Too Hot to Touch

by Louisa Edwards

  “Coming, Mom,” Max said, loping off down the hall without another look at Jules.

  She followed at a brisk pace, but all she really wanted to do was dig her heels into the hotel carpet. She wasn’t afraid to face the judges again, no matter what they said. Max had given her that.

  But she was terrified, to the center of her skewered heart, of what would happen after the judges had their say.

  Chapter 32

  It was about a billion degrees hotter on the stage this time, with twenty hopeful chefs crammed under the same bright-ass lights, facing down the three people whose opinions could make or break reputations in the tightly knit restaurant community.

  Max tracked a bead of sweat as it trickled down his spine. He’d been cooler in Morocco.

  Cooler, and less tense in general, but he was starting to wonder if a life free of stress and responsibility was all it was cracked up to be.

  Footloose and fancy-free had never brought Max anything as exhilarating as Jules Cavanaugh—or as heartbreaking.

  She was next to him on the stage, standing straight and tall, shoulder to shoulder with Max. There was a strange, sad set to her mouth. Probably just nerves. Max wished he could believe it had anything to do with him, with her not wanting him to leave, but that neat little speech she’d given him back in the hallway upstairs sort of put paid to that fantasy.

  Jules was ready for Max to get out of town. She’d made that pretty clear. And he couldn’t even blame her—she’d gotten into this thing with him believing the whole time that it was only temporary. Part of him even understood that the temporariness of it had been a big draw.

  The fact that she knew, going into it, that Max wouldn’t stick around relieved her of the stress of wondering. The fact that he wasn’t going to be there forever probably made it easier for Jules to let down her walls.

  Or, more accurately, it had made it easier for Max to batter those walls down.

  Either way. Jules had never been in it for the long haul, and even though things had changed for Max, apparently nothing had changed for her.

  A hush fell over the packed ballroom as Claire Durand passed a slip of paper to Eva Jansen, who unfolded it and read the contents with a canary-swallowing smile on her pretty, feline face.

  “First of all,” she said into the microphone, “thank you to the judges, for your time and consideration. I know this must have been an incredibly challenging decision. And thanks to all the amazing chefs who put their skills and talents to the test here today. I saw the food you put out, and you should all be very proud of yourselves. But there can only be one team from each region in the Rising Star Chef competition.”

  She paused dramatically, the mic nearly pressed to her candy-apple-red mouth. “And this year, the team that will represent the East Coast in the competition for the title of Rising Star Chef will be the team from … Lunden’s Tavern!”

  Her lips kept moving, and Max barely caught the sound of their names being listed, but it was impossible to really hear over the roar of the crowd, the shouts of his brother and friends, and the din in his head.

  Utter pandemonium gripped the stage. People Max had never met were slapping him on the back, pulling him away from his teammates just by milling around like a herd of cows clogging a rural roadway. The one he could see was Winslow, who’d hopped on Beck’s back again and was singing “We Are the Champions” at the top of his lungs. Through the buzzing in his ears, he could hear Jules laughing.

  “You won!” His father’s thick, brawny arm came around Max’s shoulder and nearly lifted him off his feet with a triumphant squeeze.

  Max didn’t feel like he’d won anything, but he hugged his dad back and said, “Yeah. I told you we would.”

  “Everything’s going to be different now,” Gus said, his blue eyes glittering in the stage lights.

  “A few things, yeah,” Max acknowledged. He peered at his father’s face, still a bit pale under the happy, triumphal flush.

  “Don’t say it,” Gus warned, making Max swallow his instinctive question about how his dad was feeling. “This is the best medicine I could possibly get. I’ll be fine! Good as new in a couple of weeks. I don’t want you to worry about me.”

  “Sorry. Comes with the territory.”

  “You’re a good son,” Gus told him, which made Max feel like shit. He hadn’t been, and he knew it, but his father kept talking, the sparkle in his eyes fading as his face went all solemn and man-to-man. “You came home when we needed you, and you did your part, exactly as you promised you would. No one could ask for more than that. Things are going to be different now, but we’ll be okay. Just … come home to visit every now and then, all right? Your mother misses you.”

  Jesus. Was everyone he cared about determined to kick Max out the door the minute they left the stage?

  He was a moron. He’d let himself forget that he’d given up his place here a long time ago, and that it wasn’t his to claim anymore. No matter how surprisingly well it still seemed to fit him, it was only on loan.

  Time’s up, Maxwell.

  A sick twist in his guts made it impossible for Max to smile, but he managed a nod. “Great. Guess my work here is done.” Glancing around at the crowd without really seeing anything, Max suddenly zeroed in on Jules at the edge of the stage, leaning down to hug his mother.

  “Look, I’m going to take off,” he said. “You guys don’t need me anymore, and I’ve got a lot of things to take care of before the Italian apprenticeship starts. I’ll kiss Mom good-bye on my way out. Tell the rest of the guys I said ‘congrats’ and ‘kick ass.’ And Dad…” Max forced himself to meet his father’s gaze. “Thanks for calling me. I’m glad you did, glad I was able to help.”

  Gus cleared his throat and nodded, looking gruff and a little pissed, the way he always did when he was fighting down strong emotion. “Well, go on, then, if you’re going. Be safe out there, kiddo.”

  Max’s feet started to itch, his legs to tingle, in that way that had always signified that it was time for him to move on.

  Keep moving, never stop, because if you stopped, you might have to sit down and think about what you were running from.

  Breathing in the sharp smell of sweat from the mosh pit of chefs, judges, and audience members on the stage, Max deliberately blanked his mind and his face, and hopped down off the stage to head for his next good-bye.

  This was going to be the tough one.

  Part of Max wanted to chicken out, bypass his mother and Jules and send them a postcard or something from down the road. But he couldn’t do that, and besides, an even bigger part of him was hoping—idiotically, foolishly, and irrationally hoping—that when he told Jules he was leaving, she’d give him a reason to stay.

  But when he hugged his mother and told her he was heading home to pack, Jules said nothing. She said nothing while Nina’s eyes welled up, and Max hugged his mother again so he wouldn’t have to see it. She said nothing when he promised to come back and visit, to call more often, to let her know where he was staying in Le Marche once he had an address.

  When Nina let go of him after one last tight squeeze, she sniffled a little and went off to find Gus, leaving Max staring up at a still-silent Jules, standing on the raised platform of the stage. The bright lights behind her made a nimbus around her head, casting her face in shadow.

  “Good luck,” she finally said.

  Disappointment scored through Max, but he said, “You, too. Keep your head up, I’m sure you’ll win this thing.”

  She nodded, the halo of light moving with her, turning her dark blond hair a radiant gold.

  “If you make it to the finals,” Max said, heart in his throat, “I’ll come cheer for you.”

  “You’d better,” she said, and he heard a hint of a smile in her voice.

  “Okay, well…” Max lingered for a long moment.

  Ask me to stay. Ask me to stay. Ask me to stay.

  She didn’t. Instead, she raised one hand in wave, then turned and wal
ked away quickly, her black chef clogs thudding on the bare boards of the stage, like thunder even over the footsteps of the crowd she disappeared into.

  And that was it.

  There was nothing left to do but head back to the apartment, pack up his kit, and get his ass on the first flight out to Tokyo to gather the rest of his gear for the trip to Italy.

  As Max walked out of the hotel and onto the busy Manhattan sidewalk, he thought about Harukai-sensei, and the noodle shop in Ginza. He thought about his little room at the back, with the pallet on the floor and the tatami mats under his feet. He remembered the serenity he’d found there, the elusive, slippery sense of peace that he’d attained after hours of meditation, and wanted that again with a sudden, ferocious need.

  Max’s trip back to the apartment was charmed—every light was with him, the swarms of pedestrians and window-shoppers propelling him across the streets and down into the subway, where the train pulled up the instant he hit the platform.

  I get it, he wanted to yell at the universe. I’m going, already. Quit fucking pushing me.

  When Danny found him, Max was almost completely packed. It had taken longer than he’d expected, because he’d unpacked more than he usually did for a short stay in a temporary place.

  Just another sign that he’d lost sight of the big picture, Max thought, wrestling the broken zipper on his beat-up leather bag.

  “So that’s it,” Danny said from the doorway. “You’re leaving. Just like that.”

  “It’s time,” Max grunted, heaving his bag up and onto his shoulder. It was heavier than he remembered.

  “Fuck you.” The leashed ferocity in his brother’s voice made Max’s gaze fly to him. “What it’s time for is for you to grow the fuck up.”

  The pain in Max’s chest knotted into a hard ball of rage. Trying to suppress it, he ground out, “Look, I’m sorry you’re not happy. And I should’ve said good-bye to you and the guys, but honestly, you don’t need me anymore. I did what I came here to do, and I’ve got places to be.”

  “Bullshit.” Danny crossed his arms over his chest, blocking the door like one of the Chinese terra-cotta warrior statues. “You’re not leaving because you’re done. You’re not leaving because you want to learn how to make prosciutto from the master. You’re running away, like you always do when things get hard.”

  It hit Max like a sword to the gut. He felt the truth of it all the way to his bones, but he couldn’t admit it. Instead, he snarled back, “Better that than to roll over like a puppy anytime there’s a fight.”

  Danny’s mouth set in a grim line. “I’m not rolling over now, asshole.”

  “Well, I’m not fighting with you.” Max hefted his duffel higher and straightened to his full height. He was only an inch or so taller than Danny, but by God, he was taller. “Get out of my way.”

  “Make me.”

  Max shook his head, and Danny’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “What, you think because I don’t like to fight, that I’m scared to? I’m not scared of you. At least I know who I am and what I want.”

  “Move, Daniel,” Max growled, the short fuse of his patience burning dangerously close to the end.

  “No. Not until you admit you’re a coward.”

  Max snapped. Dropping his shoulder, he rammed his brother’s chest, knocking him back into the hallway outside his room. Danny, though, didn’t raise his hands in surrender. Hooking an arm around Max’s neck, almost tight enough to choke off his air supply, Danny spun them both into the wall behind them. Max felt the impact all along his side, but it didn’t register as pain.

  Pushing off the wall, grappling with his brother, the two of them fell back into the open doorway of Max’s room, hitting the floor in a tangle of fists and elbows.

  Three minutes later, it was over. They lay side by side on the floor, panting and staring up at the ceiling.

  Max catalogued his injuries. Split lip, sore and tangy with blood every time his tongue poked at it. The skin around his left eye felt puffy and hot, already swelling shut. His knuckles hurt; he’d gotten in a few good punches himself.

  Turning his head to squint at his brother, he was both satisfied and ashamed to see the dark bruise blooming up along Danny’s cheekbone.

  “When did you stop being afraid of conflict?” Max asked.

  “About the time you left home, and I had to deal with the assholes on the block by myself.” Danny grinned, only wincing a little at the stretch. “It was right about the same time I got my growth spurt, too, so that worked out okay.”

  Max laughed a little, feeling the soreness in his lower abdomen from a well-placed knee. “Shit, man. See? Me leaving was the best thing that could’ve happened to you.”

  Danny sighed. “Max. When you left, I had to grow up fast. I had to take care of myself, the restaurant, Mom and Dad. You left it all on me. And I did my best. But it sucked a lot of the time.”

  Testing the painful spot on his ribs by rolling to a sitting position, Max pulled his knees up and rested his arms on them. Meeting his brother’s solemn gaze, he said, “I’m sorry, Danny. I’m sorry I left you alone to deal with everything. But I thought I was doing the right thing—shit, you remember how much Dad and I were fighting back then. Every time we yelled, you hid in your room. I thought…” Max had to take a second to swallow hard. “I thought it would be better for you, for all of you, if I just took off. No more fighting.”

  “Sometimes fighting is good, though,” Danny said, staring up at the ceiling again. “Fighting for what you want, fighting to be understood, to be heard. It’s hard, but it’s worthwhile.” He turned his head, fixing Max with a deeply penetrating stare. “It wasn’t better after you left last time, and it won’t be better this time, either. For anyone. Including you. No one else wants to say that, but it’s true.”

  “You’re wrong,” Max said, his heart twisting. “Jules wants me to go. She practically shoved me out the door.”

  With his eyes squeezed shut, Danny thumped his head once against the hardwood floor and groaned. “Judas Priest. Jules, you fucking idiot.”

  It was weird, but Max actually felt his knuckles tingle with the urge to connect with Danny’s face again. “Shut up,” he growled. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

  When Danny opened his eyes, it was to stare up at Max with a pitying expression. “You’re both idiots,” he clarified, sitting up and scooting to rest his back against the wall under Max’s classic Rolling Stones poster. It looked like the big red tongue was about to lick his head, maybe smooth down the spiky brown hair that had gotten ruffled up during the fight. “Lucky for you, I know you both better than anyone else in the world. And I’m here to tell you, Jules does not want you to leave town.”

  The world stopped turning, just for an instant, but it was long enough to make Max sway dizzily. “What?”

  Danny rolled his eyes. “Judas Priest,” he complained. “What the hell have the two of you been talking about, that you don’t know this about her? Jules is never going to ask you to stay. She just isn’t. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t want it.”

  Max stared at his brother, who rolled his eyes again and started the laborious process of getting to his feet.

  “Are you sure?” Even as the words formed in his mouth, Max was reliving the look on Jules’s face when she gave him that speech back at the hotel—the way she’d wrapped around him, clinging just a little, when they were in the suite bedroom together—the revelations about her past.

  “Oh my God,” Max said, blinking slowly. “I’m a fucking idiot. I guess next you’re going to tell me that Dad wants me to stay, too.”

  Satisfaction made Danny’s smile gleam like freshly polished china. The smirk made him look ten years younger, like the kid Max remembered. “Now you’re starting to use your brain.”

  “Seriously? But Dad’s spot on the team … he’s not going to want to give that up.”

  Danny’s jaw hardened, and Max caught a glimpse of the man who’d just knocked the se
nse back into his head. “Dad needs a reality check, if he thinks he’s cooking on the team with us after that surgery. It might be what he wants, but you know what they say.”

  Danny flicked his eyes up to the Stones poster, and Max grinned. “You can’t always get what you want.”

  “Exactly. Which doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try. So the question is, Maxwell—what do you want?”

  Chapter 33

  Claire left the stage after shaking hands with every single finalist. Her cheeks ached from switching between congratulatory smiles for the Lunden’s crew, and heartfelt expressions of regret for the losing teams.

  Finally managing to steal away to a quiet corner, she allowed her shoulders to slump as she tried to catch her breath.

  The competition had barely begun, and already she was this weary? Not a good sign.

  It was only that she hadn’t slept well, she told herself. A restless night of remembering Kane Slater’s honey-slow smile and quick, expressive hands, and sleepy, sprawled posture as he looked her in the eye and told her she could have him.

  As if her incessant thoughts of him had conjured him up, Kane appeared next to her. His warm body filled the quiet space she’d found for herself with the pulsing, electric tension that always arced between the two of them.

  “You okay?”

  She didn’t want to be affected by the concern in his tone, but Claire felt the rigid line of her shoulders soften when he leaned in, shielding her from the pandemonium of the rest of the room.

  “Yes, of course,” she managed. “Only a trifle fatigued. It will pass.”

  One corner of his mobile mouth quirked up. “I bet I could help you relax.”

  She stiffened. “We had an agreement, Kane. I’d use your first name in return for you ceasing the constant seduction attempts.”

  The other corner kicked up, spreading a full grin across his handsome, rough-jawed face. “Hey! I meant I could give you my yoga instructor’s card, but your idea sounds good, too.”