Page 90 of Downforce

An electric current rushes down my spine. “How many poles do I have?” I ask without thinking.

A smirk blossoms on her lips. “Thirteen in F2 and twenty in F1, which includes last week in Miami.”

“Where was my fastest lap time?” A question I’m certain she won’t know.

“You have eleven of those, so far,” she says nonchalantly. “The fastest of which was in Mexico City, two years ago where you came out number two in that race.”

A silence falls between us. We stare into one another’s eyes, hers sparkling with a shine that I don’t ever want to disappear. She’s memorized my stats.

As soon as I have this realization, Annalise clears her throat and pulls back from the table.

“I memorized most drivers’ stats. Trav’s fastest lap was in Vegas last year. Bateman’s fastest lap time with Fantasma was in Silver Springs …” She trails off when I hold up my hand.

“You really love this sport.” I realize the words at the same time I say them.

She cocks her head to the side. “Of course I do.”

“Why aren’t you an agent?”

Her eyes widen, startled before they circle the room. “A what? I have a job.”

“A job, not a career. Not the type of job you’re best fit for. It’s apparent⁠—”

“I’m where I want to be.” Her voice is the equivalent to slamming the door on a topic. There’s more to what I’ve just prodded at, but since she’s made it clear that it’s not up for discussion, I’ll leave it alone for the time being.

My eyes drop to her plate. “There’s plenty left if you want more.”

She hesitates before a grin parts her lips.

“You want dessert.”

She eagerly nods, making me let out a laugh.

I bring the brigadeiros that I rolled in the multicolor sprinkles to the table.

“There is no better food than chocolate.” Annalise sighs after polishing off her first one. “This is truly the only reason I work out,” she says, holding up a second colorful ball made of fudge.

“That’s not true,” I tease.

She shakes her head before her gaze casts sideways. “One of the reasons,” she corrects, this time a little quieter.

Looking over her shoulder toward the living room, I observe the thoughtfully layered palettes from the cream couch adorned with two separate cashmere throw blankets and an array of cashmere and velvet pillows. The room is decorated with low lighting supplied by lamps on the couch’s end table and a table along the wall.

Where my gaze sticks is the massive shelf that houses the flatscreen television. Surrounding the tele are shelves of books organized by color and size. I wonder if she’s read all of them, I think to myself before my gaze falls to the shelves below the television.

“Are those DVDs?”

She glances over her shoulder as if needing confirmation before answering.

“I bought a DVD player a few years ago.” She grins.

“Streaming wasn’t good enough for you?”

She shrugs. “I don’t watch a lot of TV. I love watching the movies I’ve come to love over the years, and I prefer to read.”

“Read,” I say at the same time she does. “Hard to miss that. Show me.” I rise from my chair and stroll toward her bookshelf. “I already know you’re a fan of Shakespeare. I looked up that jealousy quote you said a few months back. Othello.”

“One of my favorites.” She points at the play on her bookshelf. “This is my Shakespeare shelf.”