Too Hot to Touch

by Louisa Edwards

  A tiny, tender green shoot of hope poked its head up, but Jules squashed it ruthlessly. “You don’t need to apologize for that. I would’ve been upset, too.”

  “And I shouldn’t have asked your mom about your past, that was wrong. Bad Max! But in my defense, asking you usually produces little to no result.”

  Unwilling to be charmed, and already anticipating a need for higher, thicker walls around her stupidly vulnerable heart, Jules said, “It’s fine.”

  “Clearly, it’s not fine.” Max touched her shoulder with his big, warm hand, the heat of it seeping through her shirt and skin, warming her all the way to the bone.

  Shrugging it off was the hardest thing she’d ever done. “Let it go, Max,” she said, staring straight ahead. “I need to focus on what dish I’m going to prepare, and what I need to ask the boys to buy for me.”

  “Jules,” he started, but the elevator dinged and the doors swooshed open.

  She stepped on and hit the button for the lobby. “Are you coming?” she asked.

  Max sighed and got on the elevator, and the rest of their conversation on the ride down to the first floor was all about the food.

  That wave of relief rolled over Jules again. There’d be plenty of time to sort out all this messy emotional stuff later.

  For now, there was only the cooking.

  Chapter 26

  “Hail the conquering hero,” was Winslow’s greeting as Max ushered Jules into the Lunden’s Tavern kitchen. “Or, in the words of my people, you the man!”

  Max mustered up a grin, but it felt tight. Everything felt tight—his shoulders, the line between Jules’s brows, the timing on this competition, his worry for his father … they needed to do something to loosen up, or all their food was going to taste as overworked and stressed out as they all were.

  Jules hadn’t been able to come up with a complete dish in the cab ride over to Lunden’s, but she’d managed to scrape together a list of ingredients that sounded pretty good. Max wasn’t worried—he was nearly positive she’d pull off something fantastic—but he could tell she was far from convinced.

  And there was still something very much up with her. She’d actually requested to do the appetizer course, leaving the two larger, centerpiece courses to Beck and Max. Now, Max didn’t mind working on the meat course. Beck wanted fish, and that was fine—the dude had the magic touch when it came to seafood. But Max just couldn’t believe Jules would give up the main courses without a fight.

  Not that the app course wasn’t important—it was. Hell, its whole purpose was to sharpen the diners’ appetites and set the tone for the entire meal. And not that Jules was Big Mama Ego, or anything, either.

  But there was definitely a competitive edge to her personality. Especially when it came to cooking, the RSC, and Max. So he couldn’t help feeling like it was yet another indicator that Jules was … he couldn’t think of a better way to describe it than “punishing herself.”

  For what, he wasn’t sure. But he knew he wanted it to stop.

  Max stole another look at her as she bustled to her station and started unpacking the boxes the guys had brought her from Essex Street. Her dark blond hair was up in a messy ponytail that slipped over the front of her shoulder when she bent down, exposing the sweet, vulnerable nape of her neck. Max remembered kissing her there, setting the edge of his teeth to the sensitive skin, but gently. So gently, just to feel her shiver.

  She stood up, her hair swung back to cover the spot, and Max felt as cut off at the knees as he had the moment she walked in on him pumping her mother for information.

  Every time she glanced at him now, there was a distinct chill. Not coldness, exactly, but more like a lack of warmth. Of connection. It was as if, when she left the hospital alone the night before, she’d slipped away from all of them, completely. Somewhere they couldn’t reach her.

  In fact, everyone in the kitchen was a little distant, as if each station, from prep to grill to dessert, was on its own mountaintop, swathed in clouds and silence and the oppressive weight of empty air. Winslow’s smile was a couple hundred watts dimmer than usual. The movements of Danny’s hands were disjointed and jerky, completely lacking their characteristic grace. And Beck wasn’t saying a word—which wasn’t weird—but he was also starting like a scalded cat at every bang of a pan or chop of a knife.

  Max looked back at Jules, but she was ignoring everyone, concentrating on the components of the appetizer course she’d assigned herself. She reached for the carton of fresh plums, her fingers hesitating in midair as her mouth shaped a curse word. She scowled down at the fruit as if they’d offended her in some way, locked in combat with the problem of what dish she should make that would wow the judges and start their meal off on the perfect note.

  If he spoke up now, if he said anything to the team, there was a distinct possibility she’d take it as confirmation that he was cutting her out of her leadership role, taking over. She’d either retreat further behind her wall of ice … or she’d fight.

  Max knew which he preferred, and he knew what he had to do.

  Don’t let me down, son.

  With his father’s words ringing in his ears, Max said, “Guys, before we get too entrenched, can we huddle up for a second?”

  Jules stiffened, but when she turned to join the others, who’d moved more quickly to group around Max at the front of the kitchen, her face was calm and expressionless.

  Biting back a sigh, Max looked around the circle of chefs. He forced himself to meet each one’s eyes, to stand tall and straight like the leader his father had always wanted him to be.

  “We’re all different,” Max said. “We bring different things to the table, and that’s good.”

  Max cocked his head. “I haven’t been around, so I don’t know you as well as my father does. But sometimes a fresh perspective can show you things that familiarity would miss. For instance, take Win.”

  Winslow blinked, then smiled that strangely innocent smile of his. It almost reached his eyes. “Win, here, has been through some shit in his life, I happen to know. But somehow, it never seemed to rub off on him. You’re as clean as if you’d just been born, man. And I could like you for that alone, but when you add in your extra superpowers like being able to make any vegetable taste amazing and the ability to lift the spirits of your moodier teammates with a single joke, well. I’m glad as hell you’re with us.”

  That smile went all the way now, brightening Win’s eyes to the color of the light green jade Max had seen adorning a temple shrine in Shanghai. Max smiled back, and slid his glance over to Danny, standing next to him.

  Max had been there for most of the shit Danny’d been through. At least for the kid stuff, and the messy teenage years. But he’d missed a lot, too—the past six years, when his shy, quiet baby brother made the leap from boy to man—and Max, who didn’t believe in regrets, knew he’d do almost anything to get that time back again. But it was gone forever.

  “You’re my brother,” Max said, feeling his throat thicken stupidly. “And I love you. But even if you weren’t, and I didn’t, I’d still be in fucking awe of what you can do with a square of chocolate, a cup of cream, a stick of butter, and some flour. I’ve been all over the world, and I’m telling you right now—you’re the best pastry chef I’ve ever seen.”

  “Thanks, man.” Good, Danny’s voice was cracking, too. At least Max wasn’t alone in his emotional idiocy.

  Turning to Beck with some relief, Max said, “Now, you’re a tougher coconut to crack—which I guess is the way you like it. When I first got back, I thought maybe you’d been in prison for a bit. And that question you answered at the qualifiers, about making a meal for hundreds of people at a time, that made me think I was on the right track.”

  Beck looked back at him, thick arms crossed over his chest, outwardly as impassive and unmoved as the Great Wall. But there was a flicker of something in his flat stare, a flash of denial, and Max suddenly knew.

  “But I was wrong, wasn’
t I?”

  Beck hadn’t been in prison. He wasn’t an ex-con. He was ex-military.

  Every chef ’s head swiveled to stare at Beck, whose face betrayed nothing. His arms, though, tightened where they crossed over his torso until veins stood out along the roped muscles. Beck narrowed his gaze on Max, but said nothing.

  Clearly, he didn’t want to talk about it. And maybe that’s what was important here—he didn’t have to.

  Max cleared his throat in the short silence that followed. “The point is, it doesn’t matter. Nothing in your past matters as much as what you do here, in this kitchen, with us. Because even if we know nothing about you—shit, Beck, I don’t even know your first name—we know all we need to. We know you’ll work until your back breaks and never complain, and that you’ll turn out some of the most beautiful, refined food I’ve ever seen. Whatever else you are or have been, you’re a great chef. And a great teammate.”

  Beck continued the Great Wall of China impression for several heartbeats, which gave Max time to wonder if he was about to get his ass stomped. But then the big man dropped his arms, flexing his fingers as if he’d held them stiff and tensed for too long.

  “Henry,” he said.

  Max blinked. “What?”

  “My first name,” Beck said. “It’s Henry. Nice to meet you.”

  And then he smiled, and Max blinked again, because it changed the guy’s whole face. “Nice to meet you, too,” Max said, sticking out his hand and letting Beck grab and shake it.

  “What about Jules?” Win piped up, waggling his eyebrows.

  Max looked at her, but she shook her head. “I don’t need the pep talk,” she said. “Max is right. The past doesn’t matter. All that matters is the next few hours, and tomorrow, when we cook our hearts out for those judges. You’re great chefs—I know exactly what you’re capable of, and I expect that and more tomorrow.” Her voice caught in her throat, but her eyes were fierce as she nailed each of them with a look. “It’s for Gus. All right? So enough talking. Let’s cook!”

  They all cheered, the atmosphere in the room exploding like a fireworks display in a shower of renewed energy. Sleeves were rolled up, knives were sharpened, and everyone got to work.

  On his way to his station, Jules caught Max’s arm and pulled him away from the others. For one heady second, when she dragged him around the corner toward the pantry closet and pushed him up against the wall by the door, all he could think about was their first kiss.

  The way her lashes fluttered as her gaze dropped to his mouth made him think she was remembering it, too.

  Everything in his body woke up and strained toward her, but her hands on his shoulders were firm. He waited to see what she’d do.

  When she looked back into his eyes, he could see her there, more than he had since this morning. His heart did a slow somersault in his chest.

  “Thanks,” she said, voice rough. “For what you said back there, for pulling the team together. They needed it, and I … well, I was too wrapped up in my own stuff to do it.”

  The contempt in her tone grated over him like a citrus zester in the instant before he realized it was all directed at herself. He shook his head, confused.

  “You take too much on your own head,” he said. “Not everything has to be your fault, Jules. You don’t always have to be perfect.”

  Her mouth twisted, darkness lowering over her face like a cloud. “Don’t I?”

  “No, you don’t,” he insisted, stoking the fire in her eyes. He’d rather be kissing than fighting, but anything was better than that cold, empty nothingness from before. “Besides, perfection isn’t always what you think it is.”

  “God. Is that another Zen saying? Am I supposed to know what that means?”

  “There’s a story of a young priest,” Max said, watching the way she rolled her eyes, but still settled back on her heels to listen. “Whose pride and joy was also his job—he was to tend the Zen temple garden, and no one could fault his devotion to his duty. No one except the old man who lived next door, who frowned as he watched the young man at his work.

  “But the priest ignored the old man, and kept everything as meticulous and beautiful as he could. One day, he was told that a great Zen master would be visiting the temple, and the priest was overjoyed to have the chance to show off his perfect garden. He pulled all the weeds, pruned the trees and shrubs, and spent hours raking the leaves into neat, tidy mounds away from the paths. He even combed the moss! When he was done, he went to greet the Zen master.”

  “I bet I know who the Zen master turns out to be,” Jules said.

  Max gave her the glower Harukai-sensei would’ve given him. “You’re lucky I don’t have my teacher’s propensity for smacking cheeky students with a wooden spoon,” he told her. “But yes, spoiler alert, the visiting Zen master didn’t have far to travel, because he was none other than the old man who lived next door! And as he wandered into the immaculate garden, the young priest couldn’t help but anxiously inquire, ‘Isn’t it perfect?’

  “The old master walked up to the largest tree, and shook its branches until it showered the ground with red, gold, and yellow leaves. ‘There,’ he said, smiling as he looked around the garden. ‘Now it’s perfect!’”

  Jules searched his face for a long moment, as if she could read the meaning behind the story in his eyes. Max waited, because he remembered how he’d felt every time Harukai-sensei busted out one of these little tales.

  “My life isn’t some story,” she finally said, her voice painful and raw. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that.”

  “Just think about it,” he urged her, as gently as he could. “And try not to worry so much.”

  Shuddering in a huge breath, she squeezed her eyes shut, her fingers digging into his shoulders. “That’s asking a lot,” she said. “Considering your father’s in the hospital, we have to cook the best meal of our lives tomorrow for people who will decide if we’re good enough to continue on in the competition, and I have no freaking clue what dish I’m going to make.”

  “I don’t know exactly what I’m making, either,” he pointed out, deciding to ignore her choice of course for the moment. “But you don’t see me stressing. And I’ve got to deal with the main course! The one the whole meal centers around! Oh my God, you’re right, this is a catastrophe—quick, someone hold me up, my knees are going…”

  “Oh, shut it, you,” she said, but her eyes were open and she was actually smiling now. “Why do I even bother coming to you with this stuff? You’re like some freaking Buddha statue.”

  “Is that a remark?” Max put on an affronted face. “Are you calling me fat?”

  “I meant the fact that you could smile your way through a shit storm and come out the other side smelling like roses.”

  “Graphic.”

  She shrugged. “Not all of us went to Zen school to learn the Art of Romantic Poetry and Deeply Meaningful Fables.”

  This was as close as Jules got to flirting, and Max loved it.

  Her hands slipped from his shoulders, brushing down the center of his chest and over his belly. His abs went rock solid under her touch, with almost no thought from Max, and she traced the outline of his muscles with a single finger.

  “Okay,” she said, sounding dazed. “Definitely not fat. Holy cats, Max, is that some Zen thing, too? Do all Buddhist monks do a hundred crunches every morning?”

  Mission a-fucking-ccomplished, he thought, as smug satisfaction spread out from her smirk like rays of warmth from the sun. She definitely wasn’t worrying about anything at the moment.

  He hated to break the moment, he really did, but … “As much as I’d love to discuss Zen and the Art of Six-pack Abs with you, the RSC rep is going to be here in—” Max checked his watch. “Four hours, to watch us pack up our prepped stuff and cart it over to the competition kitchen, where we’ll be cooking tomorrow.”

  The reminder made Jules take a step back, which Max hated, but he’d been prepared for it. So tha
t was okay.

  What he wasn’t prepared for was the way her gold-green eyes went round and her wide mouth stretched into a happy O. She blinked at him, then surged forward and pressed her smiling lips to his in a fast, hard kiss.

  “What was that for?” Max was having a hard time getting his breath back.

  She beamed. “Believe it or not, that story of yours gave me an idea for a first course that will knock the judges right off their seats!”

  “I believe it,” Max said. “I’m very inspiring, you know.”

  “You are,” she agreed, seriousness creeping back into her expression. “I can see why your parents were so desperate to get you back here in time for the competition. I thought we didn’t need you … but I was wrong.”

  The acknowledgment was like cooling aloe on a burn he hadn’t even realized he had. “Thanks. And I’m glad I could help, but Jules—the team needs you, too. You’re not a placeholder. You’re vital.”

  She flashed him a quick smile as they rounded the corner and walked back into the thick of the other chefs’ preparations, but Max couldn’t tell if she believed him or not.

  “Hey.” He caught her arm. “What, exactly, did I say that gave you your inspiration? I could use a little shot of that, myself.”

  Regarding him thoughtfully, she said, “Actually, it was more a thought I had while you were telling me that whole, long story about the garden. It sort of works as a moral of that story, too, I guess, but really, all I could think was, We’re making this so much more complicated than it needs to be.”

  It was as if she’d whacked him on the head with one of the plucked whole ducks on her station’s cutting board.

  “Simplify. Cook from the heart. I like it,” he said, the glimmer of an idea surfacing in his stunned brain. “Very Zen, Jules-chan. What are you going to make?”

  She gestured at the duck, her eyes gleaming as brightly as the edge of the knife she honed against a sharpening steel. “I’m going to confit those duck legs, and pickle the plums. You?”