When I Fall in Love

by Susan May Warren

  “Did you sleep well?” she said.

  He advanced into the room, and for a second she thought he’d stop, take her into his arms. But he scooted past her, leaving the fragrance of freshly showered male in his wake, and headed for his clothes. “I gotta run.”

  “Oh.” She didn’t look at him, feeling naked as he climbed into his dress pants. “I thought we could have breakfast together.”

  “I don’t do breakfast.”

  She startled at his tone, something cool and detached in it. Then she slid her hand to the neck of her robe and closed it. “Okay, could we . . . um . . . ? When am I going to see you again?”

  She nearly jumped when his hand touched her shoulder, and she looked up at him. Still bare-chested, his wet hair in dark, tantalizing curls around his face. He hadn’t shaved, of course, his whiskers blond and ragged across his chin.

  “I had a good time last night, Raina,” he said with a smile. “Thanks.” He ran his finger along the base of her jaw, then leaned in and kissed her.

  Pitiful her, she wanted to lift her arms, tangle them around his neck, but he made no moves to deepen the kiss. To hold on.

  In fact, when he pulled away, he winked. “I’ll look you up next time I’m in town.”

  Look her up . . . ? Oh.

  She bit her lip, hating the tremble that began inside as she watched him pull on his shirt, button it, then slip into his shoes. It all reeled in front of her as if in slow motion, and a cold realization slid through her.

  Then, as if to add to the surreal, raw truth, Aunt Liza knocked on her door. “Raina, sweetie, I’m not sure if you’re up, but I left you some eggs and bacon on the stove. I’m heading into work.”

  Raina froze. Swallowed. “Okay! Thanks! See you tonight.”

  Owen waited, his eyes hard, saying nothing until the front door closed. Then, “You live with your aunt Liza?”

  She nodded, but not before he shook his head, running his fingers through his hair, turning away but not quite stifling a blue word. As Liza pulled out of the driveway in her VW Bug, he moved away from the window.

  Hmm. Not quite as cocky as he had been.

  But it didn’t erase the hurt when he rounded on her. “Sheesh, Raina, you might have mentioned that.”

  “What?”

  “We live in a small town. She knows my parents. If she’d caught us—”

  “That’s what you’re worried about?” She stood there a moment, shaking. “I thought . . . I thought we had something . . .”

  “We did.” He glanced at the bed, found a smile. “Boy, did we.”

  If he thanked her again—

  “Thanks.”

  She found his suit jacket, her hands shaking. “Get out.”

  He frowned. “Why are you so upset? I thought you wanted this—”

  “Get out!”

  “Wow. Okay, fine. Way to turn a good time into something creepy.”

  Her eyes burned even as she opened her door to him.

  Owen strode past her. “Welcome to Deep Haven. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

  She followed him to the front door, nearly slammed it, and locked it behind him.

  Clearly she’d read Owen—and his family—completely wrong. If she never saw another Christiansen man again, it would be too soon.

  The thought of sandy beaches should not produce a panic attack. Nor should it make a gal tangle herself in her quilt, staring at the ceiling fan all night.

  As if she were slated for execution in the morning.

  Now Grace could hear them—the voices of her family drifting up the stairs to the second-floor bedroom she shared with Eden and Amelia—but the thought of turning down their gift kept her glued to her bed.

  She was ten again, on the eve of summer camp.

  She would simply tell them . . . no. No, she couldn’t go, didn’t want to go. Thank you, but no.

  Grace listened to the shower in the bathroom at the end of the hall turn off, waited until the door whined open, then propelled herself out of bed.

  When all the Christiansens decided to return home, the lineup could take hours. And she had to get this over with.

  By the time she grabbed her bathrobe, however, someone else had commandeered the room. She sat in the hallway until the door opened again. Casper walked out, looking freshly shaved, his dark hair in wet curls, wearing a gray Go Fishing or Go Home T-shirt over cargo shorts. “All yours.”

  Grace grabbed a clean towel and emerged twenty minutes later from the small upstairs bathroom. She should get her own apartment, but her parents hadn’t exactly kicked her out. And she’d appreciated the opportunity to save for culinary school.

  Ha.

  She pulled on yoga pants and a T-shirt and padded downstairs. Her mother stood at the granite island counter dressed in a pretty yellow shirt, chopping up an apple, orange slices, and fresh pineapple. She’d shoved almond milk, spinach, and kale into a blender.

  “What are you doing?” Grace asked, going around her in search of coffee. She found dregs, still warm, in the bottom of the twelve-cup pot. Glanced at the clock. Apparently the frenzied week before the wedding had finally crept up on her.

  “Making a green smoothie. I read about it online.”

  Grace watched as Ingrid dumped the fruit in on top of the vegetables. “A green smoothie?”

  Ingrid slid the lid on, held it, turned the blender on high. Raised her voice. “Yep. I think it’s time for us to expand our palates. And eat more whole foods.”

  Grace pulled out the coffee filters, lifted out the old, and inserted a new one, then measured a new batch of coffee grounds. She spotted Amelia and Eden on the deck. Took a breath. She had to tell them now, before everyone dispersed for the day.

  Her mother poured a glass of horrid-looking lime-green froth.

  “Mom, no,” Grace said as Ingrid handed it to her. “Absolutely not.”

  “Just try it. Live dangerously.”

  “I like safe.” She turned back to the counter. “Where’s the toaster?”

  “I put it away to make room for my Vitamix.”

  “But I like my morning toast.”

  Ingrid threw more fruit in with a couple handfuls of spinach. “No more toast. We’re going green.”

  “I miss my donuts,” Grace said.

  “You’ll thank me someday.”

  She followed her mother outside, where the wind meandered through the trees, adding a pine scent to the morning. The promise of blue skies suggested a triumphant Memorial Day. A year ago, the resort would’ve been full—or maybe Grace should think back further, to the days of her childhood when the parking lot would start filling up every Friday night, to the big bonfires down at the lake, to her mother’s chocolate chip cookies and s’mores by the fire.

  Now the place seemed almost barren, dormant as new plants struggled for life after last summer’s fire. Darek and Casper had managed to construct seven new cabins over the course of this year, and the redolence of sawdust hung in the air. Thankfully, the forest fire had spared the lodge; she wasn’t sure where she might have landed if God had taken that from her.

  At the picnic table on the deck, Eden paged through a bridal magazine, Amelia looking over her shoulder.

  “I like this one—look at that train,” Amelia said.

  Grace slid onto the bench beside them, glanced at the picture. “Too much tulle.”

  Butterscotch ran over and shoved her muzzle into Grace’s lap. She rubbed the golden retriever mix behind the ears.

  Ingrid was pouring out more green smoothie. “Drink up, ladies. It will make you strong and beautiful.”

  Eden lifted her glass, making the same face Grace had probably made. “Mom—”

  Ingrid held up her hand. “Zip it. It’s good for you. Time to try new things.”

  Grace smelled her smoothie. Wrinkled her nose. “No.”

  “That’s the lovely smell of nutrients.”

  “Not bad,” Amelia said, licking her lips. “Tastes like . . . um . . . hmm.
What is that taste?”

  “Green?” Grace put down the cup. “Listen, I need to talk to you—”

  “Not until you have your spinach.” Ingrid gave her a strange smile.

  “Fine,” Grace said, swallowing down the concoction. Not sweet, a little . . . acidic. But not especially bitter. “I might be able to live with this if I get my donut too.”

  Ingrid rolled her eyes. “Seriously, you need to try new things. Eat more vegetables.”

  “And go to Hawaii,” Eden said quietly.

  Oh, shoot. “About that—”

  “Make yourself useful.” Eden slid another magazine her way. “Find a venue.”

  Grace opened the magazine—a Minnesota edition of The Knot—and started paging through the index. Okay, maybe she’d needed some coffee fortification. “What’s this? Finally decided to set a date?”

  Eden closed her magazine, something in her grin making Grace nervous. “What?”

  “I figured it out. Last night.” She touched Grace’s arm. “You’re going to cater our wedding.”

  Grace froze. Glanced at Amelia, who apparently agreed because she added a hearty nod.

  “No—listen. Ivy’s wedding was a small gathering of friends and family. You’re marrying Jace Jacobsen, former enforcer for the St. Paul Blue Ox. Future hockey Hall of Famer. You’ll have the entire team, not to mention press, there—”

  “Shh.” Eden leaned in. “Breathe, Grace.” She had captured her blonde hair into a messy ponytail and wore a lime-green shirt, capris, her toenails painted a bright . . . green? Grace nearly didn’t recognize her uptight sister since Jace popped the question. As if his words had birthed a new, vibrant Eden.

  An Eden who’d moved on from Deep Haven. And although Darek had stayed behind to run the resort, he’d certainly turned a page in his life.

  Time to try new things. Her mother seemed to be sending her thoughts directly into Grace’s brain.

  Grace ignored her. “I don’t think you want me catering your wedding, Eden. Didn’t you see how I nearly set the folk school on fire?”

  “Please, Grace. That wasn’t your fault. You’re an amazing chef—”

  “No, I’m not. I know how to follow a recipe, sure, but I’m not a chef.”

  “But you will be! After your three weeks in Hawaii—”

  “A culinary vacation hardly qualifies me to be a caterer.”

  “It does if we want to have a Hawaiian theme! Isn’t that brilliant?”

  Uh-oh. But there was no stopping Eden when she had a great idea. Or what she thought might be a great idea. Which included meddling in her siblings’ lives.

  “You can cook us a menu based on what you learn on your Hawaiian vacation.”

  “Eden—”

  “I love that idea,” Ingrid said. “A Hawaiian theme.”

  “Seriously? Hula skirts and leis? That’s what you want for your wedding?” Grace said. Amelia grimaced, agreeing with her.

  “No, of course not. But tropical, maybe. With passionflowers and orchids? Right?” Eden flipped to a page in the magazine. “Like this. See—it’s pretty.”

  Grace studied a picture of an outdoor venue draped with red, white, and teal curtains, tall orchids arching from milk-glass vases on the seafood-laden tables. And in the middle of it all, a bride and groom clasped hands on a deck, tying the knot in bare feet.

  “Did you really set a date?”

  “October 21.”

  “You want to get married in October, barefoot?”

  Eden snatched back the magazine. “Hey, you were the one who said you wanted to open a catering company. C’mon, Grace, you could do this. You could cater our wedding, and just think of the contacts you’d have. It’s not going to be huge, but you’re right; there will be some important people there. This is a chance of a lifetime.”

  Grace almost reached for it. The I’m going to culinary school line she’d been throwing down for the past three years since finishing her online degree. The line that gave her rent-free living, an excuse for extra hours down at Pierre’s Pizza, and even kept her friends from setting her up with every stranger who happened through Deep Haven.

  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 br
other, 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.

  “He’s really sorry, Max. You have to know that. You’re so busy, and he didn’t want to ask over the phone.”

  “I called. I left a message. It’s on him.”

  Silence. Then, “He just wants to find a cure.”

  “Don’t we all? But there is no cure for HD, and I’m not going to be the poster boy for pity. Listen, I’ll try to make the party, okay?”

  “Max—”

  He hung up, put the phone on a bench, then went to the pull-up bar and grabbed ahold. Twenty-five pull-ups and he’d call it quits. He didn’t want to be sore for culinary school.

  Max poured it all out on the ice eleven months of the year, from the Blue Ox summer camp, to training camp, to preseason games and PR events, to photo shoots, to the grueling weekly schedule all the way through play-offs and into the championship. He smiled and gave interviews and conditioned and showed up early for practice and lived and breathed and dreamed hockey.

  For one measly month—no, three weeks—he just wanted to cook. Just wanted to enjoy slowing down, creating culinary delicacies, expanding his palate. . . .

  Max Sharpe, chef.

  He was on twelve when his phone vibrated again. He let it go until he hit fifteen, then dropped and scooped it up. “Lizzy, listen—”

  “Lizzy?”

  Oh, Jace. He blew out a breath, testing the impatience roiling through him. Normal or overly sensitive? He schooled his voice into something flat, easy. “Hey, dude. Sorry. I thought you were someone else. You back in town?”