When I Fall in Love Page 25

  He tried not to lunge too desperately to refute her words. “No—I want to help. How can I help?”

  Please, let me help.

  “I hear you’ve got a magazine shoot Saturday.” He could see her, dressed in a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, her blonde hair in a messy ponytail. The ache filled his chest, turned his voice ragged. “I could . . . We could—”

  “Oh, Max, it’s just a disaster.” Her voice broke a little then, and there she was, his teammate, the woman who, for a while, felt closer than any friend he’d ever had.

  “What’s going on, 9B?” He took a chance with that but couldn’t help the tenderness in his voice.

  “I threw around a few different menus and finally settled on poke and manapua, misoyaki butterfish . . . but I couldn’t find butterfish anywhere, so Casper ordered it sent in, and we just found out it’s on its way to Milwaukee, not Minneapolis. It’ll get there and the dry ice will be dissipated and I’ll have rotten gourmet fish—”

  “There’s no butterfish in Minneapolis?”

  “I’ve called every fish market, but they only have the usual—tuna, salmon, some local varieties, and shellfish. One place hadn’t even heard of butterfish. I tried to substitute with mahimahi, but even that I have to fly in. And the worst thing is if I don’t get it today, I’m sunk. The butterfish has to marinate for at least twenty-four hours.”

  He got up, closed his locker. “Okay, so the butterfish is taking a side trip to Milwaukee. You know, there’s not a lot to do in Milwaukee. No surfing, no parasailing—”

  He got a giggle and it only urged him on, like the roar of the crowd.

  “Listen, I got this. You don’t worry about a thing.”

  “Max, you don’t have to—”

  “Please don’t say that, Grace.” He grabbed his stuff and left the locker room. “Because I do.”

  She sighed and didn’t fight him. “Thank you.”

  “Come to Minneapolis. The butterfish will be waiting for you.”

  “I’m actually in Minneapolis. I’m staying at my sister’s.”

  She was?

  “Um . . . how would you feel about a trip to Milwaukee?”

  “Now?”

  He could hardly keep himself from shouting. “Uh-huh. I’ll pick you up in an hour?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Grace . . .”

  More laughter. “Right. I’ll be ready.”

  He hung up and pushed through the double doors to the parking lot. The rain had stopped, the slightest hint of sunshine breaking through the clouds.

  Max had chartered a plane to fly them to Milwaukee and rescue their butterfish from the coastal food market, the mistaken destination of her order.

  The sheer generosity of his action took Grace’s breath away, and by the time they’d returned from their adventure Thursday night, her determination to keep him off the playing field of her heart had taken serious hits.

  She kept clinging to her moment on the beach, when she’d recommitted her heart to Jesus. She hated how fickle it now proved to be, how easily she turned to Max, hoping he might pull her into his arms. Reignite the flames that he’d stirred in Hawaii.

  “Ready to flash sear the ahi?” Max stood at his stove, a beautiful stainless steel gourmet appliance that fit perfectly in his condo kitchen. In fact, she could live forever in his made-for-an-Iron-Chef work area. A Sub-Zero fridge, a long black quartz countertop, two sunken sinks, and a bar for guests. It all looked into a living room with an oversize leather sofa, a flat-screen TV. On the screen, a rerun of an old Blue Ox game played on the NHL channel. Max barely looked at it as he cooked.

  This Max she recognized, the one dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, barefoot and wearing an apron.

  This was her favorite Max.

  Or maybe it was the fact that cold and nervous Max, a man she nearly didn’t recognize, had vanished two days ago, somewhere over Eau Claire.

  Sports-cover Max had met her at Eden’s door, tucked her into his Audi convertible. He slicked up well—she knew that—but to see it in person unnerved her. He’d worn a suit jacket over a printed tee, a pair of fancy shoes with his jeans.

  Grace, on the other hand, had destroyed Eden’s apartment looking for something that didn’t feel like either a Saturday afternoon on the sofa, watching the Lifetime channel, or Sunday at the park. She finally settled on skinny jeans, a sleeveless shirt, and sandals.

  She still felt underdressed and silly sitting next to Max Sharpe in his fancy convertible, driving to the airport and being treated like she was royalty.

  After they’d climbed aboard the plane, Max shucked off his jacket, sat down across from her, and smiled. It was the smile, the same one he’d given her just before he put a snorkel mask on her face, that hinted at the man behind the polish. The troublemaker who pushed her, even surprised her with what she was capable of.

  Oh, her fickle heart had wanted to push her into his arms at that moment. She stayed planted in her seat, however, listening to him talk about team injury updates and forecasts for the next season—all stuff she’d never heard him mention before, as if he hadn’t wanted to broach the hockey topic.

  Maybe forgiving him for hurting Owen had freed Max to share this part of his life with her.

  He’d then turned to menus and recipes.

  “Why don’t you flash sear the ahi for the poke, for those who can’t manage fully raw fish?”

  Then he’d moved on to her dessert problem. Sure, they had a cake ordered, but Eden also wanted something Hawaiian—

  “What about a macadamia nut–coconut cake? You could serve it with a warm coconut glaze.”

  Yeah, she’d wanted to kiss him right then, and it didn’t help that the shine in his eyes, the warmth, told her that he’d missed this too.

  They made ingredient lists as they flew over Wisconsin’s heartland before touching down in Milwaukee. He’d suggested dinner out, but she reminded him of their marinating schedule.

  How she loved a man who would fit his life around the seasoning needs of a fish.

  They arrived home after dark, but instead of dropping her off at Eden’s, he’d brought her back to his place.

  No romance on the agenda, he worked with her to whip up the marinade, a mixture of sake, mirin, sugar, and miso. He’d stored it in his refrigerator, turned, and high-fived her.

  She would have preferred a hug, but maybe that wouldn’t do her any good. Not if she hoped to stay untangled from the disaster looming at the conclusion of Eden’s wedding when he walked out of her life for good.

  Now Max finished searing the ahi, plated it, and put it in the fridge to chill. Meanwhile, she’d diced the green onions and thinly sliced some Maui onion she’d found at the food market he’d taken her to yesterday. Next she prepared a sauce with a dab of mayonnaise, pickled ginger, masago and shoyu from the Asian market, sesame oil, and Hawaiian salt that he just happened to have in his cupboard.

  She’d died and gone to culinary heaven.

  “We’ll plate it with a swirl of the mixture, then the ahi and some greens and the onions.” He held a towel in his hand. “Let’s see how the cake is doing.”

  They’d prepared the cake in individual Bundt pans, and it saturated the kitchen with the aroma of the islands—nutty coconut, fresh vanilla bean. He opened his oven, pulled out the pan. Set the spongy cakes on the baking board. “We’ll let these sit for a few minutes, then remove them from the pans and poke holes in them. When we get to Jace’s place, we can warm them, then pour the glaze over.”

  Eden had rightly chosen Jace’s place for tonight’s photo shoot, although they could have easily taken the shots here in Max’s beautiful kitchen overlooking the Mississippi River.

  “What’s next?” he asked.

  Next? Oh. “We’ll grill the butterfish at Jace’s, and I have a Waimanalo salad with greens, an orange, an avocado, goat cheese, and macadamia nuts.”

  “Yum.” He tossed the towel on the counter. “I think we’ve got this, 9B.”r />
  The name took her breath, just for a moment, and she nodded, hating the sudden rush of tears and her still-tender heart.

  She turned away, untying the apron.

  “Grace, are you okay?”

  She nodded again but didn’t look at him, just tossed the apron over a chair and headed for his bathroom.

  Grace washed her hands. Stared into the mirror. He hadn’t done anything, really, but be kind to her, and if it weren’t for that night on the boat, she might dupe herself into believing that they were—could be again—friends.

  She closed her eyes. “Lord, You know I gave my heart to You. And that was for keeps. So help me to keep Max in his rightful place. Help me not to start wishing for things I can’t have.” She spoke the words softly so she could hear them, remind herself. “Help me trust You.”

  Do you love Me, Grace?

  “You know I do, Lord.”

  Then feed My sheep. Be his friend.

  She blew out a breath. Yes, she could be a friend.

  “Grace, we gotta go!”

  She exited the bathroom and saw that he’d packed all the food in various containers. A real traveling gourmet. A reminder to check on service supplies and the staff at Eden’s venue struck her as she picked up the warm cakes and followed him out of the condo.

  He put the food in his trunk, stacking it carefully. “It’ll be fine for the trip to Jace’s.”

  She trusted him—the man seemed to care more for her photo shoot than she did.

  Although, admittedly, the spread would get her the recognition she needed to launch her business. A business that Max had helped her set up yesterday online. A few clicks to a web template and suddenly she felt real.

  Grace’s Catering, “Distinctive food for distinctive events.” She even listed her cell phone number and displayed pictures of their cooking event that he’d grabbed off the Internet.

  Yes, he made her feel real.

  “Thank you, Max,” she said as they drove to Jace’s.

  “Hey, it was fun.”

  Fun. Like “Hey, let’s shoot some hoops, play some hockey” fun. Buddy fun. Okay, Lord. I can be his friend.

  When they pulled up to Jace’s, Max let the valet park his car while they brought the food upstairs. Jace met them at the door in a pair of dark dress pants, a gray metallic shirt, a black tie. Inside, Eden had spiffed up too, wearing an emerald-green dress.

  The power couple.

  A photographer worked to set up the shoot in the dining area. A man about Grace’s age—young, hip, wearing jeans and a printed button-down shirt rolled up at the sleeves—adjusted photography umbrellas to even the light. The writer for the piece had commandeered Eden for an interview.

  Grace felt a little like the hired help as she entered the kitchen, but Max appeared anything but fazed as he unloaded their supplies.

  Eden excused herself from the interview and sidled up to Grace. “So . . . how is everything going?”

  “Fine,” Grace said, almost too cheerfully. But she didn’t have time to explain. Especially with Max firing up the oven. “Oh no, I need a broiler pan,” she said to Eden, but Max produced one from the drawer under the stove.

  Broiler pan, check. It only reminded her that everywhere she turned, Max kept saving her.

  “Go out to the deck with Jace. We got this,” Grace said, wishing she felt her words.

  Max looked at her, winked.

  Oh, boy.

  She put the butterfish in to bake, then plated the poke. Meanwhile, Max warmed the cakes in the oven, then made the coconut sauce.

  “Did I hear correctly that you’re Maxwell Sharpe, from the Blue Ox?”

  The writer had come in off the deck, nosing around the kitchen. A blonde with curves, wearing black slacks, a white blouse and vest, she leaned over Max, a little too much interest in her posture.

  “I have a pretty delicate sauce here,” he growled.

  Grace shot him a look but didn’t say anything. For a second, memory flashed. He’d used that same tone on the last day of competition.

  “Are you involved in the catering company or just helping out a teammate?”

  “Excuse me; I don’t want to burn you,” he said, taking the saucepan off the stove. He poured the sugary syrup over the cakes, each on its own dessert plate.

  “Oh, that looks good,” she said.

  Grace pulled the salad fixings from the fridge, began to assemble it.

  “What kind of salad is this?”

  “It’s called Waimanalo salad, from the Ko‘olau Range area in Hawaii. It’s a mix of romaine, red kale, red oak leaf, arugula, and lollo rosso. There’s also some curly cress and tatsoi, an Asian green, along with some island favorites—oranges, avocado, goat cheese, and macadamia nuts. On it, I’m drizzling a dressing made from Maui onion and olive oil.”

  “Sounds delicious.”

  “I hope so.” Grace went to the oven, pulled out the butterfish, moved it to the broiling rack, and set the heat to broil. “We’ll be setting the table in five minutes.”

  The photographer had moved in, started snapping shots, and she cringed. No one told her she’d be in the shot, and she wore her jeans and pink Evergreen Resort T-shirt.

  A real beauty.

  But then Max came up next to her. “Ignore them. Smile. You have a pretty smile, 9B.”

  Oh, Max. He had the terrible ability to knock her off her feet. She never knew when she might get blindsided by his tease, his devastating smile.

  She carried the salad to the table, then went after the poke. By the time she returned, Max was plating the butterfish. Perfectly caramelized on the top, the broiler had blackened the edges and turned the fish to a beautiful burned-butter color.

  The smell was so good it could roll her eyes back into her head.

  Max added the plates to the table and uncorked a bottle of white wine while Grace garnished the cakes with whipped cream, kiwi, shaved coconut, and a dusting of macadamia nuts. She set the cake plates on the table. Max lit a long silver taper candle.

  “Wow.” Eden had come in off the deck and stared at the meal. “That is beautiful. Isn’t it, Jace?”

  He stood behind her, his expression looking like a mixture of feigned happiness and dread. “Is that fish?”

  “Butterfish. We had it flown in from Hawaii and marinated it for the last two days in misoyaki sauce,” Grace said. “The salad is made from local greens, and this is poke. It’s seared and served with a spicy Asian mayonnaise sauce.”

  “Grace, this is amazing,” Eden said.

  She felt Max slip his hand into hers, and for a moment, she stood again before the judges. She wrapped her fingers around his.

  The photographer zeroed in on the food, taking shots from every angle. Finally he suggested a pose of Eden and Jace eating.

  They pulled up chairs, lifted their wineglasses. Another shot. Then, while Eden tried the butterfish, Jace speared the poke.

  Grace couldn’t read his expression. Max’s hand tightened on hers.

  “This fish is delicious. Try it, Jace,” Eden said.

  He looked like he might be going in for gallbladder surgery, the way his face twisted. A darkness began to spread through Grace.

  He cut the butterfish, forked it. Slid it into his mouth. Swallowed.

  “See?”

  He nodded. “Delicious.”

  “Let me get a shot of you eating the fish, Mr. Jacobsen,” the photographer said.

  Jace took one bite, then another, finally asking, “You need a third?”

  “One more.”

  But to Grace’s eye something didn’t seem right. Jace’s eyes had started to water, his voice turning raspy. She untangled her hand from Max’s, ran to the fridge, poured him some water, and returned.

  “Jace, are you okay?”

  He coughed. “Yeah.” Except his voice sounded as if it had been run over a washboard. He drank the water, then got up. “I’ll be right back.”

  Eden put down her napkin and followed him from
the room.

  Grace stayed for a moment, her eyes on Max, then followed Eden.

  She found them in Jace’s bathroom, him rooting through his medicine cabinet. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m allergic to certain kinds of fish.”

  “What? How come I don’t know this?” Eden said.

  “I don’t know. We never eat seafood—” He coughed. Tears ran from his eyes.

  “But didn’t you look at the menu?” Eden said.

  “That’s your . . . job . . .” Jace slapped his cheek.

  “What’s going on?” This from Max. Pretty soon they’d have the entire magazine crew in the bathroom with them.

  “Jace is allergic to fish!” Grace said.

  Max closed the door, trapping them inside. “Well, don’t let them know.”

  Grace turned to Jace, who had sat on the edge of his giant Jacuzzi tub. “The man is going into anaphylactic shock. We’re going to have to hospitalize him. How are they not going to know this?”

  “I’m not . . . Oh no. Make way—” Jace dove for the toilet.

  Max and Grace turned away.

  “Whoa. Okay. I’m getting rid of them,” Max said.

  Grace stood there, stricken, watching Eden press a cold cloth to Jace’s forehead.

  She’d taken out the former enforcer for the St. Paul Blue Ox with a butterfish. Her hand found the counter, and she leaned against it. “What did you think we were going to serve on your Hawaiian menu, Jace?”

  He leaned against the wall, sweat beaded across his forehead. “A roast pig? Maybe some pineapple?”

  Oh, boy. She might be ill right alongside Jace. “I’ll go help Max get rid of them.”

  Eden caught her hand. “I’m so sorry, Grace. For the record, I thought it was delicious.”

  “It was good . . . just deadly,” Jace said.

  Yeah, she could pretty much use that description for the last two-plus days. She found Max in the kitchen, cleaning off the plates. “I sent them home with the Bundt cakes,” he said.

  Grace shook her head. “He wants a pig.”

  “Huh?”

  “You know, dig a hole, light a fire, add a pig, shove an apple in its mouth. Jace thought we were having a luau.”