Too Hot to Touch

by Louisa Edwards

  Why had she even bothered? One way or another, once they found out the team’s fate, Max was gone.

  A knock on the door shocked Jules out of the strange moment of suspended disbelief—how could she have let herself forget, even for a moment?—and she hurried to answer it, glad of the distraction.

  Glad, that was, until she opened the door to find Gus and Nina in the hallway … and right behind them was her mother.

  Jules’s emotions clashed horribly, yo-yoing between joy at seeing Gus, up close and in (pale, disconcertingly frail) person, and the chaotic blend of disappointment, bitterness, and helpless love the sight of her mother always produced.

  “Gus.” Jules was almost afraid to hug him, he looked so gray and tired, but he held his arms out and she more or less fell into them. “You look great,” she lied.

  “Pfft. Come on, Jules, I raised you better than that,” he said fondly, then froze, as if he’d realized at the same time Jules did that the woman who’d actually raised her was about a foot away. Maybe Tori hadn’t heard the comment?

  Jules pulled away awkwardly to glance at her mother. Tori’s nude-brown lipsticked mouth was pressed in a tight line. She’d definitely heard. Crap. Could this get any more awkward?

  “Come on in, everyone,” Jules said, forcing a bright, happy tone. “The more the merrier. Who wants a drink? I know I do. Beck?”

  “On it,” was his terse answer as he moved to the miniature fridge set under the wet bar on the far side of the room. It was a really nice suite, spacious and elegant.

  Although it felt considerably less spacious with two sets of parental figures lingering just inside the door.

  “Looks like we’ve got just about anything you could want, in airline-bottle sizes,” Beck said, dangling a collection of miniature liquor bottles from his big hands. “Or there’s a couple beers, and some wine.”

  “Go on and sit down with the others while I find a bottle opener,” Jules volunteered, moving quickly to the bar. “Anybody else want a drink? We don’t have a lot of mixers, but I can crack open one of these bottles of wine. Danny? Max? Win?”

  Aware that she was talking too fast, but unable to stop herself, Jules took refuge in her search for the corkscrew.

  Behind her, she could hear conversation, happy exclamations from Gus and Nina about how well they’d done, and rehashing of every single one of the judges’ comments.

  Without warning, a soft, white hand tipped with lethally long, sharp nails coated in candy pink reached into the drawer under the wet bar sink, and came out holding a corkscrew.

  Cursing the thick-piled carpet that had masked the click of her mother’s stiletto heels, Jules straightened up with a smile.

  “Thanks, Mom. You want me to—”

  “Goodness, yes.” Tori laughed. “I’ve never been able to manage one of those.”

  Jules managed to uncork the bottle of wine without commenting on how glad she was to be the kind of woman who could pour her own damn drink without waiting for some man to come along and do it for her. That was progress, she thought.

  Crap. When did I become so judgmental?

  Determined to try harder, Jules smiled at her mother before bending to unearth the lone pair of wine glasses from the shelves beside the fridge. “I’m glad you came to the finals today. It means a lot to me.”

  “Oh honey.” Tori’s familiar hazel eyes filled with tears. “Of course I came. It was my first chance to see you in action! I just wish they would’ve let us into the kitchen to watch you actually cook. But the judging was fun, too.”

  Pouring out a generous helping of cabernet into each of the two glasses, Jules handed them both to her mother, then grabbed a beer for herself.

  Tori made a face at the beer. “I’ll have a glass of wine, thanks. Who’s the other one for?” She turned back to the group of chattering Lunden’s crew. “Anyone? Wine?”

  “What kind is it?” Gus asked, ignoring Nina’s exasperated reminder that he wasn’t allowed to mix alcohol with his medication.

  “Um,” Tori said, looking at the glasses. “It’s red.”

  “There, see?” Gus gave his wife a triumphant grin that was only a little worn around the edges. “Red wine’s good for the heart, everyone knows that.”

  “We’ll share it,” Nina said, accepting the glass from Tori. “Thank you. And you,” she told her husband, “get enough for the toast, and that’s it. I don’t want to go back to that hospital for a long, long time. Understood?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Gus grumbled, but Jules noticed he didn’t make much of a grab for the wine glass.

  “I was just telling Juliet how much fun it was to hear the judges’ comments,” Tori said. “They sure seemed to like what you all cooked. I’m sure your scores will be high. Although”—she pursed her lips playfully—“I bet the scores would’ve been even higher if you’d dolled up a little, Juliet. I mean, I know you love the”—air quotes—“tomboy look, but would it kill you to slap on some makeup and brush your hair?”

  Something inside Jules shriveled. One of her hands flew up to test the messiness of her braid, unsuccessfully smoothing at the flyaway hairs.

  “Jules always looks beautiful,” Max said, standing up abruptly. “Can I share your beer?”

  She offered it to him wordlessly, and leaned gratefully into the strength of his body.

  “Beautiful, and talented, too,” Gus said, taking up a position on Jules’s other side, so that before she knew what was happening, she was flanked by Lunden men, their support a tangible, solid wall all around her. “We’d never have made it this far without Jules.”

  “Well, of course she is,” Tori stammered, her cheeks redder than bronzer alone could account for. “But still. It never hurts to put your best foot forward.”

  Swallowing hard against the painful lump in her throat, Jules was unprepared for the way it broke apart and nearly choked her when, from across the circle of people, Nina Lunden met her gaze and said, “You must be so proud of Jules, Mrs. Cavanaugh. I know we are. We couldn’t be prouder if she were our very own daughter.”

  “So here’s to the Lunden’s team,” Danny said, raising his miniature bottle of Chivas. “No matter what the judges say, and how this all turns out, I’m proud to have cooked with each and every one of you, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

  Max handed the beer back to Jules, condensation making the glass chill and slippery against her fingertips. When she took a sip, the rich, sour, yeasty taste of it rolled down her throat and spread warmly through her chest.

  It felt like acceptance.

  Chapter 30

  Tori Cavanaugh Clarke Whatever didn’t stay long after the Lunden family closed ranks around Jules. Max didn’t think he’d ever been prouder to be a Lunden than in that moment.

  The party got a lot less formal and a lot more fun after that, with Danny drawing Jules down on the sofa with him to laugh at the way Winslow was blowing off steam by attempting to climb Beck like a tree.

  Nina went to rescue Beck, whose usual stoicism had started to fray under Win’s enthusiastic overflow of frantic energy, leaving Max standing with his father.

  “How are you feeling, Dad?”

  “Don’t start. I’m still here, aren’t I?” Gus grumbled, but there was a deep contentment in his eyes.

  “And believe me, we’re all grateful for that. Still, I can’t believe Mom let you come to the judges’ panel today. Hardly what you’d call a relaxing, rejuvenating experience.”

  “Especially since I couldn’t be in the kitchen, helping with the cooking.”

  Part of Max wanted to reflexively stiffen up at that, wanted to assume a crash position and fire back something defensive, but he just couldn’t. Not because he was afraid his father couldn’t take it—severe angina wasn’t enough to truly weaken the force of nature that was Gus Lunden—but because Max had just witnessed a few stark differences between the ways a parent can interact with a grown child. And while he and his father had never had a
smooth, easy relationship, there was nothing in it of the casual thoughtlessness shown by Tori Cavanaugh. She clearly had no idea how much her criticisms hurt Jules, but obliviousness was no excuse, as far as Max was concerned.

  It had taken everything Max had not to throw the woman out of the suite.

  “I hope you won’t be disappointed with the results,” Max finally said. “I know how much it means to you, getting into this competition. Lunden’s is a great restaurant, always has been. You deserve your chance to represent the East Coast.”

  He was a little surprised to find that he meant every word of it.

  “I hope we get our shot,” Gus said. “And if we do, we’ll all owe you a big thank-you.”

  The man’s voice was gruff but achingly sincere, and Max fought the urge to squirm by straightening his shoulders and standing taller.

  “I’d do anything I could to help you. All of you. I hope you know that.”

  Gus quirked a little smile, along with one of his heavy eyebrows. “Even cook steak, huh?”

  Max’s heart squeezed for an instant. There was so much unsaid between them, so many questions Max wanted to ask, clarifications he wanted to make, but instead, he pulled a deep breath into his lungs and held it there, hoping against hope that he was understood.

  “I did it for you,” he told his father, who turned to clap a solid, strong hand on Max’s shoulder.

  “I know you did, son. And what you said to the judges about it, about how you honor the past by looking for new ways to build on it—I get it. I’m an old man, sue me; it took me a long time, but I did finally get it.” The faded blue eyes were steady on Max’s face, and there was a look in them he hadn’t seen in years. “I know why you left home and what you got out of all those places you lived. And I understand why you want to get back to that life.”

  The chokehold around Max’s heart wouldn’t let up; it was getting hard to breathe.

  “Dad—”

  “No, let me finish. This has been a long time coming, and it’s way overdue, according to your mother. I’m proud of you, Max. No matter what you choose to do with your life, whether you stay or whether you go, I’m proud of the man in front of me.”

  The squeezing sensation had progressed from heart to lungs to throat. Max could hardly get the words out, but they were important. “You deserve a lot of the credit for that,” he said. “You and Mom. I don’t think I ever really appreciated what you gave Danny and me, and Jules, too, but I do now. I love you, Dad. I’m fucking lucky to be your kid, and I know it.”

  Gus used the hand on his shoulder to pull him in for a brief, forceful hug. He smelled so familiar, like wood smoke, black pepper, garlic, home—Max choked in a breath and pressed his forehead to his father’s shoulder, then pushed back.

  Stepping away, he became aware that the rest of the group had quieted down and were sitting on and around the couch watching Gus and Max as if they were a particularly involving and dramatic soap opera.

  Max’s gaze went immediately to Jules, who looked as close to tears as he’d ever seen her, but was smiling hugely.

  “So we’re all friends again?” Danny said, breaking the emotionally charged silence. “Perfect timing! I was starting to worry you two wouldn’t work your shit out before Max flew off to Italy.” He gave Max a half-smile, as if to make the point that he didn’t resent Max for leaving again, but Max wasn’t sure he bought it.

  He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

  “Language,” Nina said, mock-frowning through her happiness.

  It wasn’t all that convincing, but Danny gave an outraged squawk anyway. “Hey! Max said the f-word to Dad. Why doesn’t he get scolded?”

  “That was in the middle of a heartfelt father-son reconciliation,” Winslow explained. “The rules are different. Everybody knows that.”

  And they were off to the races. Everybody on the team had an opinion on when it was permissible to curse in front of “the parentals,” as Winslow called them.

  Before moving to join the discussion, Gus slapped Max on the back, making him sway. God, he was tired. Almost asleep on his feet.

  He looked around the suite. It was a hotel room. What were the odds there was a bed through any of those doors?

  Jules extracted herself from the couch, where Danny and Winslow were currently arguing over her head about whether or not “douche waffle” counted as a swear word, and came over to lace her fingers through Max’s.

  “You look beat,” she told him. “It’ll be a couple of hours before we hear anything, I’m betting. Want to go lie down?”

  “Only if you come tuck me in,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. The next instant, he slapped a hand to his forehead. “Crap, sorry. That’s awkward. I shouldn’t have … in front of everyone … I mean, obviously, you don’t want to come take a nap with me. Fuck, I’m babbling. Ignore me.”

  He tried to smile, but it must not have been a very good attempt, because Jules’s face went serious and intent. But all she said was, “Come on. Bedroom’s back this way.”

  And with her hand firmly wrapped around his, she led him away from their family and into the quiet seclusion of the suite’s bedroom.

  When she closed the door, shutting out the noise and laughter and chatter from the main room, she said, “I want to be with you. And I don’t care who knows about it.”

  There was a strength, a sureness to her that made Max hard. He licked his lips, feeling his blood start to throb heavily in his veins.

  Backing toward the bed with her hand still captive, Max let gravity tip them onto it in a warm, wonderful pile.

  “Thanks for keeping me company,” he told her, close enough to her ear to draw a line up the outer shell with his tongue.

  He loved the way she shivered when he tasted her. He loved the way she tasted.

  Max loved a lot of things about Jules Cavanaugh, as it turned out, especially the way she fit against him, evenly matched from chest to belly to hips to knees, and the way she rolled them until she was on top, propping her forearms on his chest to look down into his face.

  “I thought you were exhausted,” she said.

  Max blinked, hands stilling on her hips to hold her in place. “What, you mean too exhausted to want you? Baby. That’s not how it works. At least, not with a woman as unbelievably sexy as you.”

  Her slow smile lit up the dimness of the room, but her gaze dropped to his chin, sort of bashful.

  “So,” she said, bumping his nose with hers. “You don’t ever wish I was more … I don’t know. Frilly?”

  He laughed, and she froze, the sudden tension of her body glaringly obvious after the way she’d been melted into him, and with a shock, Max realized she was serious.

  * * *

  Oh my God. Why did I say that?

  Jules wished frantically that there were some way to recall the words, swallow them down back into the dark depths of her psyche where they belonged.

  “Your fucking mother,” he growled, brows drawn down like thunder. “The next time I see her, she better run.”

  “What? No, it’s not about her,” Jules protested, then paused. “Okay, yes, she makes me crazy. And what exactly are you planning to do when you see her, anyway? I thought Buddhists were against violence.”

  “I wouldn’t consider myself truly Buddhist,” he hedged.

  “Well, Christians are supposed to be antiviolence, too,” Jules pointed out, starting to feel less like faking her own death was her only way out of this conversation.

  “Okay, fine,” Max said. With a whipcord twist of his body, he reversed their positions so that he lay pressing Jules into the soft mattress, surrounding her with his heat. “You got me. The next time I see your mother, I won’t smack her. Probably. But I reserve the right to be pissed at her for ever making you doubt how insanely gorgeous you are.”

  Jules shivered under him, every inch of her skin thrilling to his nearness. “I bet you say that to all the girls,” she said, breathless.

  “Nope. You’re
the first girl whose mother I’ve threatened.”

  “It’s not as if she’s the only one who ever made me think maybe I should doll up sometimes. Every girl I ever knew in middle school and high school thought I was a freak for not plucking my eyebrows and wearing a pound of makeup every day. And boys—come on. Every guy I’ve been with has dropped hints about wearing sexier clothes, or high heels.”

  “Personally, I love the natural look,” Max said.

  “All guys say that,” Jules argued, “but the girl they take to the prom is usually not the one who comes to school in a Yankees jersey and scuffed sneakers.”

  “I’m serious,” Max protested. “I like to see your actual skin. Makeup would just be in the way.”

  “Sure, you say that now, but did you ever notice me when I was in high school? No. You didn’t.”

  Wow, where was all this coming from? Appalled at herself, Jules wriggled, trying to get out from under Max, but he bore down and kept her trapped under his solid, muscular weight.

  “Jules,” he said. “I noticed you. But you were Danny’s friend, and younger, and—”

  “It’s fine,” she said quickly, focusing her gaze over his left ear. “I shouldn’t have even brought it up. I just meant … yeah, my mom’s not perfect. She definitely turns me into an insane person, and not just about the girly thing. But sometimes.” Jules sighed. “I don’t know, sometimes it’s so freaking exhausting to stay angry with her.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” Max said, his tone throbbing with enough sincerity to turn her eyes back to his.

  And thinking about the way Max and his father had finally managed to talk through some of their problems, Jules could feel herself relaxing under him, because yeah. Max did understand.

  Even if he didn’t know the whole story.

  Suddenly, it seemed ridiculous that he didn’t. What was she waiting for? What sign would ever occur to convince her it was time to open up?

  The time was now, she realized. Because if not now, then when? Her time with Max was almost up. And as much as she wanted to spend whatever hours she had left storing up good memories to last her when he took off, she hated the idea of him leaving without ever really knowing her.