back companionably.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Your brother.”

  “What about him?”

  Danny’s voice was neutral, but in a studied way, as if he had to work at it. “Only Max,” she said, tilting her glass in his direction as if toasting him. “He’s got Beck eating out of his hand.”

  Affection mixed with exasperation crept into Danny’s tone. “He’s always been that way,” he said, sipping at his beer. “Like he’s got his own gravitational pull. People flock to him, they like him, they want to tell him their troubles. And the sick part is, he likes them back! It’s genuine. And I don’t just mean the chicks, either, although he’s never had any problems in that area, the bastard.”

  “No, I’m sure he hasn’t.”

  She thought she’d managed to keep her voice as neutral as Danny’s, but he shot her a pointed look. It was too much to hope Danny wouldn’t remember the die-hard crush he’d teased her about all through high school. “Not that Max’s a dog,” he said grudgingly. “He doesn’t screw around.”

  Jules shrugged, squinting in the other direction and ignoring the heat in her cheeks. Hopefully it was too dark in here for Danny to make it out, anyway.

  “Come on, Jules,” he sighed. “I know something’s going on with you two.”

  “So what if there is?” she said, suddenly fed up with the inquisition. “First Gus, now you! Okay, so Max and I are maybe, possibly, thinking about talking about having some fun together while he’s home. Why does it have to be a big deal? Can’t we just figure it out on our own and then let the rest of you in on it?”

  “Whoa!” Danny held up his hands in alarm, his glass of Guinness tilting dangerously. “Cool your jets. I was only wondering. And maybe worrying a little about the effect a thing between you could have on the team, not to mention how you’ll feel when he fucks off to Italy and his next bright, shiny adventure.”

  That was totally valid. Which only ticked her off more.

  “Well, stop worrying,” Jules said, downing the last of her beer in one decisive gulp.

  “Look, Jules. My brother’s a great guy in a lot of ways, but steadiness? Dependability? Those qualities don’t really make the list.”

  Her stomach muscles tightened as if she’d taken a hit. “I know Max well enough to know you’re right about that. But he’s been more than honest about his intentions to leave after the qualifiers, and I’m not some starry-eyed girl looking for love and forever. I don’t even believe in those things. I’ll be fine. The team will be fine.”

  Danny tightened his mouth, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “You deserve more than that, Jules. I know that thing with Phil the Phucktard messed you up, but that doesn’t mean—”

  “Hey, come on. I was messed up way before the Phucktard got to me,” Jules broke in, flashing a smile.

  But Danny refused to let her lighten the mood. “Not every guy is like Phil. Or Joe, or Mitchell, or whoever it was that first convinced you that who you are isn’t good enough. You’re better than good enough, Jules. And if Max weren’t such an oblivious asshole, with all his Zen master bullshit and fortune
cookie sayings, he’d see that.”

  “So … what? I should hope Max sticks around long enough to figure out my inherent awesomeness? Because I’m not holding my breath on that one.”

  Danny shook his head. “I’m just saying … be careful. Because it’s been a long time since I’ve seen you like this, and normally I’d be stoked about it, all gung ho, thumbs-up, rah-rah—but Max leaves. It’s what he does. And when he goes, he won’t look back. I don’t want you to be hurt.”

  The solemn look on Danny’s familiar face melted Jules’s insides like butter in a hot pan. “I have no illusions about how this is going to go,” she said softly, picking at the blue and gold label on her beer bottle. “I’m not counting on Max. I like him. And he likes me, and none of that is going to stop him from leaving when this is all over. None of it’s going to stop me from letting him go. And sure, maybe it’ll suck—but I’m a grown ass woman, and Max is sure as hell a man. We can make our own choices about what we want and live with the consequences.”

  Right now—and for as long as she could have him—Jules wanted Max.

  Leaving Danny staring after her, she made her way over to where Max and Beck had commandeered a small, round table. She was pleased with the steadiness of her progress, and moving around, dodging flailing dancers and moshing head bangers, actually cleared her mind of some of the alcohol haze.

  “Hey, gorgeous.” Max smiled up at her, lazy and relaxed as he reclined in his seat, one arm hooked over the back of his chair and long legs sprawled out to trip unwary dancers.

  “Jules,” Beck said, nodding. He had a glass of whiskey in front of him; Jules was pretty sure he’d been nursing that one drink all night.

  “Hi, guys,” she said. There were no more chairs at the table, but Max patted his thighs and gave her a cheerful leer.

  “I got a seat for you right here, babycakes,” he said in this smarmy, awful lounge-lizard voice, the kind of suggestive talk that would normally send her running.

  Lifting her chin, Jules said, “Perfect.” And plopped herself right down in his lap.

  “Oof,” said Max, his arms coming up to circle her waist. “Well, hello there, little lady.”

  Enjoying the surprise in his voice, she tilted her head back to see his face. “Thanks for the seat,” she said blandly.

  “Anytime,” he told her. “And I mean that. Any. Time.”

  “Has Gus heard anything?” Beck asked, glancing at his watch. Jules felt a little bad—had they embarrassed him?—but she was still buzzed enough to not quite care.

  “No,” she said. “At least, I assume he hasn’t, or we would’ve all heard about it by now.”

  “Uh-oh, heads up,” Max said, pointing across the bar at the stage.

  The band was taking a break, unslinging guitars from their necks and jumping down from the stage, and there, ready to step into the empty spotlight, was Gus Lunden.

  “I think we’re about to hear something, one way or the other,” Beck said.

  Max’s thighs went rock hard with tension under hers, and the rest of the alcohol in her bloodstream was drowned out by a surge of adrenaline.

  This was it.

  Gus stepped up to the microphone, tapping at it. “Is this thing on? Hello?” He winced along with the rest of the room at the loud shriek of feedback, then laughed giddily. “I guess so. Heh. Well, good, because I have an announcement to make.”

  He paused dramatically, long enough to be sure he commanded the attention of every soul in the bar. For the first time all night, silence blanketed the room.

  “I just got a call from Eva Jansen’s assistant—the Lunden’s Tavern team is going to the finals! We’ve got a shot at being the next East Coast team in the Rising Star Chef competition!”

  The whole bar erupted in cheers. Every line cook, dishwasher, and chef in the place yelled and stomped his or her feet, and slapped the nearest Lunden’s chef on the back. Beck leaped out of his chair with a loud whoop that sounded like “oo-rah” and Max’s arms contracted around Jules hard enough to compress her ribs around her lungs.

  She twisted in his embrace, squirming until she could get her arms around his neck and lock her legs around his waist. And right there, in full view of half the chefs she knew, including the ones she worked with and the ones she considered family, she kissed Max Lunden on the mouth.

  He tasted like laughter and smoke, his tongue bitter with the dark ale he’d been drinking. She licked into his mouth, flexed her fingers in his hair, and tried to hold on to her spiraling joy long enough to get out of the bar and find someplace they could be alone.

  “My place,” she husked against his lips. “Now.”

  * * *

  It took way longer than Max wanted to extricate them from Chapel. From the electrifying moment of Jules’s hot little demand to the sudden chill of night air cooling their sweaty faces, it must have been at least two eternities. Maybe three.

  First they had to drag Gus down off the stage, where he was giving a maudlin toast to his wife and his team, and deliver him to said wife, who seemed more concerned than touched by the declaration. Maybe because Gus didn’t drink that often, and when he did, he tended to make up for lost time.

  It took the entire team, with Danny and Win pulling and Beck pushing, to help Max and Jules get his arguing parents into a cab and on their way home. Danny was determined to deposit them on their actual doorstep, so he got into the cab with them. The last they saw of him was his grim expression, hunched between his parents, as the cab pulled away from the curb.

  After that, the party seemed to break up naturally. Win went back into Chapel to finish his drink and the conversation he’d been in the middle of with the bartender. Beck nodded good night and trudged off down the street in the direction of the subway that would take him back to his Brooklyn apartment.

  Max stood in the cool night breeze and stared at Jules. She had a wholesome, all-American, athletic strength about her that made Max want to spread her long hair out on a pillow and kiss her until her lips were swollen and debauched looking. But under the soft, shifting glow of the city lights all around them, she seemed ethereal—almost fragile. Which wasn’t a word he would normally associate with Jules Cavanaugh.

  “So…” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back onto his heels. “You come here often?”

  Picking up on his mood with the lightning quickness that had won them a space in the finals, Jules flirted right back. “Pretty often. But you must be new. I’m sure I’d remember if I’d seen you here before, hot stuff.”

  That made him grin and saunter closer, close enough to reach out and smooth a lock of dark gold hair behind her ear. “What do you say we blow this joint? There are things I want to do to you that would shock even this wild crowd.”

  Standing so close, he could feel the shiver that took her body. “Maybe some privacy would be good,” she agreed. The breathless quality of her voice went through Max like a shot of sake.

  He cocked a brow and manfully took the next cliché. “Your place or mine?”

  She broke finally, bending over to bark out a real laugh. “Well, considering your place is full of your bickering family at the moment, I think you’d better come home with me.”

  Max shrugged. “I had to ask. I don’t know your kinks—maybe shouting and recriminations turn you on.”

  “I’m not that adventurous,” she said, taking his hand and stepping off the curb. She looked over her shoulder at him, a wicked glint dispelling the brief fragility he’d seen in her face. “Also not that patient.” Throwing her free arm up, she had a cab pulling over in seconds flat.

  They piled in like a couple of puppies, shoving and giggling and sprawling over each other. Max got a pair of fingers into her ribs and tickled her mercilessly until he realized she couldn’t give her address if she was panting and shrieking with laughter.

  “Where to?” the cabbie asked, bored gaze in the rearview mirror making it clear that this was far from the craziest scene
he’d witnessed that night.

  “Stop it,” Jules hissed. “Oh, my God. We’re going to the corner of Fourteenth and Third.”

  “That’s like ten blocks,” Max chortled. “We could have walked it!”

  “It’s twelve blocks,” she said, raising her eyebrows at him. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes sparkling. She’d never looked more gorgeous. “Ten minutes. Did you really want to wait that long?”

  His cock twitched, cramped and half hard in his jeans, and started to thicken. “No,” he said, mouth dry. “You’re right. I bow to your authority, one hundred percent. The faster we get to your apartment, the better.”

  Just as Max was wondering if Jules was still tipsy enough to let him get away with kissing her in the back of this taxi, the cabbie glared into the rearview again and said, “If you stain the seats, it’s an extra twenty. For cleaning.”

  Jules made a face. “Okay, yuck. Max, keep your hands to yourself.”

  Grumbling, Max pushed himself into the opposite corner and contented himself with watching the play of light across her creamy white skin. It was an enjoyable way to pass the four-minute cab ride, and by the time Max shelled out the cab fare, he was in a good enough mood to tip the guy. Not twenty bucks—the seats were still pristine, after all—but a couple.

  Jules’s building was a narrow, five-story brick with a Korean deli on the street level. She tugged him under the tattered scarlet awning with HEART & SEOUL MARKET in faded black letters, and fit her key to the door on the side of the building that led up to the apartments above.

  “Is the deli any good? I haven’t had decent Korean since I got back.”

  “They actually don’t have a lot of Korean stuff,” she said as they tramped up the dingy stairs. “It’s more organic produce, fresh flowers, that kind of thing. They sell great kimchee, though, if you’re in the mood for pickled cabbage spicy enough to shear off the first three layers of taste buds on your tongue.”