When I Fall in Love(104)

With Grace’s car. And Eden had left early to eat breakfast with Ingrid.

Which meant Grace had to find a ride to the reception venue.

Max wasn’t answering his phone, so she hung up after the third ring, feeling foolish. Needy. He was probably already at the venue putting the pig on the grill.

She called Casper. He sounded ragged around the edges but picked her up on his bike thirty minutes later and ran her over to the warehouse. He hadn’t shaved, wore a black T-shirt and jeans, and looked like he’d spent the night staring out the window, his eyes rimmed with red.

“Are you okay?” she asked as she climbed off the back of the bike. She reached out to him, but he forced a smile. Oh, Casper. He just couldn’t let anyone see that far inside.

“I’ll be back later. You need anything?”

“Maybe a ride to the wedding? I don’t see my car anywhere.” She frowned. Neither did she see Max’s Audi. “You haven’t heard from Raina, have you? I thought she’d be here.”

“No,” he snapped. “Sorry. I have no idea where she might be.” He revved his engine. “Try Owen.”

Owen? “He’s in town? Why didn’t he show up at the rehearsal?” And what did that have to do with Raina?

Casper had a grim set to his mouth. “Why does Owen do—or not do—anything? Do you know if Raina and Owen ever . . . ?” He swallowed, his jaw tight.

“Casper?”

“Nothing. I can’t even think it. I’ll be back later.”

She had the urge to run after him, to stop another moment when she saw someone she loved driving away, not returning. She was clearly letting her fears bleed into her imagination.

Grace made her way to the kitchen and found the staff busy with their assigned tasks. One crew brandished knives, cutting the fruit kebabs, while a small cadre of chefs assembled the salads, covering them with cellophane and setting them back in the cooler. She found Ty talking with the cake decorator, a pretty blonde about her mother’s age whose team was delivering the cake sections in boxes.

“Where’s Raina?” she asked.

“Dunno,” Ty said. “I thought she’d be here. We still need to get the pig on the grill.”

“Max isn’t here either?”

Ty shook his head. She stifled the spear of panic. No problem. He’d be here—he wouldn’t let her down, not for this.

“Okay, let’s get the pig on the grill.” Grace donned her chef’s coat, tied her hair into a net, and worked on a pair of rubber gloves while Ty directed the cake lady to the table in the meeting area. She stepped outside and called an assistant over, a girl with long black hair caught up in a net. “Can you get the coals cooking?”

“Yes, chef.”

Yes, chef? Okay.

Back inside, she went to the cooler. “Ty, I need your football muscles.”

The animal hung from its haunches, and she put her back into it as she lifted the pig’s front. Ty unhooked it from the rack, and together they carried it to the stainless counter.

A few of the student chefs came to admire the animal.

“How many people will this pig feed?”

“About eighty. It’s over 125 pounds, so I think it’s enough.”

Grace had made the injection fluid last night—apple cider, apple juice, and water. Now she took the needle, filled it with juice, and bent over the body. Working in the hindquarter area, she injected the meat just under the skin, then began working her way around the body.

She’d attracted a small crowd. It felt a little awkward to be helming a crew of culinary students—especially since she hadn’t actually attended culinary school—but she didn’t betray her secret.

Or failure. Although she’d stopped thinking about it.

In fact, she hadn’t felt like a failure since Hawaii. Since Max had helped her believe in herself.

She massaged oil into the pig’s body, head to toe. “This helps keep the skin color even, will crisp it up.”

Weird, now she felt like she might actually be teaching.

She glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes had passed, and if she didn’t get the pig cooking soon, they’d have to stall Eden’s wedding.

“Ty, let’s get this animal on the grill.” She took the front hooves, Ty grabbed the back, and they lifted it onto the portable grate one of the students had brought in from the cooker.

She seasoned the animal with sea salt, granulated garlic, black pepper. “What’s the temperature?”

“It’s 225,” her grill chef answered as she stirred the coals with a shovel, evening them out.

“Add some of that hickory wood,” Grace said, gesturing to the bundle by the door. The grill chef replaced the drip pan and set a bucket under the spigot that would collect the runoff grease.