Too Hot to Touch

by Louisa Edwards

  “Kane!” Frustration sharpened her voice more than she liked, but he never dropped his infuriating smile.

  “And to be clear, I never agreed to stop trying to seduce you,” he continued blithely.

  “You most certainly did.” Claire had spent the entire night reliving their conversation in the café.

  “I most certainly didn’t.” He leaned in closer, until the skin of her cheek tingled in anticipation of coming into contact with the stubble lining his jaw—but he paused when he was still a breath away from her.

  “I agreed to behave myself in public,” he reminded her softly. “Which I’m okay with, because I’m happy to keep the world from seeing you the way I see you.”

  Her lungs couldn’t want to draw in enough oxygen, as if he were somehow absorbing all of it.

  The question rose up from the depths of her, undeniable and unstoppable as the beat of her blood. She had to know.

  “And how do you see me?”

  The lack of oxygen was abruptly no problem—she would’ve been holding her breath anyway.

  “I see your brilliance and your ambition and your strength—all the things the world sees. But here, now, I see something else, too. The woman you are inside, the woman you don’t want to indulge, the woman who wants and needs and desires. That’s the woman I want you to let out to play.”

  A few meters away, a crowd of chefs and family members shouted and laughed and chatted and celebrated or commiserated, but for Claire, they no longer existed. The cage of Kane’s body, the dimness of their secluded corner, enclosed them in their own private world.

  “Come on, darlin’.” His drawl was soft and rough, like raw silk stroking over her skin. “I’m right here waiting for you. Come on and play with me.”

  A shudder ran through her, shaking her down to her bones. She lost herself staring up into his intense blue eyes for one endless moment while she struggled with the desire pounding at her heart and trying to escape from her chest.

  And then she let it go in a rush that lifted her onto her toes and pressed her lips to his wide, smiling mouth.

  Kane opened up to receive her, his arms and his eyes and his lips moving over her with barely leashed ferocity. The heat of him seared her nerve endings and made her want to press closer at the same time, and Claire had to force herself to break the kiss.

  “Not here,” she gasped against the salty skin of his neck.

  His arms tightened around her shoulders, but she felt him nod. “Eva set me up with a big-ass suite upstairs. The bed’s big enough for both of us, plus about five more. Want to come jump on it with me?”

  Claire refused to think about her suspicion that this was all a game to him, or the fact that she’d had good reasons for refusing to give in to the attraction between them.

  Only moments ago, she’d been tired, body and mind, but now her every muscle sang with tension. Life throbbed through her veins like jet fuel, and the new surge of energy felt a thousand times better than the weighted deadness of being always correct, professional, and safe.

  “Yes,” Claire said, pulling back far enough to meet his gaze. “Let’s go play.”

  * * *

  Jules took another sip of her beer, the bitter taste suiting her mood perfectly. It was weird to be sitting in the middle of a raucous group of celebrating chefs, accepting congratulations and free drinks and slaps on the back, and feeling like shit.

  Honestly, it ticked her off. This was supposed to be a great moment for her, a moment when she’d proved, to herself and to the huge boys’ club fraternity of chefs, that she was one of them.

  Chapel, the Lower East Side bar where Gus had moved the celebration after Eva Jansen kicked them off the stage at the hotel, was packed to the rafters with restaurant refugees, both front and back of house, in various stages of drunkenness. Music wailed and pounded from the tiny corner platform—it sounded like the same band that had been playing the night they made it through the qualifying round. She recognized the wild black hair on the tall, lanky bassist, the wicked slant of his grin out at the crowd.

  The band kind of sucked, but you couldn’t tell it by the number of guys hanging out in front of the stage, shoving each other in time to the beat. As she watched, Winslow jumped up and down several times as if he had springs installed in his sneakers, one hand out for balance. The hand clipped a slim, good-looking kid with dark red hair, who laughed and gently bumped Win back into the crowd before turning his attention to the stage once more.

  Jules tilted the cold bottle to her lips again, wishing she could be as free and easy and happy and giddy as Winslow, who was bouncing back and forth between the dance floor, Beck at the bar, and that short assistant guy who’d led them to the suite … what was his name? Drew, over by the pinball machines in the back.

  But Jules had somehow managed to isolate herself. In a room full of people she counted as friends, she’d never been more alone. It was as if the darkness of her thoughts generated a miasma around her that made it impossible for anyone to come within two feet of her. And rather than resenting it, she was fiercely glad. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to manufacture a big, happy grin right now. Thank goodness Danny’d taken off about an hour ago; he’d see through her in a heartbeat.

  Max was probably boarding a plane right about now, back to Tokyo.

  She shook her head at herself, but it was no use trying to think of other things. Even if Max wasn’t in the country anymore, he was in her head, in her heart, and she wasn’t getting him out of there anytime soon.

  Reaching for the strength and acceptance she’d found earlier, Jules struggled for a long, desperate moment before acknowledging the truth—it was a hell of a lot easier to be strong and serene and Zen with Max’s arms wrapped around her.

  Well, she’d adapt. She had to. And at least she had the satisfaction of knowing she’d sent Max on his way with a smile. Okay, maybe not a smile, but at least without tears and a big messy scene. She’d managed not to grab him by the ankles and hold on, kicking and screaming. Put it that way.

  Oh, cripes, there was Danny, pushing his way through the knot of shouting, head-banging chefs by Chapel’s big, wooden door. Jules straightened up, preparing to plaster on the best fake smile she could manage, and that’s when she saw him.

  Max Lunden.

  Not on his way to the airport, not on a plane back to Tokyo; instead, he was about two feet behind his brother, using his height to scan the bar as if he were looking for something.

  Or someone, because when that intense blue-gray stare settled on Jules, she felt it from the top of her head to the soles of her feet.

  Confused, disoriented, Jules stood up, her heart beating louder than the drums of the band on stage. With a word to Danny, who smirked and turned away, Max was heading toward her.

  One breath, two, and then he was there in front of her, as solid and real as the table between them.

  “You’re here,” Jules said, then blushed, intensely grateful that he frowned and leaned in closer, turning his ear to her mouth.

  “What?” he yelled. “Damn, it’s like being trapped in the Holland Tunnel at rush hour.”

  “Come on,” Jules said, grabbing his hand and pulling him to the exit and out onto the street. The only thought in her head was to find out what was going on.

  The Lower East Side corner was quiet after the din of the bar, even with the constant rush of cars and cabs, buses and people on their way home from work. It was getting dark out already, the sun slipping behind the tall buildings and leaving the streets lit by the ambient glow of neon signs and headlights.

  There was a tiny alcove surrounded by a short stone wall just up the steps that led down to Chapel. It used to be part of the abandoned church that crouched above the bar, but now it was empty. And it looked like as good a place as any to be able to talk, slightly shielded from the sidewalk and the entrance to the bar.

  Jules was a woman on a mission. She had Max seated on that stone wall beside her in a matter of s
econds. She couldn’t keep her eyes from going wide and hopeful, her heart hammering its way through her chest, so she did the best she could to hide it by facing forward and giving him her profile.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, tension making her voice tight.

  “I came for a drink with my team,” Max said. “But we seem to have left the bar.”

  He sounded so easy, casual—but there was something in the stiff set of his shoulders brushing hers that told Jules he was as wound up as she was.

  “No flights out to Tokyo today?” she said, forcing her tone as casual as his.

  He paused, then said, “Fuck it. Jules, look at me.”

  She shook her head, terrified to make eye contact—one good look at his stupid, beautiful, beloved face and she’d break down.

  But Max was unrelenting, twisting to straddle the wall so he could face her and pull her resisting body into his arms.

  “Okay, don’t look at me,” he said. “Just listen. I’m not going anywhere. There’s a place for me right here, in Manhattan, at the restaurant, with my family, on the RSC team—and I’m claiming it.” Her heart stuttered, skipping a beat, as she thought of all the things that might mean, but he wasn’t finished.

  “And I’m claiming my spot right next to you, Jules, because none of it means a damn without you. So suck it up, buttercup—you’re not getting rid of me anytime soon.”

  The heart that had clenched tight enough to stall for a second soared up from her chest and into her throat. She had to look away, couldn’t let him see what this was doing to her.

  “What about Italy?”

  “Jules, look at me.”

  She shook her head. This was agony. She was afraid to see the expression on Max’s face when he talked about his long-held wish, but Max laid a gentle hand against the back of her neck, warm and encouraging, and Jules sighed.

  Turning her head, she savored the heat soaking into her sore, abused muscles, the shiver of awareness that always took her when Max’s skin touched hers. “Italy is your dream, Max. I can’t ask you to give that up.”

  “You’re not asking, I’m offering,” Max pointed out. “And Italy wasn’t the dream, anyway. Not really.”

  Jules frowned. “Don’t lie to me, Max, not about this. I heard you—the longing in your voice the day in your room, when you told me about how beautiful it was, how magical. You couldn’t wait to get back there.”

  Ducking his head to catch her evasive eyes, Max’s open, candid gaze burned through her like the blaze from a handheld butane torch. “I’m not lying. I did want to get back to Italy, because I felt a glimmer of something there, something I wanted. Something I’ve searched the whole world for. But I wouldn’t have found it at Vincenzo Cotto’s studio, or in Rome, or Marrakech, or Tokyo, or anywhere else, because it was right here, all along.”

  Jules shook her head, just slightly, so as not to dislodge Max’s loose grip at the base of her neck. “I don’t understand.”

  Max huffed out a laugh. “Neither did I, for a long time. Years, in fact. But all along, I was looking for someplace that felt like me, where I would fit, and be enough. Where I could stop for a while and rest, and not feel the need to keep moving forward to find something new to see if it fit better, because the fit would be so perfect already.”

  He leaned in to press the final words to her cheek. “I was looking for a home. And I found it.”

  Suddenly nervous, terrified to believe what he was telling her, Jules blurted, “But all the stuff you learned, the techniques—”

  “Let me think. I can either have a life where I learn a whole bunch of cool techniques—or I can put those techniques to real use, while having a life surrounded by family and friends … and you. Turned out to be kind of a no-brainer.”

  “You could have been home this whole time! It was always here, waiting for you.”

  But Max shook his head, his stubbled cheek rasping against her jaw. “No. Because this place, my family—it never fit quite right before. New York isn’t my home, and neither is Lunden’s, or my parents’ apartment.”

  He paused, and Jules felt his throat clench as he swallowed. She could barely breathe until he finally said, “It’s you, Jules. You’re my home.”

  Oxygen flooded her lungs, filled up her head, her whole body, until she felt light enough to float away. She wrenched herself out of his arms, but only so she could get herself turned around on the wall to face him, her legs hooking over his thighs and her arms going around his strong, warm neck.

  His face, the face she’d been afraid to look at, was set in an expression that was half arrogant determination, half nervous hope. With a surge of exasperated affection, Jules realized that he was actually unsure about how she’d respond.

  “You know, for a guy who’s studied ancient teachings and spouts a lot of wise sayings all the time, you’re pretty dumb,” she told him, and watched the way joy fell over his features like a beautiful veil, obscuring every other emotion.

  “Interestingly enough, you are not the first person to point this out to me today,” he said, his arms tightening around her back.

  Leaning away, trusting him to hold her up, Jules said, “Danny?”

  Max leaned forward to nuzzle into the sensitive skin below her ear. The arch of her spine over his hard-muscled arms made her feel loose and abandoned, open and warm. “My brother’s a pretty smart guy, it turns out. Which I should’ve known already. After all, he was the first of the Lunden men to love you.”

  Jules gasped as he pressed a hot, openmouthed kiss to that spot on her neck that seemed to be connected to a wire running straight through to the center of her body. Her mind already hazing over with desire, she almost missed it when Max lifted her up until she was nose to nose with him and said, “He’s not the only one, though.”

  Her breath stilled, her lungs as afraid of breaking the moment as she was. “No?”

  Max gave her a look that made her want to bite at his stubbled chin. “Nope. My parents are crazy about you, too.”

  “I know,” she said, and she did. The knowledge filled her with a calm kind of satisfaction. Becoming one of the fraternity of chefs was cool—knowing she was a real, vital part of the Lunden family was exponentially better.

  Fidgeting with his hands behind her back, fingers stroking at her spine as if he were counting the knobs of her vertebrae, Max said, “And then there’s me. It’s not the same—God, it better not be—but I love you as much as my family does. More, even.”

  Her cheeks were numb, they were spread so wide by her smile. “Oh yeah? You think you love me more? Not more than I love you, I bet.”

  The competitive sparkle that had fired Jules up when he first came home sparked in Max’s eyes again, only this time, she could give in to the urge to kiss him. So she did.

  His mouth was warm and sinful against hers, tongue sliding deep and rubbing at hers, making her moan against his lips. Her whole body caught fire; if it started to rain, she was sure she’d sizzle.

  When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. But he grinned and said, “I love you more than ramen noodles.”

  She blinked. It took her a moment to connect the dots from that mind-obliterating kiss to the conversation they’d been having before, but when she got it, she said, “I love you more than fresh plums.”

  Eyes alight with the joy of the game, the pleasure of being in each other’s arms, the anticipation of the challenges ahead, Max said, “I love you more than Zen.”

  That made Jules laugh so hard she almost toppled them both off the wall. Good thing it was short enough for Max to steady them with his boots firmly on the ground.

  When she caught her breath, she twined her fingers through the short spikes of his hair, looked deep into his eyes, and said, “I love you more than winning the Rising Star Chef competition.”

  And as passion flared in Max’s gaze like the blue flame on a range, and he bent her back over his arms to kiss her again, Jules knew that it
was true.

  She didn’t need to win any contests or prove anything to anyone. With Max in her arms, and the Lundens as her family, she’d already won.

  Max lifted his head to brush the tip of his nose across her jaw and nuzzle the soft, sensitive patch of skin behind her ear. Jules shivered at the ticklish warmth of his breath, joy welling up in her throat as he whispered, “Get ready, Jules. This is the beginning of the best adventure yet.”

  Too Hot to Touch Recipes

  MAX’S MISO-GLAZED TENDERLOIN OF BEEF

  For the beef:

  2½ lb beef tenderloin

  1 tablespoon butter

  1 tablespoon neutral oil, like grapeseed or canola

  For the glaze:

  2 tablespoons toasted sesame oil

  1 tablespoon yuzu juice

  2 teaspoons minced fresh ginger

  1⁄3 cup black cherry jam

  1 tablespoon miso paste

  Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

  Pat the tenderloin dry, then salt and pepper it all over.

  Combine all the glaze ingredients in a blender or food processor, and blend until smooth and thick.

  Melt the butter and grapeseed oil in a roasting pan over medium high heat. When the butter has stopped frothing, put the tenderloin in the pan. Brown it on all sides, about ten minutes, regulating the heat so that it doesn’t scorch or stick.

  Brush the tenderloin with half of the glaze, then put the pan in the oven and roast for fifteen minutes. At that point, check the meat and apply the rest of the glaze. Roast to desired level of doneness, about fifteen to twenty more minutes for medium rare.

  Allow the meat to rest for at least five minutes before slicing and serving.

  BECK’S NEW YORK-STYLE GRAVLAX

  2 lb whole salmon fillet, skin on (ask fishmonger to remove all pin bones)

  2 cups granulated sugar

  1 cup salt

  4 cloves garlic, thinly sliced

  1 tablespoon black pepper

  4 bunches fresh tarragon

  ¼ cup Pernod, or other anise-flavored liqueur