Finally she squeezed the juice from the membrane into a bowl and handed it to Max. “Use this in the vinaigrette.”
He had cleaned the tuna and now cut it into pieces. She glanced at the clock, discovered that fifteen minutes had passed and she hadn’t yet dropped the ramen noodles into the now-boiling water.
Max seemed to read her mind. “I’m on it,” he said, grabbing the noodles.
Meanwhile Grace spread out the oranges on the cutting board and found the blowtorch.
“Please, let’s not catch anything on fire,” Max said, standing guard over the boiling pot.
“Stand back, 9A. You don’t want to mess with a girl and her brûlée.”
He laughed, and so did the crowd.
They were miked. How could she forget that?
Max must have seen her expression because he touched her arm, met her eyes. “It’s just us,” he said softly. “Focus.”
She nodded quickly and reached for the sugar. Focus. Forget the crowd. She sprinkled sugar on the oranges, then ran the torch over each one to melt it. She added a touch of sea salt across the brown, crispy surface as Max pulled the noodles from the water. He ran them through a cold rinse, then arranged them in custard cups.
“How long under the broiler?”
“One minute? Maybe two? I don’t know.” She stood back, glancing at the hippies. They’d concocted a sort of ceviche, it seemed, leaving the noodles uncooked and crunchy. Max had his arms folded now, willing the noodles to harden. Behind her, she saw the military boys sautéing their ahi, creating a soup with green onions, cilantro, and noodles. The oranges they’d hollowed out, as if to house the soup. What they’d done with the fruit meat, she couldn’t guess.
“It’s coming out.” Max reached in with his towel to grab the tray. “Hot! Hot!” He slid it onto the counter and jerked his hand back. “The towel’s wet.”
Grace cast a look at the clock. Six minutes left.
Max ran his hand under water while she poured Max’s vinaigrette over the ahi, added salt, and massaged it. “Did you add the orange—?”
“Yes!” He turned off the water, grabbed a fresh towel, and transferred the custard cups to a plate. Carefully, he turned each dish over, catching the shells in his hand, then plating them.
They’d turned out perfectly, a nest to cradle the ahi. Grace placed a spoonful in each nest as Max added two slices of oranges to each cup. She garnished the three cups with black poppy seeds and stepped back just as Palani called time.
Max slipped his hand into hers, and Grace just about cried with relief.
But she’d never had so much fun in all her life.
One course down, three to go. Max still didn’t know how they’d hung on. Not against the hippies’ tropical ceviche or the military team’s ahi bisque in an orange cup or even the aloha siblings’ orange poi sauce over ahi. He’d clearly underestimated the competition.
He had to admit, however, that Grace might have saved the day with her brûléed orange supreme. She’d even named their dish, the words rolling off her tongue as she presented it to the judges: “Ahi tartar in a rice noodle cup, garnished with char orange supreme.”
It sounded like something out of a gourmet magazine. With their appetizer course, Max had stepped into a surreal world of culinary dominance, especially with the elimination of the military team.
In a crazy way, it felt as if he were in the Cup play-offs, only . . . better. Max wanted to shout or pump his fist in the air or . . .
Maybe just sweep Grace into an embrace, although that didn’t seem appropriate for the competition.
And definitely not safe for his heart.
But oh, she’d done something to him—he felt it, and it was more than just wanting to weave his fingers into her hair, take her in his arms. The feeling exploding inside went way beyond wanting to kiss Grace Christiansen.
He had changed clothes, perched himself on the Mustang, waiting for her as she emerged from the changing rooms. She wore shorts, a tank top, and carried a string backpack over her shoulders.
She high-fived him. “Way to go, master chef.”
Oh yeah, he was in trouble. He found his voice. “You’re in the driver’s seat tomorrow.”
She climbed into the passenger side. “I don’t know. We made a great team today, but I can’t plate like you can.”
“So I’ll plate, but you—” he got behind the wheel, grabbed his aviators—“you’re in charge of amazing.”
“Huh?”
He grinned. “I think you know what I mean.”
She smiled and slid down in her seat. “So where to today, cruise director?”