Grace took their tray forward and set it before the judges. “We have a carob Spam mousse, topped with candied kiwi and roasted macadamia-nut garnish.”
Keoni raised an eyebrow, a smile hinting on his face.
Rogers nodded, and Tonie glanced at Max with a smile.
Grace stepped back, bit her lip. Held her breath.
She pinpointed their demise on Keoni’s face, the first to finish his spoon of mousse. Disappointment, almost pain, creased across it.
Then Rogers grimaced and lunged for his water.
“Oh, this is terrible!” Tonie actually took her napkin and spit the mousse out.
Beside her, Max hung his head, even as Grace stood there, stunned. “What—? I don’t understand.”
“Do you know the difference between salt and sugar?” This from Tonie, who had finished her water and asked for more.
“I do—”
“Well, something isn’t right. I’m not sure if it’s the kiwi or the mousse, but this is inedible.”
Grace couldn’t move. She mentally retraced her steps. Sugar—she’d put that on the right side of the stove, the salt on the left, but maybe she’d picked up the salt . . . Or what if she’d given Max the salt, and he’d mistaken it for sugar? They’d been working so fast that—
“I think our winner here is clear,” Rogers said. He motioned the hippies to the front, even as Palani announced Grace and Max’s fate.
Chopped.
She stood stunned for a long moment, until she finally felt Max’s hand on her arm. He led her offstage and she watched, still numb, as Palani presented the couple with their check.
They’d lost. How could they have lost? They were so brilliant, so resourceful, such a magnificent team.
Max had turned away, a hand cupped behind his neck.
“This is my fault,” she said, realization slowly burning through her. “I gave you the salt—or rather, I set it down, and you probably mistook it for sugar. Or maybe I salted the kiwi—oh, Max, I’m sorry.”
He looked at her, his eyes fierce, almost angry. Then he shook his head. “I’m so sorry, Grace,” he said quietly and walked away.
She stood there, frozen, rain dripping down the sides of the tent as he walked to his Mustang, got in, and drove away.
Max couldn’t look at himself. Couldn’t face the person he’d become, especially after seeing Grace’s face when the judges tasted the mousse. He’d nearly bolted then, but he’d stayed until the end.
But when she blamed herself . . . he nearly lost his stomach right there.
He felt like he’d put the puck in his own team’s net.
He went straight to his hotel room, opened his duffel, and began to pack. He didn’t fold anything, just shoved it as fast as he could into the bag.
Grace had already sent him a slew of text messages, and now he reached for his phone and turned it off, slipping it into the pocket of his shorts. He didn’t need a message from Grace to tell him what kind of jerk he’d become. How he’d completely betrayed them. He already knew.
He’d thrown the contest. He knew perfectly well which ingredient he was adding to the mousse when he reached for the container.
For a second there, he thought he wouldn’t have to do anything to slide into second place. The hippies always managed to wow the judges, present something creative but local, giving the food a Hawaiian twist.
Then they had to go and drop their Spam. And in a blinding flash, Max knew, just knew, he and Grace would win.
That’s when he became a saboteur, a shyster, a betrayer.
He couldn’t face her.
He picked up the duffel, threw it over his shoulder. He’d buy a ticket when he got to the airport. He took the stairs down so he wouldn’t see her, spied on the lobby for a long moment, then scooted across it to the checkout counter.
“Did you enjoy your stay, Mr. Sharpe?”
He kept his voice low. “Yeah. Sure. It was great.” He pulled his baseball cap lower over his eyes. Please don’t let Grace walk in right now.
The thunderstorms had dried out, a warm sun beginning to bake the pavement, evaporate the puddles. The air hung on to the moldy, thick odor stirred up by the rain. Muggy. On a day like today, the surf should be calling him. He had planned an afternoon of celebration. They’d surf, and then he’d seriously considered telling Grace how much she meant to him. Approaching the idea that maybe they could have more.
Until, of course, Brendon’s phone call. The rude awakening to the brutal fact that Max would never escape who he was, even in Hawaii.
When he’d agreed to his brother’s plan last night, he hadn’t actually thought they might win.
He should have known better—should have known Grace better. He did know her better.