CLEARLY HER TREK OUT TO SEA had scared Max more than he wanted to admit. Aloud, at least, because Grace wouldn’t soon forget the panic in his eyes or the way he crushed her to himself when they’d returned to shore.

His heart nearly pounded through his rib cage, right into her ear. Right into her heart.

But then he’d released her from his embrace, and for a long while there, the big chill had settled between them. As if . . . as if . . .

As if all her neediness had disgusted him.

See, she knew it would only be a matter of time. The chivalry would wear off and in its wake would be a sort of sad shake of his head and a disentanglement from the girl who took too much effort.

A part of her wanted to offer to return the swim buddy pass. In fact, in a way, she felt sorry for him. Saddled with Owen’s sister. She could admit that might have added to his sudden cold front. And maybe he’d saved her from the awkward moment when he realized she wanted more.

Or that she had wanted more. Sort of. Maybe entertained the idea.

What was a gal supposed to do when a muscled, tall, and devastatingly handsome hockey player pulled her into his arms?

She liked him. Way, way too much because she’d obviously read into things. Into his attention, his laughter. Read into the twinkle in his eyes.

So she’d taken a step back, reined in that messy neediness, and remembered her boundaries. They would be swim buddies. Culinary vacation teammates.

Max, it seemed, got the message. Somehow, she’d brought him back, and although flirty Max was gone, chivalrous Max managed to hang on. He hadn’t quite kept his promise about surfing, but he’d taken her for a drive into the mountains in the center of the island, and yesterday he’d wandered Honolulu with her and helped her purchase a Hawaiian dress.

Today, however, rain pinged on the roof of the kitchen, and she guessed she might have to pick up a book from the resort bookstore. She swallowed down the taste of disappointment. Really, the poor man should have one day away from her.

Because he seemed almost miserable.

Worse, he’d turned into a bit of a wreck in the kitchen. Yesterday, while she diligently massaged her ahi tuna, he’d nearly cut his finger off.

And today . . . “Argh, I have lumps!” he said as if he had just missed a goal.

Grace glanced over from where she was making haupia, a sort of coconut pudding, on the stove. From outside, the cool breezes of the rain tempered the steam of the kitchen. Still, she longed for her swimsuit instead of her chef’s armor.

Even Max appeared hot, sweat beading across his hairline.

“Did you pour in your arrowroot too fast?”

“I don’t know —ah!” He took his pudding off the heat, turned away from it.

The look on his face said that he hovered on the verge of walking out of the kitchen, never to return.

“Max, calm down,” Grace said. “Listen, it’s just like your mother’s banana pudding. You have to keep whisking it like this.” She put his pan back on the heat, turned it way down to a simmer, and began to whisk it against the side of the pan.

“I’ve made haupia before,” he growled. “I’m just off my game.”

“Then get back in the game. C’mon, you try it.” She’d already worked out a couple lumps and now took his hand, guided it with hers.

He took the whisk, blew out a breath.

“See, it’s evening out.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“It’s just pudding, Max.”

She got pinched, tight lips in answer.

“No time for mistakes. Right.” She glanced at Keoni, who was headed their way. “I don’t suppose there is some cinnamon contraband in the back . . .”

“Grace.”

She smiled.

Keoni walked by, glanced at her haupia. Nodded. Kept walking.

“I got a nod. A nod!”

Max’s mouth lifted up on one side. “Calm down, Chef Christiansen.”

“You just wish you could make haupia like the master.”

“It’s my life goal.”

The smile stayed as he poured his cream into a rectangular pan and brought hers with his to the refrigerator to chill.

She was cleaning her work area when Keoni returned. “You’re doing well, Grace. I have to admit, for a mainlander, you can keep it cool under pressure.”

She bit back a quip. Keoni scared her a little, with the seriousness in his dark eyes, the way his gaze seemed to study her.

Max returned to the counter. “Chef?”

“Max, I’d like you and Grace to consider entering this year’s Honolulu Chop. It’s a four-day competition for amateurs, in teams, and I think you two would do well. I’ve been watching your partner here, and Grace seems to know how to think on her feet. And you . . .” He lifted a shoulder. “You know Hawaiian food.”

Grace glanced at Max, back at Keoni. “You’re not serious.”

“Why not? You two are a good team.”

A good team. She couldn’t read Max’s face. He wore almost a baffled expression.

“I, uh —”

“Max, we don’t have to do this. I know you’re just here on vacation.”

“The prize is ten thousand dollars,” Keoni said.

Oh.

“Think about it,” Keoni said. “You can tell me Monday, when class resumes.” He strode off to inspect more haupia.

Grace stood there, for the first time thankful for the rain that would keep her away from Max’s company for the rest of the day.

Poor man didn’t know how to tell her no.

Imagine, the Iron Chef meets . . . Well, she wasn’t quite Julia Child. Maybe more like the Galloping Gourmet. “Max, we’re not going to do this. We’re here to learn and have fun.”

“Absolutely. Which is why it’s Pearl Harbor day,” Max said, shedding his apron and chef’s uniform.

“What?” She followed him out of the kitchen, dropping her coat in a hamper and shucking off the chef’s pants as she went. Underneath, she wore shorts and a T-shirt. She followed him through the covered shelters that connected the kitchen to the rest of the resort.

He was ten strides away from her.

“Max!”

He stopped next to a pond where water cascaded from the thatched roof of the walkway. Koi swam in the pond, and a white cockatoo clung to a piece of bamboo under the cover of a pair of tall palms. “What?”

“You can stop babysitting me now. Really.” She caught up to him, fighting the urge to press her hand to his chest. He wore a black T-shirt, a pair of cargo shorts. “And that includes this competition. I know I’ve been a burden to you —you haven’t even gone surfing yet.”

His mouth tightened, and he looked at her with such fierceness that she could almost see the battle waging inside.

“Listen, I’m going back to my room. I’m going to read a book. I like books. I like to read. And I can do that alone. All weekend, if I have to.” She smiled at him. “The answer is no. No Pearl Harbor and no competition.”

Then she walked past him, straight to the lobby, and got on the elevator.

There. See? That was easy. Just . . . easy. She could let out her breath now.

The doors were nearly closed when Max stuck his hand in and muscled his way onto the elevator.

As the doors closed behind him, he stared at her, a muscle pulling in his jaw, his eyes almost on fire.

She swallowed. “Two, please?”

He didn’t move. Then, “Yes. The answer is yes.”

Huh? “No, it’s not. The answer is no. No competition. And no more babysitting. I can take care of myself.”

“Well, I don’t want you to.”

He hadn’t moved, his brown eyes magnetic, still holding hers.

She swallowed again, her throat tightening, a band around her chest. When she opened her mouth, nothing came out.

His gaze roved to her mouth, then back to her eyes. He wore a terrible, almost-raw expression on his face. A tremble touched her, something deep she couldn’t place.

Or didn’t want to.

Abruptly, he blew out a breath and turned. Punched the button for the second floor. “I . . . I like spending time with you.”

His words slid over her, through her. “I like spending time with you too.”

His shoulders were rising and falling, and she watched them until they got to her floor. The doors opened.

Max didn’t move.

So Grace didn’t either.

The doors closed again.

“Why did you come to Hawaii?” he said quietly, the fierceness not quite vanished from his tone.

“I came because my . . . sister . . . bought me a ticket?”

“Why?” He folded his arms over his chest.

“So I could cater her wedding.”

“Why?”

She tasted the finest prick of irritation in her throat. “So I could . . . get noticed, I guess.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to start a catering company. I think.”

“You think?”

“What is this, a pep talk?”

“I want you to care. I want you to see that you could do this. You could enter this contest and win.” He tapped his hand to his chest, then gestured to her. “We could enter this contest and win. And then you’d have ten grand to start that company with. Maybe even get a little recognition. Don’t you want that? To finally reach your dreams?”

His eyes had reddened just a little, and she had the sense that he might be saying more with his challenge. Especially when he pinned her with a long look, something so unraveled, so desperate in it that it stripped words from her.

His voice lowered to almost a whisper. “You were the one who said you wanted more. What if this is it? What if it’s right here? Right now? Don’t you want to take it?”

Yes. The word wanted to leak out of her. Yes, she wanted more.

But it had nothing to do with cooking. So she nodded. Hoped her eyes, her face, hadn’t betrayed the truth.

“Then I’m going to help you get it.” He punched one. “We’re working all weekend.”

“No reading?”

“Not unless it’s ingredients.”

She wanted to smile, wanted to give in to the giddy rush of joy, but —“Max. Why are you doing this?”

The floor pinged and the door opened, but she didn’t move. As Max started to step out, she grabbed his hand. He turned, frowned.

Now he stood blocking the door, in case anyone dared enter. He met her eyes. “Because I come to Hawaii every year and hang out in the same class, and I’ve never met someone who wants to add cinnamon to haupia. That’s crazy, right? Crazy, and yet it sounds good.” He sort of smiled, shaking his head. “I almost want to be mad at you, but I can’t. How could I? So I’m going to help you. We’re going to win this thing, and you’re going to go home and start that company.” His voice softened. “Besides, I think everyone who gets to have dreams should reach for them. I want to help you reach.”

Oh. That was so much better than what she’d thought he was going to say. She’d thought he’d keep it simple, even light, nothing close to the heart —

“Besides, I’m your swim buddy.”

Yes. Yes, he was.

Just like that, Max had fixed it. Figured out a way to spend time with Grace without having to justify his reasons. Without having to admit to himself that yes, he enjoyed spending time with her —more than he had a right to.

In fact, he’d let that leak out and wanted to bang his head against the elevator when he heard the words emerge.

But the rest —the rest was all truth. Or at least most of it —right up to the part where he said he thought they could win. But . . . maybe they could. He did want to help her reach for her dreams. Did want her to feel the win, to create something that might endure.

In that way, maybe he, too, could own a small piece of a happy ending.

“So what are we making today?” Grace asked. She’d become all ears, no improv yesterday, as suddenly she took her own future seriously.

“Manapua. It’s a sort of pork dumpling. Bread filled with everything from sausage to carrots and mushrooms, even bean sprouts. You make the pastry; I’ll make the filling.”

He handed her a recipe.

“Not unlike donuts.”

“Please don’t glaze these.”

She waggled her eyebrows at him and went to the dry pantry to retrieve the ingredients while he gathered sausage, onions, carrots, shiitake mushrooms, soy sauce, sherry, oyster sauce, and garlic.

He laid his ingredients on the chopping board and started peeling. The sun was already high —he’d slept in until seven this morning, at first opting out of a beach run for the luxury of lying in bed, opening his sliding door and listening to the waves.

In the wan morning light, with the furnace outside tempering the chilled hotel room air, for the first time since he’d arrived in Hawaii, the darkness had found him, burrowed inside.

Yes, he liked Grace way too much. So much that he found himself wishing for more. For a life beyond these three weeks. He’d like to look up in the stands and see her cheering as he stole the puck, made the score. Wanted to know she waited for him after a game, maybe with something homemade simmering on the stove.

He could even imagine a little girl with Grace’s blonde hair, her pretty blue eyes . . . and that’s when he got out of bed and changed into his running shorts.

He fought the images with a cruel workout, then showered and found Grace already on the breakfast terrace reading. He wanted to throw her book in the ocean. Instead, he sat down with her and outlined the game plan for the day.

“We’ll start with some Hawaiian basics —you already learned lomi-lomi and poke, poi and haupia. I’ll teach you manapua and loco moco, and then we’ll start mixing it up. The Honolulu Chop competition is all about using Hawaiian ingredients —some everyday, like Spam —”

“Spam?”

“They love it here. The Hormel company actually produced a limited-edition Hawaii can of Spam once.”

“Ew.”

“Also, I’ll teach you about alaea sea salt and saimin —a sort of Chinese noodle. They’re very thin and quick cooking. There’s bound to be fresh pineapple and coconut on the menu, and any number of the exotic fruits, so we’ll go over those.”

“Wow, Max, I just have to ask one more time —are you sure?”

He smiled because his voice was too eager and nodded.

Now, with manapua on the menu, she brought back her ingredients, started her yeast fermenting. “So do the guys on your team know you cook?”

He slid crushed garlic into a pan. “Uh. I don’t know.”

“You don’t have them over to cook for them?”

He reached for a carrot, began to peel it. “No. I mean, I’ve always been pretty serious about hockey on the ice, but after Owen left, I took it off the ice also. Started upping my workouts, my practice, and that meant no time for friends.”

“No time for friends?” She looked at him with what appeared to be real horror. “Then who will you eat with?”

You? He didn’t say it, though, just julienned the carrots.

“Well, when we get back, you need to have at least one party. Invite your friends . . . or better yet, your family. I’m curious —do your mean cooking skills run in the family? Was your dad a chef?”

He knew she hadn’t meant to walk into that one, so he kept his voice soft. “My mom was the chef. My dad passed away when I was thirteen.” He glanced up, giving her a smile that he hoped made it all right.

But she had an expression that could break a man’s heart if he let it. “Oh, Max, I’m so sorry. Please tell me he got to see you play hockey.”

Funny, she always knew just what to say to take off the sharp edge of his grief. Or regret. Or fear.

“He did. He was my biggest fan, I think.”

“Did he have cancer?”

He cut some green onion, added it to the pan. “No, he died of pneumonia.” A truth that helped him hide the real cause.

“Oh, that’s terrible.”

“I remember him coming to my game that last time. All bundled up in a blanket, sitting in a wheelchair. My uncle Norm rolled him right up to the glass, and every time I looked over, I saw him. I had a hat trick that game.”

“Wow. I’ll bet he was so proud.” She sifted in the rest of her ingredients.

“Told me that he expected me to be in the Hall of Fame someday.”

She began to stir. “You know, the US Hockey Hall of Fame Museum is in Minnesota, in Eveleth. Only three hours from my house.”

“Then someday you’ll be able to visit my monument,” he said, only half-kidding.

She laughed. “What is it about men that they have to have monuments built to them?”

Was she kidding? “It means you left your mark on something. Then people know you were there.”

She looked up at him, her hands coated in dough as she kneaded. “Silly man, people know you were there because of the people you’ve loved.”

He looked away. “Of course. But it would be nice to be in the Hall of Fame.”

She kneaded the bread into a golden ball. Set it to rest. “I am sure, Max, that you will be remembered by a host of people beyond your fans.”

“I just want to be strong, like my dad. Have his kind of faith. It wasn’t until he died that I really thought about eternity, but that moment told me I needed help. On earth and in heaven.”

“I think we all need that moment in our lives, right? I figured out I needed Jesus when I was pretty little, and I’ve been following Him since. It helped to hold on to my faith when Owen got hurt. What about your family? Do you have siblings?”

“I have a brother, fourteen years older than me. He’s a big fan. Has a wife and a baby girl.”

“Sweet.”

“Mix together the wine, oyster sauce, soy, water, sugar, and cornstarch with your favorite whisk.”

“On it, boss.” She found another bowl. “So . . . what will you do with your half of the ten thousand dollars?”

“My half? It’s all going to you, Grace.” He poured oil into a pan and added the vegetables.

She set down the blended liquid. “No, it’s not. You get equal share of our win.”

He shook his head.

“Hey, I know. You could use it to come back here and teach. Or better, put a down payment on that vacation house.”

He added the mushrooms, kept frying. Didn’t look at her.

“What did you mean by ‘everyone who gets to have dreams should reach for them’? Don’t you get to have dreams, Max?”

He reached for her sauce and poured it in, stirring as it thickened.

“Every time you talk about the future, you act as if all you have is hockey. But there is more to life than that.”

He turned off the heat, removed the pan from the burner. “This has to cool while the bread rises.”

But she wasn’t moving. She stood so close, her eyes holding a sort of hypnotic power over him. “Max, did someone hurt you once? Jace said that you never date. Why?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed. “Let’s get some lunch.” He turned, but she put a hand on his arm.

“Max —”

Fine. “I just don’t date, okay? I’m not interested in dating —ever. It gets in the way of hockey and my goals —”

“The Hall of Fame.”

“Yes, if you must know. This is all I am, all I have. And I’m not going to waste it falling in love, having a family —it would only make me weak.”

She stared at him just as he knew she would, with the half-pitying, half-horrified expression that every woman projected when a man said he didn’t want a family.

He sort of felt it too. But he couldn’t go there, so he softened his tone. “I’m not heartbroken, Grace. I’m just focused. God gave me one job to do on this planet, and that is to play hockey. And I’m doing that to the very best of my ability. I don’t have time for a serious relationship, and I don’t want anyone to get hurt or get the wrong impression. So . . . I don’t date. And I’m perfectly fine with that.”

She nodded, the sadness still in her eyes. “I get it, Max. I really get it.” She slipped her arm through his. “I’m your swim buddy, after all.”

He wanted to wince but instead took her hand on his arm. “Yeah.”

See, this competition was exactly what he needed to help him draw the lines around their relationship. Keep it inside the boundaries.

They walked out of the kitchen, and he unknotted his apron, threw it in the bin. He turned just as she was unknotting hers. She lifted it over her head, but it tangled in her hair bun.

“Let me help,” he said and reached for the mess. As his hands worked the apron over her head, the bun fell out, her hair silky and soft. She pulled it the rest of the way free and turned as he tossed the apron into the bin.

He couldn’t breathe. Not when she was looking at him with those beautiful blue eyes, when he could still feel her hair cascading through his fingers.

Oh, she was pretty —the kind of pretty that made a man just stop and drink it in. Want to spend every day with it. The sun had only darkened those adorable freckles.

Again, like on the plane, he had the strangest sense of falling.

“Ready? I’m dying for some ceviche,” she said, breaking the magic and heading for the door. Saving them both from disaster.

“I have to admit, I never thought I’d hear those words from your mouth.”

Amazingly, he sounded unfazed. Maybe he could pull off his words: I don’t date. And I’m perfectly fine with that.

She turned at the door. “Oh, I’m full of surprises. And I’m just getting started, 9A.”

Then she winked. And Max was very afraid.