Hot Under Pressure

by Louisa Edwards

  He liked to cook. That was it.

  “Don’t call me Henry,” Beck said, a hint of growl in his tone. He didn’t mean to be so gruff, but it was out there already, making Win’s eyes widen with surprise.

  See? This was why Beck didn’t do talking. Words messed everything up.

  “Sorry,” he said, before Win could make everything worse by stuttering out the apology that was already clear in his eyes. “I just … I haven’t been called that in a long time. It’s not really who I am anymore.”

  Win got that all-seeing, all-knowing expression on his face again. Beck looked away, focusing on the crowds milling through the stalls piled with fresh fruits and vegetables. His mind catalogued their surroundings automatically, everything from the fanny pack–wearing tourist exclaiming over the free samples of late summer raspberries to the young woman in workout gear buying a pound of cedar-smoked salmon from the vendor on the corner.

  November was always gorgeous in San Francisco, the last gasp of warmth before winter rolled over the city. Despite everything, Beck was glad the producers of the Rising Star Chef competition had set the final round of the contest here.

  Like a sucker, Beck let his gaze expand across the Bay, sharpening on the dingy gray outline of office towers and apartment buildings that formed the Oakland skyline. It looked better, cleaner, from this distance, with the fog over the water softening its hard edges.

  “What’s over there?” Win asked, hooking one sneaker-clad foot on the lowest rung of the railing running around the Ferry Plaza. Unable to keep still, as usual, he proceeded to climb the guard fence as if it were a set of monkey bars, completely heedless of the drop into the choppy, dirty waters below him.

  “Oakland.” Beck kept a surreptitious hand out to spot Win, ready to grab him by the seat of his pants if it looked like he was about to go tumbling into the drink. “If you fall in, I’m not diving in after you.”

  “Pssh. I won’t fall. I have the balance of a jungle cat. Rowr.”

  Hovering behind Winslow—Who’s the mother hen now? Beck asked himself with a twist of the mouth—he wondered where the hell the rest of the team was.

  This was why single-minded focus won the day. Because once you started letting other things—sex, relationships, love—into your head, it messed you up until you couldn’t even remember a simple meeting time.

  Case in point: Danny Lunden, their team’s pastry chef, was probably off with the woman who ran the RSC, Eva Jansen. Their combustible relationship had definitely contributed to the failure of the Chicago round, but sadly Beck couldn’t lay the whole entire fiasco at their feet.

  Danny wasn’t the only one who’d been off his game.

  Danny’s brother, Max Lunden, and childhood best friend, Jules Cavanaugh—who were, incidentally, all over each other and upping the soap opera quotient of the team by about a thousand—were another spanking new couple.

  Add to that the fact that Max and Danny’s father, Gus, was recovering from heart problems bad enough to land him in the hospital, and you had a team with more than a few distractions pulling their attention off the ultimate prize.

  They were supposed to be meeting up first thing this morning to get their shopping done fast and head back to the competition kitchen for prep. But here it was, edging on toward nine o’clock, and no lovebirds.

  Beck tightened his jaw and controlled his impatience. There was nothing to do but wait. And be glad he’d kept himself free of emotional entanglements and the mushy brain function they caused.

  “So are you worried about competing against your estranged wife?”

  Beck shot Winslow a quick look, but Win’s head was ducked against his chest as he maneuvered his skinny, wiry body up to sit on the top railing.

  “No. It’ll be fine.” Please God, keep Winslow from apologizing again for that clusterfuck last week.

  There was a pause while Win wiggled his way upright and twined his feet under the bottom railing for balance. His light brown skin didn’t really show a blush, but Beck was willing to bet the kid’s cheeks were flaming hot under that sprinkling of dark freckles. “Okay, good.”

  Silence stretched between them for a long moment, broken only by the hoarse squawk of foraging seagulls and the cheerful clatter of produce vendors and shoppers behind them.

  Win clearly still felt bad about the part he’d played in the whole world finding out about Beck’s past. But Beck didn’t hold a grudge. It wasn’t Win’s fault, and Beck recognized the signs of an impending shame spiral. He needed a distraction before Winslow had them both rehashing past events that couldn’t be changed.

  Nodding at the hazy Oakland skyline across the water, Beck said, “That’s where I grew up.”

  Giving a start of shock, Winslow nearly toppled off the railing. Eyes wide, arms pinwheeling, he grabbed for Beck’s arm.

  “You what? You’re from here? I can’t believe you didn’t say anything.”

  “I’m saying something now.”

  Win’s eyes went from round as dinner plates to cat-eye slits. “Yeah, you are. Offering up tidbits about your childhood to try and stop me from gossiping about you and digging into your mysterious past?”

  This time, Beck did shrug free of Winslow’s hand. “Fuck off, kid. There’s nothing mysterious about me. Nothing interesting, either. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

  Winslow threw up his hands in exasperation and nearly fell off the railing again. “Nothing mysterious? You’re nothing but mystery. You got hired on at Lunden’s Tavern, what, six months ago? And shit, Henry, I only found out your first name, like, last week! You don’t talk. No one knows shit about you. You’re all tall, dark, and mean looking, but you’re not mean, so what the hell? And you cook fish like you grew up … living on the ocean.” Win twisted his torso to get a better look at the strip of Oakland shore that jutted out into the bay. “Huh.”

  “You’re determined to turn my life into an episode of Law & Order. I hate to break it to you, Detective, but I didn’t learn to cook growing up in Oakland.”

  Beck could only imagine the crap he would’ve taken if he’d shown any interest in something like that, back then.

  Interest flared in Win’s eyes as he swiveled back around. “No? Then where—?” But he closed his eyes, squeezed them tightly shut, and stopped himself. “Okay. Forget I even started this convo. I promised myself after everything that went down in Chicago, I’d quit snooping. Curiosity isn’t going to get the best of this cat again, no sir. You got secrets? Keep ’em.”

  Beck let an arched brow speak for him.

  “No, I mean it, man,” Winslow said, hopping down from the railing, finally, and giving Beck an earnest look. “I should’ve been cool and just let you tell us your story in your own time.”

  The kid was trying so hard. Beck wanted to meet him halfway. Struggling for a moment, he came up with, “Thanks. That would be nice.” And watched the light die out of Win’s eyes as he deflated a little and turned away, like a puppy who’d been smacked on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper.

  Damn it.

  “It never bothered me that you wanted to know more about my past,” Beck offered. “Because I knew, even if I didn’t tell you, it wouldn’t make any real difference.”

  Win frowned as he started back toward the cluster of food stalls. “What do you mean?”

  What the hell? Might as well go all the way. “It didn’t matter to you, not for real. You were curious, you made up stories about me—yeah, I knew about that. And for the record, I was never in prison, I’m not in the Witness Protection Program, and I’m not the missing son of some Balkan royal family.”

  “Oh man,” Win whimpered, covering his face with one dramatic hand. “I need some coffee.” Splaying his fingers, he peered at Beck. “That didn’t bug the crap out of you?”

  Beck shrugged. “You treated me the same, no matter what crazy story you believed that week. All of you, Gus and Nina, Danny and Jules, even Max when he came home—you accepted me for wh
o I am now. The past is over and gone; it’s done. That’s why I don’t talk about it. And in spite of the stories, I know you don’t really care one way or the other. I’m just Beck, fish cook, to you. And I like that. Before Lunden’s Tavern, I never really had that.”

  He flashed on an image of the restaurant that first day, when he came in to interview with Nina Lunden. Max and Danny’s smiling, sharp-eyed mom was the first person Beck ever met who made him feel at ease from the get-go. He imagined that was how most people felt about coming home.

  Dropping his hand, Winslow blinked up at him. “Wow. I think that’s the most I ever heard you say at one time.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it. I’m not going to start wanting to have regular gab fests or anything.”

  “Aw. And here I was hoping we could have a sleepover and braid each other’s hair.” Win bounced up on his heels, hooking his hands in the front pockets of his low-hanging jeans. “No, man. You go on and work that strong, silent shit. Somebody on this team has to be better at listening than talking.”

  Beck smiled, because there it was again, that casual, complete acceptance the Lunden’s Tavern team tossed around like it was nothing.

  But to him, it was everything, and he’d do whatever he could to repay them for it.

  Winslow smiled back and offered his fist for a bump. “We’re cool, man. And I was serious about that coffee. You want? There’s a place inside the terminal that’s supposed to be killer.”

  “No, thanks,” Beck said. “But you go ahead. I’ll stay out here and wait for everyone else. If we get too spread out, we’ll never find each other again, and I think we should do a quick tactical before we start shopping.”

  With a wave and a head bop, Winslow melted into the crowd, and Beck turned his attention back to surveying the market itself, scanning for a glimpse of his other teammates.

  Standing head and shoulders above most of the sea of people milling around him, Beck crossed his arms and tried not to notice the wide berth the other shoppers gave him. When he caught himself scowling and ducking his head to let his chin-length hair swing across and hide his face, he jammed his hands into his pockets and moved out of the flow of foot traffic.

  The market was a riot of color and life, scraggly-bearded organic farmer hippies in ripped tank tops rubbing shoulders with young mothers in yoga pants pushing strollers. An arriving ferry pulled in to the dock around the back corner of the building, disgorging a group of up-and-coming urban professionals in slim-cut suits, on their way from their homes in the ’burbs to jobs in the city.

  Northern California’s growing season extended well into November, and the vendors’ tables were piled high with tail-end-of-summer goodies, mounds of sun-warmed nectarines and opulent globes of Italian eggplant glowing deeply purple in their baskets. The air smelled exciting, full of the ripe scent of fresh fruits and vegetables, the rich soil still clinging to them.

  Beck’s mind was conditioned now to see the potential in ingredients like this. He wandered closer to a forager’s stall, where a blackboard easel sported amazingly detailed chalk drawings of chanterelles and maitakes.

  Mentally calculating the meatiness of a sautéed mushroom against the delicate brine of a seared diver scallop, Beck scrolled through possible accompaniments. A ginger butter sauce? Or maybe something with more acid, like a brown butter and lemon vinaigrette. He put out a thoughtful finger to the overflowing basket of grayish brown fungus, relishing the grit of the dirt under his fingertips.

  “When did you start liking mushrooms?”

  Chapter 6

  Beck froze with one hand outstretched, his broad, blunt fingertip pressed to the smoothly rounded silken head of a dark portobello.

  The chill brilliance of afternoon sunlight reflecting off of San Francisco Bay whited out his vision for a long moment—or maybe that was the swift blow to the head of hearing Skye Gladwell’s sweet, bright voice directly behind him.

  Turning to face her, Beck steeled himself for the sight he was pretty sure he’d never get used to: Skye as a woman, not a girl. Her hair was a cloud of strawberry-blonde curls around her pretty, heart-shaped face—so familiar and at the same time, so changed.

  The face he’d once known better than his own was the face of a stranger now.

  Still, it didn’t take the familiarity of years to read the mocking note in her casual tone.

  “I learned to like a lot of things, the last ten years,” Beck replied. “Learned to hate a lot of things, too.”

  It wasn’t hard to keep his voice even and calm. He’d had lots of practice, in way worse circumstances than standing in front of a vegetable vendor’s tent, staring down the first person he’d ever loved.

  His wife. Who wanted a divorce.

  Good thing he didn’t love her anymore, or that would probably hurt.

  Curiosity sparked in Skye’s changeable blue-green eyes, colors shifting like waves out at sea, but she didn’t ask what else he’d learned.

  She’d changed, too.

  One swift glance was enough to take her in from head to toe. Clearly, Skye still favored comfort over style. Her ankle-length, gypsyish skirt was the color of denim but made of something much softer. She had a sweatshirt tied haphazardly around her curvy waist, rucking up the hem of her loose, flowing top and exposing a tantalizing sliver of tanned, smooth belly. She shifted and silver flashed in the sun, catching his eye.

  Belly-button ring, his stunned mind processed, even as his mouth dried out and his heart rate increased to battlestation conditions.

  A little mental discipline, please.

  Forcing his mind away from the image of himself dropping to his knees and tonguing that new, taunting bit of jewelry and the warm, salt-sweet body beneath it, Beck studied the rest of her, taking in the details he hadn’t had time to assess at the relay challenge the day before.

  Her cheeks were pink with more than whatever emotion swamped her at the sight of the husband she no longer wanted, and her red-gold curls were escaping from the knot on top of her head in wild corkscrews. The fact that she had the sweatshirt at all when it was easily seventy-five degrees in the sun …

  “Just come off the ferry?” he asked casually, and didn’t even try to keep himself from enjoying the surprised dilation of her pupils.

  “How did you—?” She faltered, glancing over her shoulder to the large transport craft still bobbing gently on the water. Swaying to her left made the bangle bracelets around her wrists jingle like bells. “Yeah, I’m meeting my team in Chinatown.”

  Wait a minute. “Your restaurant is in Berkeley.”

  She lifted her chin, “Queenie Pie Café,” she said. “Corner of Shattuck and Bancroft.”

  Beck took a deliberate step to his right, more for show than because she actually impeded his view. Yep, he’d been right.

  The orange lettering on the side of the boat spelled out “Golden Gate Ferry.”

  “That ferry didn’t come from Berkeley,” he said. “The Golden Gate line makes runs from…”

  If her little chin got any higher, she’d be staring straight up at the clouds. “From Sausalito,” she confirmed. “That’s right. I’m living there now.”

  In spite of Beck’s personal vow not to try to predict emotional reactions, he was still surprised by the sudden wash of disappointment that soaked through him.

  Sausalito. The quaint, picturesque artist colony where Skye’s free-spirited, radical parents lived, painted, wrote political rants disguised as plays, and kept their daughter gently but firmly ground under their vegan shoes.

  Skye had hated Sausalito, had danced a wild, spinning circle around their first, tiny, crappy apartment over a grocery store in Chinatown, swearing she’d never go back. And now, here she was, a Sausalito resident—even though it meant an hour and a half commute every morning and night.

  Maybe Skye hadn’t changed as much as he thought, if she was still living her life to please her parents.

  *

  Goddess of the
stars, could this get any worse?

  Feeling the tickle of her stupid red hair frizzing around her face, Skye impatiently yanked her hands over her head and tucked what she could back into the rubber band securing her bun.

  She was windblown, exhausted from the trip home from Chicago, pissed about the loss yesterday, stressed after dealing with her parents on about three hours of sleep, and now this.

  Henry Beck, standing here before her, in the huge, handsome, judgmental flesh.

  He looked … big. Had he always been so tall? So broad through the shoulders? The heather gray of his cotton T-shirt stretched taut across his chest, his biceps straining the sleeves. The baggy fit of his jeans did nothing to hide the leanness of his hips or the strength of thighs.

  And she might not have a good view of it at the moment, but Skye could draw up a mental image of his deliciously tight, muscular backside just by closing her eyes.

  He was harder than her memories, though, in a lot of ways. There were creases in his angular face, lines beside his dark eyes that hadn’t been there ten years ago. Probably from squinting into the blazing sun reflecting off an ocean on the other side of the world.

  Henry’s eyes, so dark brown they were almost black, had always been impenetrable. Impossible to read, unless he wanted to let you in on what he was thinking. Which was almost never, with most people, but Skye used to have an all-access pass to the inner workings of Henry Beck’s brain.

  Not anymore. She had to remember he wasn’t her Henry any longer—he was Beck.

  When she’d first seen him again, in that competition kitchen in Chicago’s Gold Coast Arms Hotel, she’d nearly been sucked right into the black hole of those deep, shadowy eyes.

  She’d stuttered and stammered, stumbled all over herself and acted like a complete fool. As per usual. While Henry—no, Beck—had stood and watched, as calm and impassive as if they’d never met.

  Never laughed together. Never kissed. Never promised to be there for each other, no matter what.

  As if he’d never abandoned her, left her alone in their studio apartment with nothing but a check that covered the next month’s rent, a shiny new insurance card, and a baby on the way.