When I Fall in Love(47)

“Sorry, dude.”

Keoni said nothing as Max led her outside, handed his ticket to the valet.

“Max, you should stay. I’ll get a cab—”

“No.”

She didn’t know how it was possible to shiver in Hawaii, but she felt as if she were standing in the middle of a Minnesota snowstorm at the height of January.

In fact, in that moment, she longed for it.



Grace just had to wear that dress.

Just when Max had all his feelings tightly in check and somehow managed to keep himself safe from her effect on him, she had to appear in a dress that could make him forget his own name.

It skimmed over her body like a glove, flaring out just above her knees, the V-neck tempting his eyes to travel where he could get into big trouble. She wore heels, accentuating her beautiful legs, and with her hair piled on top of her head, blonde curls dripping down around her face, she looked nothing like the woman he’d spent the last two weeks with, covered head to toe in her white chef’s apparel.

The moment the elevator doors opened, his breath had squeezed from his lungs, the band around his chest cutting off even his heartbeat. Images from their practice sessions over the past week flashed before him—flour on her chin that he longed to nudge off with his thumb, the way she laughed at his hockey stories while perfecting her poke, even her teasing towel whips as she shooed him away from her manapua dough.

He could nearly hear the walls crumbling, a gritty, brutal crash that left him weak as she floated off the elevator, turning his world to Technicolor. He hadn’t realized he’d been living in black and white and muted grays until that moment.

He smiled . . . or thought he did—he couldn’t remember. And he’d tried to compliment her but had only a vague recollection of something terse emerging from his mouth.

However, whatever he’d offered wasn’t enough because he’d hurt her—he got that when she looked at him in the car, her blue eyes holding back pain.

Right then he’d wanted to pull off to the side of the road, turn to her, and . . .

And . . .

And this was why he agreed to escape the reception. Because if Keoni looked at her again like he’d seen a wave at Mavericks, Max just might toss the surfer chef into the drink. He hadn’t missed her conversation with Chef Michael Rogers on the lanai either. The man had stepped inside the door and gulped the rest of his wine like a shooter of tequila.

Well, Grace did that to a guy. Appeared in his life and knocked the wind right out of him. Max could use his own stiff drink. Or maybe a run down the sand into the cool breeze, the darkness, to clear his head instead of thinking about . . .

“Are you mad at me?”

Grace sat beside him in the convertible, clasping her scarf in front of her. The wind played with her hair, tugging at it, twining long golden strands into the breeze.

“No,” he said but conceded that yes, he sounded angry. Or maybe just focused, although she might not know the difference. He schooled his voice. “No, I’m not angry. I’m . . . I wanted to get into the competition.”

Actually, that wasn’t remotely the truth. He couldn’t care less about this competition, other than its giving poor, desperate him a reason to spend more time with her. As if he could truly teach her something.

Grace could cook circles around him—he’d figured that out on day three when she’d rescued his haupia. He might have taught her how to make a few Hawaiian dishes, but she knew exactly what to add to enhance flavor. She’d even suggested a few substitutions, thinking on her feet. Two days ago she’d created a mouthwatering chicken curry variation to manapua. Yesterday she made mahimahi tacos with fresh cilantro slaw that could make a man follow her to the mainland.

Not that he would, because they were only vacation friends. Just here for another week.

He couldn’t think about that either. Because in a week, it would all be over, every glorious minute where he’d duped himself into believing this would be enough.

Except if she dropped out of the competition, she might also drop out of class. Even get on an airplane.

He couldn’t move, his hands white-gripped on the steering wheel.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to be in it also,” she said quietly. “I don’t know what came over me. I just . . .”

He glanced at her, and—oh no, was she crying? Max grimaced and pulled into the nearest parking lot, one stretching along Waikiki Beach, and turned off the car.

For a long moment, he said nothing, only listened to the waves wash to shore, back out again. How had he turned into such a jerk? “I’m sorry. I know I sounded mad and probably even overly competitive—”