Page 88 of Downforce

I look her way with a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t imagine there’s a lot of opportunities to cook at the parties and bars you hang out at in between races.”

I nearly miss the end of the onion I’m chopping, coming close to slicing my fingers. Her comment has gotten under my skin.

“I don’t party as much as you seem to think I do.”

“Oh no?”

I meet her eyes directly. “No.” I go back to cooking. “Maybe early on in my career, yes,” I admit.

She shrugs a shoulder. “It’s not a big deal,” she says casually. “You were young, rich, good looking, and a professional athlete. Of course you wanted to party.”

My brow wrinkles. “I’m good looking?”

This makes her roll her eyes toward the ceiling. “Don’t act like you don’t own a mirror.”

“Say it again.”

“No.” She takes a step backward, looking over the edge of her glass at me.

“I’ll get it out of you again,” I mumble.

“Where did you learn to cook?” she asks.

I hold my hand over the stick resistant pan, testing the temperature of the oil before tossing in the onion and stirring. Memories of my early childhood come floating back.

Me standing in the kitchen, barely able to see over the stove before my father came in, scooping me high in the air so that I could see into the bubbling pots and pans.

My grandmother would scold my father and me in Portuguese before my dad would tell her how much he loved her and her cooking. Then he would whisper in my ear to give her a pleading look. She’d pretend to be angry but would sneak my father and me each a brigadeiro before shooing us out of the kitchen.

“Your dad taught you to cook? Or your grandmother?”

I blink, realizing that I’ve been speaking my memories out loud.

When I look into Annalise’s eyes filled with curiosity, my mind refuses to allow me to change the subject. I want her to know the parts of me that others don’t. Just like I want to know more about her.

“No,” I answer honestly. “He, um.” I clear my throat. “He didn’t cook, and after … I rarely visited my family in Brazil.”

Annalise’s eyes go to the pot now simmering with the shrimp and condensed milk.

“A few years ago, while in Sao Paulo before the race I took a private cooking class. My manager at the time set it up after I told him that I wanted to learn to cook authentic Brazilian food.”

“What prompted you to make that request?”

I shake my head while stirring the shrimp before fluffing up the rice with a fork.

“I missed it,” I admit. “Once a year for Brazilian food isn’t enough. I can’t bring myself to go to any Brazilian restaurants outside of the country.”

I turn off the rice and leave it uncovered to allow it to cool. I turn to the sink to wash my hands in preparation to make our desserts.

“After that initial class, I began finding recipes online and giving them a try here and there. They probably don’t taste as good as my grandmother’s. My apologies for that.” I grin.

Annalise’s eyes stray from mine to the pot of shrimp.

I retrieve a spoon and scoop up a shrimp and some of the broth before holding it up to her lips. I watch with intent as she first blows on the shrimp before wrapping her lips around the spoon, taking it into her mouth.

I stifle the groan that threatens to emerge from my throat.