Too Hot to Touch Read online

  Her fingers twitched involuntarily, itching to run through the short cowlicks. Standing motionless and indoors, Max Lunden managed to look as if he had wind in his hair.

  Because that’s who he is, she reminded herself. A guy in perpetual motion. Sure, he’s back—but not for good. Keep him at a distance, get whatever competition tips out of him you can, remember your promise to Gus, and everything will be fine.

  She knew how to do this. She was a professional, damn it.

  God knew, she’d always been better at that than at the personal stuff, anyway.

  Jules let the dining room door swing shut behind her and hiked the nylon strap of her knife roll higher on her shoulder. She moved forward, hand outstretched, a determined smile on her face.

  “Hi,” she said, going for calm and easy. It came out more robotic and weird, but there was no help for it—this was an awkward moment, at best. At worst? He’d remember the gangly teen girl with stars in her eyes whenever she looked at him. “I’m Jules Cavanaugh. Sous chef here for the past year and a half.”

  Recognition lit Max’s blue-gray eyes, almost surprising Jules into dropping her hand.

  “Well, well. Little Juliet, all grown-up.”

  She tensed, getting ready for a smart-ass remark about her stupid, schoolgirl crush. “I go by Jules now.”

  “It’s so nice to see you again.” Max enfolded her proffered hand in both his large, warm palms, sending a strange shiver of electricity dancing up her arms. “Although, really. Nice doesn’t begin to cover it. Danny, for shame, keeping this loveliness all to yourself.”

  Before Jules could overcome her confusion and jerk her hand back, he’d raised it to his mouth for a quick kiss. His stubble scratched the backs of her fingers, but his mouth was soft and hot. And when he glanced at her over their linked hands, that mouth was curved in a wicked smile that spoke volumes about the hot, sweaty, naked things he’d like to do with her.

  Or maybe I’m just projecting, she thought dazedly as she snatched her hand away from him and put it behind her back. Because this bore a startling resemblance to the onset of one of her better teen fantasies, where they met as equals and she gave him the cold shoulder, forcing him to work hard to win her.

  Except this was real life, not some fantasy, and in real life, letting guys get away with playing grabby hands never ended well.

  Clearly she needed to keep her distance from Max physically. Which was maybe easier said than done when rubbing the backs of her fingers against the worn, ribbed cotton of her tank top couldn’t scrub the memory of his touch out of her brain.

  Max rocked back on his heels, shoving his hands into his pockets, and said, “So. Juliet Cavanaugh. I assume my parents have been talking your ear off for the last however many months, telling you how awesome I am, and filling your head full of stories of my impressive talents in the kitchen.”

  “Um. Not so much,” Jules said, shooting a glance at Danny, who shook his head and went back to his prep work.

  “No? I should take this opportunity to set the record straight, then.” Max heaved a deep sigh. “It’s all true.”

  “What?”

  “Everything they should’ve told you about me,” Max explained. “And I don’t know why they didn’t, because it’s all true. No exaggeration or family bias plays into it at all—I am the best chef in the entire world.”

  Danny snorted in the manner of one who’d heard this line before. Jules narrowed her eyes at Max, who stared back innocently, an expression of pious truth on his face. She couldn’t help it—she knew he was kidding, he was practically winking and inviting her into the joke—but somehow, it caught her on the raw edge of the conversation she’d had the night before with Gus and Nina when they’d broken the news that Max was definitely coming home.

  Max is a good boy, with a good heart, Nina had said, her softly lined face lovely when creased with a smile of pure joy and anticipation of her son’s return. He can be a little careless, sometimes. She’d shot a look at her husband, unusually subdued. Max doesn’t always think about how his actions will affect others.

  Jules had to agree. Max clearly didn’t understand the effect he was having on her, right now.

  “Best chef in the world, huh?”

  “Yup. I’ve been all over the world to check it out myself, personally, and I’m here to tell you. No one can touch me in the kitchen.” He propped one lean hip on the counter, throwing his long-muscled form into stark relief, and grinned at her. “Well. You can, if you want.”

  “No need,” Jules said, working to keep her voice even. “You might be the best chef in Europe, or wherever, but just so we’re clear, you’re not the top dog around here.”

  His eyes went a little wide when she didn’t pick up his flirtatious cues, but he shrugged. “Hey, no worries. I don’t need to be on top.” Pausing, he quirked one brow outrageously before continuing smoothly, “I like to be on the bottom every now and again.”

  Jules wondered if there were some sort of daily sexual innuendo quota he had to meet. The danger of being misheard, her words misinterpreted, sent a cool wash of fear over her skin. She bit out, “As long as you understand. I’m in charge.”

  Max’s eyes brightened. “Oooh, kinky! I think I’m in love. Juliet, I’m yours forever.”

  Danny slapped his white kitchen towel down on his cutting board with a loud thwap. “Get a room, you two.”

  Heat flared in Max’s eyes, warming the blue to the color of the summer sky. Desire mixed with laughter looked good on him, Jules thought nonsensically, even as she fought the scorching blush streaking up her neck.

  It had been a while since a guy affected her this much, this quickly. She didn’t like it.

  But then, she had a history with Max’s smile—that same smile the Lunden men all shared. And the way Max laughed with his whole body, a sharp, emphatic bark that sounded a little bit surprised. Even though he laughed a lot, more than almost anyone Jules had ever met.

  Well, he could laugh himself all the way back to Thailand or wherever, for all she cared. This was Jules’s house. Her home, her job, her life—and she wasn’t jeopardizing that for any hot piece of kitchen ass, no matter how flirty. And charming. And tall.

  “It’s Jules,” she reminded him, before turning away abruptly and facing Danny. “Where are your mom and dad? Is Gus going to make it to practice tonight?”

  “They were gone when I got up this morning; not sure when they’ll be back.”

  “Dad’s not making it to all the practices?” Max interjected, frowning and glancing around. “Speaking of which, holy crap. It’s nearly time to open for lunch and he isn’t here. Wtf?”

  Jules stiffened. Max’s bewilderment brushed right up against one of secrets she’d been asked to keep: the fact that the lunch “rush” at Lunden’s, lately, was more of a “dawdle.” They were all worried about it, but no one was more stressed over the restaurant’s falling numbers than Gus.

  And if there was one thing they were all agreed on, it was that Gus didn’t need any more stress.

  “He has a lot on his plate at the moment,” Jules said carefully. “Between the restaurant and the competition, and everything. It’s fine. We’ll soldier on without him.”

  “Beck and Winslow should be rolling up in about an hour,” Danny said, shooting her a grateful glance.

  “I’m going to get the demi-glace going,” Jules said, already heading to the sink to soap up, slinging her knives onto the corner of counter she’d staked out as hers when she first started working at Lunden’s Tavern.

  “How about you, hotshot?” Danny asked, shooting a glare at his brother. “You want to hop onto the line and help out?”

  Max grinned, that easy, crooked smile that Jules had to come up with a way to ignore. “No need for that,” she cut in sharply. She needed a little extra time to get her personal stuff under control, and bumping into Max in the narrow confines of the kitchen wasn’t going to help anything.

  Instead of looking offended
, Max laughed again, lighting up his whole face as he scooped up his duffel and headed for the back stairs. “Hey, I’d love to hit you with an assist, Danny boy, but the lady says you don’t need me, and I’ve got some studying to do. Catch you later!”

  “Slacker,” Danny yelled after him, but Max just flipped the bird over his shoulder and kept going.

  The instant the door closed behind him, it was as if all the air rushed back into the room, but some joker had switched the oxygen for nitrous oxide—but without the fun euphoria.

  Jules’s head whirled, filled with nothing but the helter-skelter of relief at being able to breathe again … and a sharp stab of fear that the return of the prodigal son meant the life she’d carved out for herself was about to change forever.

  Chapter 4

  “No, no, no, not like that! You have to strain the sauce. Twice, but not more than that, because—”

  Jules put on her most soothing voice and moved to intercept. “Twice makes it smooth, three times makes it watery, Beck knows, Gus. Are you feeling okay?”

  Worry clutched at Jules’s heart with a tight fist as she stood next to Beck, ostensibly overseeing his stirring of the port wine sauce, while watching a grumbling Gus out of the corner of her eye.

  Beck was hard to read—okay, make that impossible to read—most of the time, but tonight, as Jules met his expressionless gaze over the pan of roasted duck stock thickened with a sticky syrup of reduced port and minced garlic, she was pretty sure she knew what he was thinking.

  It had been a long, uneventful slog of a dinner service—but their head chef still looked exhausted, pinched around the eyes and mouth.

  If the restaurant were booked to full capacity, they might’ve been in trouble. She never thought she’d be thankful for a slow night.

  Although the lulls between orders gave them all way too much time to contemplate the elephant in the kitchen—Max’s homecoming.

  “I’m fine,” Gus said firmly. “It would take more than high blood pressure and a few twinges to slow me down.”

  Jules didn’t want to argue, she really didn’t, only— “Come on, Gus, it’s not just the blood pressure thing. It hasn’t been even two months since you collapsed! In the middle of dinner service! The doctor wants you to take it easy, and I’m—we’re worried.”

  I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you, she thought, but didn’t say.

  “Well, I wish you’d all quit worrying,” he said irritably, swiping his wild gray hair back from his blotchy, pale face. “It’s not making this practice go any more smoothly.”

  “Maybe if the whole team were here,” Danny muttered from the pastry station. “Where the hell is Max?”

  Jules shot her oldest friend a narrow look. She knew Danny liked to pretend there was no love lost between him and Max, but that conversation earlier told a different story.

  There was plenty of love. If there weren’t, they wouldn’t be able to get under each other’s skin so quickly and easily.

  “You know he’s on his way.” Winslow Jones jumped in. “I mean, there’s been an actual confirmed sighting and everything, so our boy’s surely around here someplace.” Win dropped the bright tone to mutter out of the corner of his mouth to Jules, “You saw him, right? Confirmed sighting, for real?”

  She barely managed a nod. This practice was kicking her ass. She was completely off her game, jumping at every sound—and it was a high-stress, fast-paced, timed kitchen challenge. There were a lot of sounds.

  It would be easier, she mused, if Max were here, where he was supposed to be. Sure, his presence equaled its own kind of tension, but to have him missing was like seeing a rat scurrying across the subway tracks. It wasn’t as if she wanted to get up close and personal with the thing, but once she saw it, she didn’t like to lose sight of it. Who knew where it might go?

  “I wish he’d just get here already.” Danny unconsciously echoed Jules’s thoughts.

  “Maybe he’s asleep,” Win suggested, looking almost unbearably calm as he expertly trimmed a skirt steak and flashed her a brilliant smile that creased his freckled cheeks. “I mean, give the guy a break. He did just fly halfway around the globe. There’s such a thing as jet lag, yo.”

  Danny snorted. “Max never gets jet lag. It’s one of the many annoying things about him.”

  “Taking my name in vain again, Danny? Tsk, tsk, for shame.”

  Jules stiffened all over at the lazy drawl of Max’s voice in the instant before the man himself sauntered into the kitchen, hands in his pockets and lean shoulders slouched as casually as if he’d just been hanging out in the dining room this whole time, waiting to make the perfect entrance.

  “Max!” Gus’s happiness at the sight of his son flashed over his face, sharp enough to hurt Jules’s heart. “Welcome home, son.”

  Surprise widened Max’s eyes for a second, and Jules held her breath as the tension of the moment coiled tight. Max started forward, a smile pulling up one corner of his mouth.

  Jules grabbed a silver tasting spoon from the stack on the counter and dipped up some of Beck’s sauce, but she couldn’t concentrate on the flavor because she was too busy watching as Max grabbed his father for a bear hug that nearly lifted the shorter, stockier man off his feet.

  “Dad,” was all he said, face buried in Gus’s neck, but it was enough to make the fist around Jules’s heart squeeze down hard.

  “Nice of you to join us,” Danny said, slamming his pizza dough down onto the pastry board with a loud wham.

  Max set his father back on his feet and tilted his head at Danny, who looked angry but stubborn, and totally unlike himself. He was usually the peacemaker of the bunch, the one everyone came to with their problems—but today, he seemed intent on stirring up trouble.

  “I would’ve been here in the kitchen all afternoon, but I had the distinct impression I wasn’t wanted. And I’m sorry to be late, but no one mentioned what time, exactly, the practice started. Is that enough mea culpa-ing for you, or should we get into the real reasons you’re acting so pissy?”

  Danny made a frustrated noise. “This isn’t some backwater kitchen in the jungle, where anything goes, Max. We’ve got real work to do here, and if you’re not prepared to commit to it, you might as well leave again.”

  For the first time, Jules saw real anger in the twist of Max’s mouth. “Hey, you just say the word, Danny boy. This wasn’t my idea in the first place. I could be prepping for my new apprenticeship, finding an apartment in Le Marche, brushing up on my Italian. For instance, do you know what vai e fottiti means?”

  “That’s enough, boys,” Gus growled.

  Jules flinched at her boss’s tone. She’d never heard him sound quite like that.

  “Yeah, come on,” Winslow said unhappily. “The first round of qualifiers is in two weeks. Gus is right, we got work to do, and we could sure as shit use your help, Max.”

  “Some help,” Danny grumbled, but when Gus shot him a look, he subsided. “But since Mom insisted on calling you, I guess you might as well make yourself useful.”

  Jules stole a look at Max, who seemed to be caught on the point of actually following through on his threat to leave. Her stomach knotted, but even Jules wasn’t sure what outcome she was hoping for.

  Sure, she maybe agreed with Danny that they didn’t need Max’s help—they were doing fine, and she could totally work harder and pick up any slack. But Gus wanted him there, and after that scare last week when he almost collapsed again, pretty much whatever Gus wanted, Gus got.

  It had nothing to do with the fact that the way Max stood there like an island in the middle of the kitchen made her want to do something nutty like give him a hug. She didn’t do hugs.

  All the same, she knew what it was like to be told in no uncertain terms exactly where she stood. The memory of that harsh awakening made her speak up.

  “Where’s Nina? Were you with her, Max?”

  As she’d hoped, the mention of his mother brought a softer smile to Max’s ha
rd face. “Yeah, she was helping me with my studying. It’s hard to learn a language from a book! I do better by speaking it.”

  Jules focused on making the swirling pattern of her spoon through the sauce, knowing the moment when Max might storm out in a rage was past. For better or worse, the reminder of Nina was all it took to get him to stay put.

  “Enough chitchat,” Gus boomed, clapping his hands together the way he always did when he got excited, or wanted to make a point. “Max is home, for a while at least, and we’ve got to make good use of his time with us. Your timing’s actually perfect—we’re just finishing up a practice challenge, so I can introduce you around.”

  “Sure,” Max said, making an obvious effort to shake off his mood. “So this is the team, huh?” He glanced around the kitchen. “The group of talented young things who are destined to win the coveted title of Rising Star Chef for the East Coast of these United States, thus showering our humble family restaurant with fortune and glory.”

  Danny scowled. “You don’t have to sound so dubious about it.”

  “Boys.”

  Gus looked tired again, Danny was reaching peak irritation—Jules could tell by the way his eyebrows were climbing toward his hairline, and the increasing vigor of his hand gestures. And Max … he was shutting down.

  Jules couldn’t believe she remembered him well enough to read those signs.

  Abruptly unable to bear the heavy, smothering fog of pressure hovering over the kitchen—even happy-go-lucky Winslow was hunkering down over his cutting board and holding his chef ’s knife as if he might have to fend off an attack—Jules spun the dial regulating the heat under her saucepan to low and wiped her hands on a towel.

  “Why don’t I do the honors?” she said loudly, striding forward to grab Max by the sleeve of his worn white linen shirt without waiting for an answer.