Too Hot to Touch

by Louisa Edwards

  Chapter 20

  Let go of the past, forget about the future.

  It could be her new mantra, Jules decided as she and Max strolled up Barrow Street toward Lunden’s Tavern.

  Easier said than done, maybe, but she was highly motivated.

  No more waffling, no more internal debate. And if she could swing it, she’d be giving the fear and self-doubt a pass from now on, too, because Max was right. The past was gone. The future was unknown. The present was all the mattered, all she could count on.

  And maybe that was the true lesson she should’ve learned at her mother’s knee. Because no matter how many times Victoria Cavanaugh’s love affairs flamed out in a burning explosion of recriminations, when she met a new man? Her mother was one of the happiest people Jules had ever known.

  Maybe Jules wanted more than her mother’s brief flings and bitter regrets, but she wasn’t going to get it by taking herself out of the game and letting life rush past her in a glittering river of wasted potential.

  Max was whistling through his teeth, a jaunty tune that for a moment sounded like the exotic strains of some Indian love song, until it resolved itself into a melody Jules abruptly recognized.

  “Hey! That’s one of Kane Slater’s songs!”

  The whistle died as if someone had punched Max in the solar plexus. He turned to her, dismay clear on his handsome face. “Oh God. I’ve been infected. It’s the rock sensation that’s sweeping the nation, the Texas Hill Country invasion, the—”

  “I can’t wait to tell Winslow,” Jules said, rubbing her hands gleefully and quickening her steps.

  “No!” Max wailed behind her.

  She had one hand on the restaurant door when he grabbed for her, his strong hands gentle on her waist as he yanked her back against him. “You can’t do that, I’ll never live it down.”

  “Maybe I’ll get you a subscription to Teen People,” she gasped through her giggles. “For your next birthday.”

  If you’re even still around then. The thought floated into her head, freezing her in place for a painful instant.

  Hmm. Apparently letting go of the past was easier than ditching her worries about the future.

  Max growled and tugged her in close, stealing one last kiss before they went inside. Jules gave herself up to it, welcoming the hot slide and thrust of his tongue, the solid, undeniable strength of his body against hers. It was a handy distraction from her thoughts.

  Live in this moment, she reminded herself, kissing him back with everything she had.

  A long, low wolf whistle pulled them apart. Jules caught her breath, already feeling her cheeks heating, as she turned to confront the unabashedly amused face of her youngest teammate.

  Winslow wiggled his fingers at them, hitching his knife roll higher on his shoulder. “Well, well. Looks like someone’s having a very good morning, indeed.”

  Jules tensed—the habit of hiding was hard to break, and these people had all been around for her last stupid kitchen fling—but Max reached out one big paw and did that complicated fist-bumping, palm-slapping greeting with Win, as cool as anything.

  “Hey, man,” he said easily. “How was your night? You get home from Chapel okay?”

  “Hmm, yes,” Win said, his bright green gaze darting back and forth between them. “I managed to secure an escort home. One can’t be too careful, out wandering the streets alone at night.”

  Jules forced herself to relax. The familiar comfort of Win’s teasing about his sexual escapades helped. “So can we assume you had a good morning, too?”

  “Well.” He smiled smugly. “A good night, anyway.”

  “Good enough to make you almost as late as us,” Max said. “Come on, we’d better get inside before Danny’s head explodes.”

  He held the door open, ushering Jules and Winslow in ahead of him. Win curled his arm into the crook of her elbow and leaned close enough to whisper, “Oh girl. Please tell me you’re going to be dishing up the good stuff, because I have got to know what’s up with you and our boy.”

  “I’ll give you the whole scoop, with a cherry on top,” she muttered back, grateful for Win’s simple, jubilant acceptance. She had a feeling things wouldn’t be so uncomplicated with Danny. “But later. I promise. Maybe after the meeting…”

  “Nope, sorry,” Max said, coming up behind them to wrap his arms around her shoulders. “You’re gonna be busy later. Win, she’ll call you. Maybe next week sometime.”

  Jules could hear the grin in his voice, although most of her attention was taken up with the feel of his hard body pressed to her back.

  “Damn, stud,” Win laughed. “Where can I find me one of you?”

  “Well, I’ve got a brother,” Max said contemplatively. “But something tells me he’s not what you’re looking for.”

  “Or vice versa,” Win agreed with a heartfelt sigh.

  “Are you talking about me?” Danny looked up from the pastry board, suspicion written clearly across his face.

  “Just bemoaning your tragic heterosexuality,” Win sighed, slinging his knives down on the prep station.

  “Oh,” Danny said, blinking. “Well. Sorry about that, but there’s not much I can do about it.”

  Win waved that away. “No big. I’m not that into workplace romance, myself.”

  “Unlike some people, apparently,” Danny replied, eyes narrowing on Max’s arms, still slung around Jules.

  She stilled, paralyzed by the sudden silence. Winslow gave her an encouraging smile, while Beck stepped back from his station far enough to be able to check out the commotion at the front of the kitchen.

  Gus was over by the ovens, bouncing on the soles of his feet, obviously impatient to get the meeting started. But at Danny’s comment, he paused.

  This was it. The moment where Jules got to decide whether to keep to the shadows, or step into the light. Meeting the worried gaze of the man who was more of a father to her than anyone her mother had ever brought home, Jules tilted her head and gave Max a very deliberate kiss on the cheek.

  She could feel him dimple up under her lips, and he hugged her tighter for a second before she shrugged him off and shooed him over to his corner.

  Head buzzing with the nervy thrill of staking her claim on Max Lunden in front of half his family and all the people they worked with—oh God—Jules lifted her chin and crossed her arms over her chest.

  She’d made her choice; she’d live with the consequences.

  Which, for the moment, included Gus clearing his throat uncomfortably and shifting his weight from side to side. “Um,” he said. “Well. So we’re all here now. That’s … good.”

  “Here, and ready to work, Dad.” Max unrolled his canvas bag and removed the knife Jules knew was his favorite, a short, Japanese-style cleaver called a chuka bochu. The sound of him running the sharp edge of the knife along a honing steel rang through the short silence that followed.

  Gus shook his shoulders back, the slight bewilderment clearing from his expression, and Jules relaxed.

  “Right. That’s good, because we’ve got our work cut out for us. As I said last night, I couldn’t be more proud of you—all of you—for getting through the qualifying round. I know it wasn’t easy. But the fact is, it’s only going to get tougher from here on out. The pressure’s really on.”

  He paused, glancing from chef to chef. Jules straightened her spine when his gaze landed on her. It felt like that first day of working at Lunden’s Tavern all over again, that spike of warmth and affection, nearly sharp enough to slice through her need to prove herself.

  Nearly, but not quite.

  “We got the word this morning,” Gus continued. “The final round to choose the East Coast team, the lucky sons of bitches who get to compete in this year’s Rising Star Chef competition, is all about being local.”

  “What does that mean?” Danny asked, frowning.

  “It means we gotta prove we know this area better than anybody else, and we gotta cook our hearts out to do it. Listen
, here’s the deal. The four finalist teams are going to face off in a cooking challenge—a five-course meal made from ingredients sourced exclusively from the Essex Street Market. We’ve got tonight to plan, then two days to prep and cook, serving the judges the day after tomorrow.”

  “Cutting it close,” Beck observed. His gruff tone somehow conveyed the certainty that there was another twist coming, and Jules felt a tingle of anxiety skitter down her spine.

  “Oh, but wait! That’s not all!” Everybody blinked, heads swiveling from Gus to Winslow, who had piped up before their boss could get another word out. “I mean … tell them what I mean, Chef.”

  “Okay, leaving aside the mystery of how exactly Winslow knows the content of the challenge, when the team sponsors were only contacted this morning,” Gus said, quirking one bushy brow, “he’s not wrong.”

  Jules sent her station mate an arched eyebrow. “Sounds like I’m not the only one who needs to dish,” she murmured.

  Sometime in his short, eventful life, Winslow Jones had perfected the art of winking without moving a single muscle in his face other than the one eyelid. “Remember my gallant escort home last night?”

  Jules nodded quickly.

  “Let’s just say, he may have an inside scoop on the RSC. Because he may or may not be the assistant to a member of the culinary council. Whose name may or may not rhyme with Beeva Smansen. And that’s all I’m going to say.”

  Jules suppressed the laugh that wanted to snort out through her nose. “You’re the soul of discretion,” she said.

  “Ahem.” Gus beetled his bushy brows at them. “Before this entire conversation devolves into yet another discussion of Winslow’s love life, maybe you’d like to hear the details of the challenge? Hmm? Unless that’s boring. I could just go take a nap instead.”

  “We’re listening, Dad.” Danny could be very soothing when he wanted to be, Jules reflected. “Go ahead.”

  Puffing out his chest, Gus assumed his teaching stance. “What can you kids tell me about the Essex Street Market?”

  “Umm … it’s an indoor market on the Lower East Side?” Win offered apologetically.

  “Right. What else?”

  Max drummed his fingers on the stainless steel counter. “It’s been around a long time,” he said. “Since the forties, I think. And it’s gone through a lot of incarnations, but at the moment, it’s the permanent home of some of the city’s best produce, meat, and fish vendors.”

  Pride gleamed in Gus’s quick smile. “That’s right. It used to be two buildings, but when the city took it over and started trying to revitalize it after the glut of supermarkets hit in the seventies, they consolidated all the vendors into a single building. Take a look at this map.”

  Unrolling a large sheet of paper, Gus beckoned them all to gather around the butcher block as he spread it out. Jules leaned over to get a better view, every inch of her aware of the fact that Max had stepped up behind her and was looking over her shoulder.

  “The judges couriered this over about an hour ago,” Gus said. “It’s a map of the Essex Street Market. Notice anything in particular about it?”

  Her pulse jumped when Max’s hands settled large and warm on her hips. Shifting her weight back, she brought her heel down on Max’s toes, bare and vulnerable since he was wearing scuffed leather flip-flops. Max made a noise like a chicken laying an egg, but when he backed off, he pinched the undercurve of Jules’s ass.

  She squeaked, glared, and pointedly moved around to the other side of the table to stand next to Beck, who was studying the market map as if it were the diagnostics of a bomb he had to disarm in the next thirty seconds.

  “Well?” Gus said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “What do you see?”

  Beck reached one long arm to point out the four corners of the map. “Access here, here, and there. The perimeter appears to house most of the specialty product—I see a chocolatier, a couple of cheese shops—while the main vendors are in the center.”

  He drew invisible lines around the four large squares down the middle of the map. Jules scrutinized the layout closely. Each square was divided between two vendors, one with fruits and vegetables, and one selling proteins like meat or fish.

  “If I had to make a guess,” Beck said, “I’d say the judges plan to divvy up the market between the four teams; give each of us one of the center squares, along with the specialty shops in that same area.”

  “Good guess,” Winslow crowed. “You’re a master tactician, my man, because that is exactly what … I mean.” He faltered under Gus’s glare, wilting like a head of butter lettuce on a hot day.

  “Yes,” Gus growled. “They’re slicing the market into four equal pieces, and everything we cook for our five-course meal has to come from our specific area.”

  “So which is our quadrant?” Max asked, peering down at the names of the vendors. Gus raised his eyebrows at Winslow, who looked up at the ceiling and pretended not to notice. “I was told we’d be sourcing our meal from section number three, right here.”

  They all leaned in.

  “Viva Fruits and Vegetables, New Star Fish Market,” Danny read aloud. Then he whooped with joy, pumping a fist into the air and startling the whole team. “Yes! We got the chocolate shop. Roni-Sue’s chocolate rocks. I can do a lot with that.”

  “Which brings us to the next point,” Gus said, wiping at his forehead. Jules watched him, a bolt of concern shooting through her when she saw how pale he was. “Each chef on the team will be responsible for a single dish, but the meal has to be cohesive and make some kind of sense, because we’ll be judged as a team. Obviously Danny’s on dessert, but we need to brainstorm the menu and figure out who wants to make what. We’ve got tonight to plan, tomorrow to shop and prep, then cook and serve the following day.”

  “Maybe we should take a quick field trip,” Max suggested. “Check this market out; it’s been years since I was there. See what product we’re going to be working with so we know exactly what our options are.”

  “Waste of time,” Gus said dismissively as he rolled the map back up. “We’ve only got one day to plan this meal; we don’t have time to go running all over the city. We need to focus.”

  Jules frowned. That didn’t sound like Gus; he was usually so detail oriented, and hated cutting corners. “Chef? Are you feeling okay?”

  “I’m fine,” he said irritably. “Except for being sick to death of people asking me that.”

  “Don’t worry,” Max said, sauntering back to his station with his hands in his pockets. His short brown hair was still roughed up on one side, making him look like an angry hedgehog. “Dad’s perfectly all right. He just won’t take the suggestion because it came from me.” He hitched one hip onto the counter behind him, all idle grace and mockery. “Wouldn’t want to encourage me to think I had an actual say in things around here, would we?”

  Tension settled over the kitchen like a cloud of smoke billowing from a hot oven. Win hunched his shoulders, Beck stared off into the middle distance, and Jules fought the urge to shuffle her feet. Danny looked ready to haul off and smack someone.

  “Oh, for the love of … I can’t believe you’re bringing this up again!” Gus threw up his hands. “Grow up, Maxwell.”

  Max’s face flushed. “The fact that I won’t fall in line and do things the way you think they should be done doesn’t mean I’m some snot-nosed kid, rebelling against authority. We need to see what’s available, let ourselves be inspired by the ingredients.”

  “Inspired.” Gus sneered. There went that vein in his forehead. “What, you gonna do some kind of interpretive dance around the kitchen? Maybe write some poetry? Sing us a song? Or you could maybe just settle the hell down and be a damn chef. Besides, we already know what we’re going to base the meal on. Steak, because that’s what we do best, and we want to highlight Lunden’s Tavern.”

  “Steak! Of course, that’s what you want to make. So fucking predictable—”

  “Cut it out, Max,” Da
nny said, shifting angrily. “We don’t have time for this. Let’s just make a plan and go with it.”

  Max put his hands on his hips, his jaw like granite. “Fine. I say we go down to the Essex Street Market and look around for an hour before coming back up here to plan. All in favor?”

  Jules stiffened. She couldn’t believe it was coming down to this. They’d been doing so well, ignoring the tension and the lingering hurt feelings over why Max left in the first place. She should’ve known, though.

  Jules understood, better than most, that not talking or thinking about your crappy past didn’t mean you were over it.

  But she hadn’t been prepared to ever have to choose between Max and his father. No matter which way she turned, she’d be letting down someone she cared about.

  Max looked at Danny, who cast a quick glance at his father before looking down at his black leather kitchen clogs. “I know what Roni-Sue usually offers; I’m probably okay to plan without checking it out in person.”

  “Good boy,” Gus said approvingly.

  Max absorbed the blow with his lips folded together tightly, a watchful stillness falling over him like a white linen tablecloth settling over a four-top.

  Beck, who’d watched the whole argument with his arms impassively crossed over his massive chest, calmly raised one hand. “I want to see what they’ve got fresh down there before I come up with my dish.”

  Scrunching his face up so tightly that his freckles stood out like sprinkles of cinnamon on his café au lait skin, Winslow said, “I’m good, either way. Um, maybe more time to plan wouldn’t be a bad thing. I don’t know.”

  So it was a tie.

  A fierce light of hope glinted in Max’s eyes when he turned to Jules, burning bright enough to make her want to look away. But that was no good, because if she shifted her gaze, she saw Gus standing alone at the front of the kitchen, the weight of his expectations heavier than a stockpot filled with boiling water.