by Sarah Smith
Callum opens the closet door. “You all right?” he asks.
I nod my head. “So you’re cooking at Travaasa Hana tonight? Congrats.”
I gather my rumpled clothing from the floor.
“Look.” He catches my wrist, turning me to face him. “About what Finn said earlier—”
I hold up a hand and plaster what I hope is a convincing smile on my face. “It’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it.”
And for my sanity, I really, really don’t want to. The fact that I almost spilled the beans last night in my jealous state when he very likely has someone else on his mind is proof that I need to keep myself in check. No more emotional slipups. From now on, no matter how mushy-gushy I feel, Callum and I are to remain in the friends-with-benefits zone.
He releases my hand, and I go back to dressing myself. When I turn around, I’m greeted with the sight of Callum sitting on the edge of the bed, legs hooked over the side. His honey-blond hair is ruffled, his five-o’clock shadow is extra scruffy, his eyes are puffy, and he looks more delicious than any breakfast-in-bed option I could ever ask for.
There’s something expectant in his eyes. The corner of his mouth hooks upward. “Are you busy tonight? I’m going to need your help.”
Chapter 14
When Callum and I walk into the lobby of the Travaasa Hana resort, I gawk. There’s an open courtyard with a perfectly square fountain in the middle. Plush benches and chairs are positioned throughout, along with lush greenery that sets a decidedly tropical vibe. The color palette is warm all the way, with shades of orange, yellow, and brown filling the open-concept space.
A muttered “whoa” slips from my lips.
Callum grins down at me. “I can’t believe you’ve never made it to Hana in all the time you’ve lived here.”
I twist my head around the opulent space for the millionth time. My eyes catch on the four identical spouts at each corner of the fountain. Each one spits perfectly arched streams of water into the air.
“If I had known just how spectacular this place is, I would have come here sooner.”
We walk up to the front desk, and Callum asks for Ted.
“You sure you want me here?” I ask.
“Positive.” Callum winks at me.
“I’ll have to thank Finn later for being so smitten with Grace that I got to steal his cooking gig.”
Despite the awkward moment we shared after Finn inadvertently gave away that Callum is most assuredly enjoying other women’s company in addition to mine, I jumped at the chance to help him cook dinner. I haven’t done a high-end dinner service since my Portland days, and I’m aching to dive back in. Plus, I have the day to myself since Mom is spending Easter with Mrs. Tokushige’s family. Now that Callum and I are focused on a mutual goal of salvaging a fancy holiday dinner, we’re distracted from our awkwardness. Even the car ride here was tension-free since we spent it planning tonight’s menu.
A tall, flustered pale guy who looks about thirty shuffles from the back, rounding the reception counter to meet us.
A relieved smile stretches across his face before he pulls Callum into a bear hug. “Thank fuck you’re here, mate. The guest chef I booked for tonight couldn’t make it because his flight was canceled. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t said yes.”
Callum ruffles Ted’s short-cropped brown hair. Ted softly punches his arm, and they exchange a laugh.
“Happy to help.” Callum gestures to me standing at his side. “This is Nikki, one of the most talented chefs on the island.”
Now I’m the focus of Ted’s relieved smile. He shakes my hand. “You know that’s quite a compliment coming from him, right? He never compliments anyone, not even his friends.”
I catch Callum’s eye roll. My heart thuds with giddiness. “Really?”
Ted narrows an eye at Callum, then turns back to me. “I’m officially jealous, but seeing as you’re saving my skin tonight, I’ll let it go.”
Ted huffs out a breath, pulling the lapels of his suit jacket.
I look at Ted. “Don’t worry. We planned the whole menu on our drive here.”
“Thank fuck.”
“Is that your new catchphrase?” Callum asks.
I swallow back a chuckle and follow Ted as he leads us across the lobby to the dining area. When we reach the kitchen, my jaw unhinges. It’s a stainless steel haven with shiny appliances everywhere I look. A trio of kitchen workers decked out in white jackets glide across the kitchen cleaning and prepping. Ted clears his throat, and they all look up.
“Sorry for all the chaos of this morning, everyone, but these two are here to save the day.” Ted gestures to us. “Callum and Nikki are two food truck rock stars from the west side of the island who have graciously offered to take over dinner service tonight. I have no doubt that they’ll serve up a brilliant meal for our guests.”
Callum and I shake hands with the staff and look in the fridges and walk-in to figure out what we have to work with for tonight.
“I know food bloggers are a notoriously critical bunch,” Ted says. “But I have faith in you.”
I whip my head back to Ted. “Did you say food bloggers?”
He nods. “Apparently, some big-shot Maui vlogger arranged tonight’s dinner as part of a social media retreat for a bunch of local food bloggers. Matteo something or other.”
I nearly fall into a nearby shelf, but Callum catches me by the arm before I topple the endless stacks of metal bowls.
“Wait, so . . . so every major food blogger in Maui is going to be dining here tonight?” I stammer.
Ted nods, an easy smile on his face.
That means every major food blogger is going to see Callum and me together, which will unleash a wave of gossip about us. If they see us cooking side by side after only ever seeing us fight before, they’re going to jump to some pretty dramatic conclusions—and will certainly post about it online. It might lead to an uptick in business like before, but if the organizers of the Maui Food Festival catch wind of this—which they probably will if someone here publicizes it—they will likely assume we’re working together and disqualify us from the contest prize. No way in hell will I let that happen.
I hold up a hand to Ted. “One sec.”
I yank Callum’s arm, pulling him back into the hallway outside of the kitchen. The door swings shut, giving Callum and me a semblance of privacy.
I smack his arm, but it barely registers as a pat against his solid mass. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me we’d be cooking dinner for every foodie with an Instagram account in Maui?”
Callum holds his hands up. “I didn’t know. Finn didn’t mention it this morning when he told me about it. You were there, remember?”
We pause and take twin deep breaths. It’s only marginally soothing.
I wring my hands. “Remember how they recorded our arguments and posted them online? They’ll be chomping at the bit to upload a photo of us together tonight just so they can cook up some drama and get more hits to their blogs.”
“So?”
“Callum, seriously?”
My voice echoes through the hall, capturing the attention of a resort employee walking on the opposite side. Both Callum and I mutter sorry at the same time.
“If the organizers of the Maui Food Festival find out about us serving together, they could see that as fraternizing and disqualify us from the festival. I need a fair shot at that money, Callum. So does my mom. Don’t tell me you and Finn wouldn’t want a proper shot at it too.”
He blinks for a second before refocusing on me. “I understand. I want that too.”
“Then we can’t let this get out. We can’t let anyone see us together.”
He shakes his head, the muscles of his jaw pressing against the lightly stubbled skin. “Fine.”
Hot air fills the space betwee
n us. We’re both fire-breathing dragons again.
“Now how do we fix this? How do we make sure this doesn’t get out and that no one sees us?”
Leaning his head back, he closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. When he opens his eyes, there’s renewed focus in his stare.
“I’ll explain the situation to Ted.”
I shoot wide eyes at him.
Callum frowns. “I’m not going to tell him our personal stuff. God, Nikki. What kind of person do you think I am?”
I look away, fixating on a nearby plant before Callum says my name in that low growl I die for. I turn back to him.
He clears his throat. “I’ll tell Ted that things need to remain quiet because of the upcoming festival. I’ll tell him that we’re going to stay in that kitchen the entire night and that no one is allowed in other than staff.”
The invisible fist squeezing my chest loosens. “Perfect. Thank you.”
He grabs my hand, and that fist disappears completely. The warmth I felt when I woke up next to Callum in his bed resurfaces.
“It’s going to be fine, Nikki. Promise.”
I turn around and head back for the kitchen. “I hope so.”
* * *
• • •
I finish plating the final deconstructed lumpia on a small plate, then smile up at the server. “They’re ready.”
I eye the plates I’ve assembled. Each plate boasts a crispy fried wrapper at the bottom, then a generous tablespoon of flavorful ground pork sautéed with minced carrots, cabbage, and water chestnuts. It repeats for three layers, a sprig of cilantro topping each one.
I say thank you to the servers when they swipe the plates from the kitchen and file out to the dining room.
Callum flashes a thumbs-up from the stove. “Excellent job.”
A breath lodges in my throat. This is the first time I’ve had the chance to look at him longer than a few seconds since prepping and cooking began. The awkwardness of last night and this morning feels a million miles away. We make a surprisingly good cooking duo.
We prepped smoothly side by side, as if we’d been working in the same kitchen together for years. There was no bumping into each other, no crowding each other’s work spaces. Just an effortless, unspoken harmony.
The other best part: being back in a full-size restaurant kitchen. Nerves grabbed hold of me the second I started mise en place, but it all came flowing back to me the minute I grabbed that first clove of garlic and began mincing.
All I had to do was focus on the moment. Focus on the moment with the food in front of me. Focus on the moment with the man standing next to me.
Now that the appetizers are out, I can breathe. I stare at the line of empty white dishes lining the metal table in the middle of the kitchen, then glance up at Callum. We’re good again. We’re hookup buddies—friends—and temporary cooking partners. Nothing more, nothing less. And as long as I keep that at the forefront of my mind, I can indulge in a seconds-long glance at him. We’ve got five minutes until we start cooking the main course, and I want to take every moment to soak in the exquisite visual he’s giving me.
“You really know how to work a kitchen,” I say.
He crosses his arms against his chest. Perfectly tanned forearms jut from the rolled sleeves of his crisp white chef’s jacket. Saliva coats my mouth as I take him in. He looks like some sort of male model–chef hybrid. The relaxed way he leans against the metal edge of the stove, easy smile on his face, it’s more like a still from a glamorous photo shoot than a real-time moment in a busy kitchen.
“You say that like you’re surprised,” he says.
“I’m not. It’s just cool seeing you in action. All those years of working in your gran’s bed-and-breakfast have paid off.”
“That helped me with my cooking skills more.” He turns to check on the temperature of the oven as it preheats. “I learned how to work a kitchen after spending my early twenties in restaurants.”
He gently wrings out his hands at his sides. Automatically, my eyes fixate on his thick fingers and how deftly they move.
“So that’s how come you’re so good with your hands,” I say.
His lips twitch upward ever so slightly. “It is. I can chop, sauté, dice, whisk, knead. Massage. And rub. Among other things.”
I bite my lip. This feels like some sort of indecent kitchen pillow talk. My eyes skim the shiny metal surface of the nearby prep table. If only there weren’t a handful of servers due back in the kitchen at any minute, I’d demand he bend me over the shiny cold surface and show me for the millionth time just how good he is with his hands. That’s a decidedly friends-with-benefits thought.
I shake my head and glance at the clock. Only four minutes of ogling time left.
“You look like you’ve got something on your mind.” It’s as if he can read the naughty thoughts crowding my head.
My eyes fall to the floor. It’s time to rein in the pornographic kitchen euphemisms and focus back on the task at hand.
“I just hope they like the deconstructed lumpia. It’s a little pretentious. I don’t know why I didn’t just cook my regular recipe.”
Callum swipes a stainless steel saucepan from the shelf above him and sets it on a spider burner. “We tasted it before it went out, remember? How many times do I have to tell you that it’s bloody delicious?”
He flips on the burner and tosses a stick of butter in the pan.
I fetch a vat of diced scallions from the walk-in and set them next to the stove. I look up at him. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
He gazes down at the butter, which is slowly melting into a rich foam. “That idea you had to stack the fried wrapper sheets between the minced pork was genius. Foodies go wild for that stuff.”
Heat finds my cheeks, and not just because Callum’s hot body is an inch from mine. But because of how genuine his compliment is. I’ve been so fixed on perfecting the comfort food menu for the food truck and festival that I haven’t had much time to experiment with more daring recipes, like I did in my old job. My stomach was in happy knots the entire time I prepared my appetizer. I’ve missed playing around with creative recipes.
“Is that what the foodies at the restaurants you worked at told you?” I ask.
Callum shakes his head, chuckling. “I worked in pubs. Those aren’t the kind of places foodies care to go to.”
“Not true. Even foodies know that pub grub is some of the tastiest food there is. Anyone who turns their nose up at fish-and-chips and meat pies doesn’t have a clue what good food is.”
Callum winks at me before pulling a tray of single-serving-sized chunks of mahi-mahi from the walk-in. “Will any of your recipes from tonight be showing up at the festival?”
I ladle the scallions into the melted butter, then wag my spoon at him. “Nice try. I’m not revealing anything.”
Callum shrugs while staring at the pot of butter, a gleam in his eye. “Just curious.”
“I’m not going to ask you if the tempura-crusted mahi-mahi you’re making for tonight’s entrée is something you’re planning for the festival. That stuff is sacred and I don’t play dirty.”
He sets the tray of fish on the prep table, places a hand on my hip, and pivots me to face him. His other hand rests under my chin. The sound of metal clashing on metal hits my ears. All of a sudden my hands are empty. I must have dropped the spoon on the stove when Callum pulled this deliciously suave move on me just now. But I don’t care. It’s an excuse to have his hands on me. I’ll take it.
“Oh, you play dirty, Nikki.” His eyes bore into me. “Just not in the kitchen.”
The kitchen door swings open, causing both of us to take identical steps away from each other. Callum turns to the prep table while I stare at the scallion butter like it’s the most intriguing substance in the universe.
A serv
er darts to the wine rack in the corner for a fresh bottle, then the door swings open once more.
“Everyone’s loving the canapés,” Ted announces, beaming. “Well done, Nikki!”
He skips over to Callum and slaps him on the back. “I hope your part of the main is as good as her starter, mate.”
I sneak a peek at Callum, who’s biting back a grin. He turns back to the stove top and begins to sear the fish. “I hope so too.”
Ted leans against the prep table, still grinning. “Those deconstructed lumpia were like magic. At first everyone was annoyed that the original chef couldn’t come, but once those came out, the muttering died down. I heard nothing but chewing and humming. Music to my ears.”
Another server walks in and deposits an empty tray in the sink just as the server carrying wine walks out. No chance of finding out just how down and dirty Callum wants me to go with the kitchen now functioning like Grand Central Station. Instead I put my head down and focus on preparing the best possible main with Callum: tempura-crusted mahi-mahi on a bed of pineapple fried rice.
For a solid hour, we cook and plate, the bodies passing in and out of the kitchen our white noise.
Callum wipes a rogue droplet of his ginger soy reduction from the rim of the plate with a tea towel. He stares with laser focus, even as people move around him. I wonder if all those years working in finance gave him the nerves of steel he seems to possess. I can’t remember seeing anyone this unflappable in the kitchen.
We hand off plates to waiting servers one by one, and it’s like a perfectly choreographed dance. Plate after plate changes hands over and over, until Callum and I are left alone in the kitchen, standing side by side, our hands on our hips, staring at the door.
“We did it.” He speaks through a rough sigh.
“It was stressful, but . . . exhilarating.”
“So.” He unbuttons the top button of his chef jacket. I suppress a moan. I’m back to burning up.
“Decided that your bestselling food truck fried rice was too good for my lowly seared fish?” His playful tone makes me chuckle.