When I Fall in Love(13)

I don’t have time. I’m leaving. I’m going to culinary school.

But for her mother, she would have brandished it. However, Ingrid just looked at her, one eyebrow up, and Grace said nothing.

Except, wait—“No. Who wants to go on vacation alone? Especially Hawaii.” She gave Eden a small, almost-sad grin as if to say, Oh, what a great idea . . . but even you wouldn’t travel alone.

Well, Eden probably would.

“You won’t be going alone. We booked the trip through the Blue Ox travel agency. If you go this summer, you can go with Max Sharpe, Owen’s old teammate.”

Grace stared at her, a fist in her gut. “You set me up? It’s a vacation date?”

“What? No. Of course not.” Eden frowned at her. “I didn’t set you up—”

“It sounds like a setup.”

“Well, Max isn’t exactly painful to look at. C’mon, you remember him, right?”

“Eden, you’re the one who loved hockey. I showed up with cookies. I haven’t the faintest idea who may or may not have been on Owen’s team.”

“He’s got short dark hair and pretty brown eyes and—”

“Who has pretty brown eyes?”

Jace had come up on the deck, dressed in faded jeans and a white T-shirt that evidenced he hadn’t lost any of his hockey brawn, despite his retirement from professional hockey earlier this year. He set a folded paper on the table. “Hey, a green smoothie.” He reached for Eden’s glass and Ingrid beamed.

“Max. I was talking about Max Sharpe,” Eden said. “Grace thinks we set her up.”

Jace put down the cup, swallowed. “No worries there, Grace. Max isn’t . . . Well, he’s a lot of fun, but he doesn’t date. Ever. I’m not sure why, but it feels like he might be one of those guys who prefer to be single.” He lifted a shoulder, raising the cup again. “I think he’s more committed to his career.”

Grace didn’t know one hockey player who didn’t like a pretty girl on his arm. She searched Jace’s face for guile, but he seemed to be telling the truth. He finished off Eden’s smoothie. “Yum.”

“You would say that, Popeye.” Grace eyed the smoothie, however.

“Grace, go to Hawaii,” Ingrid said. “You’ll make friends. It’ll be fun, I promise.”

Grace felt heat flushing her face. “I’m not a kid, Mom. I know how to make friends. It’s not that. It’s just . . .”

And then her words stopped as everyone looked at her. Waited.

There it was again, the flimsy excuse, on the tip of her tongue. She couldn’t look at her mother. “It’s a busy time at the restaurant.”

“You’re staying because you need to make pizza?” Amelia’s tone wheedled inside, stung.

Grace’s mouth dried, her voice sticking deep in her chest. She wanted to nod or something but couldn’t move.

Then—hallelujah—Owen drove up. His motorcycle battered the silence. Everyone turned as he parked his bike just beyond the deck and got off, still wearing his tuxedo from last night.

He lifted two fingers, as in “Peace out,” and headed to the house.

It was her mother’s expression that unglued Grace’s words. The way her worried gaze followed Owen’s exit, the cheer draining from her face. The vivid, raw realization that her youngest son just might be destroying his life.

Grace, go to Hawaii. She even felt her mother’s eyes on her.

Oh, why not? She glanced at heaven, shot up a tiny prayer. She had no desire to get into this by herself.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll go. Why not, right? Live dangerously.” Grace reached for her glass.

She could survive three weeks in Hawaii. It wasn’t like she was going to prison, after all. It might even be fun.

Grace stared at the smoothie, then lifted it to her mouth and drank it down.



Max just wanted to get the fight with his brother, the game of hockey, and even the pressure of too many fans out of his head and be anonymous for three weeks. Was that so much to ask?

And he might actually succeed if his sister-in-law would let him off the phone. “Won’t you come to Ava’s first birthday party? Please? I know you and Brendon aren’t talking, and it’s just killing him.”

“Yeah, well, he shouldn’t have ambushed me.” Max wrapped the towel around his neck, sweat dripping between his shoulder blades, his body still trembling. She’d called him between sets, and he hadn’t looked at the caller ID before answering. The Blue Ox training room swam with the smells of off-season conditioning—sweaty towels, the odor of hard work. Across the room, his goalie, Kalen, lay on the bench press, spotted by a couple trainers.