5. Alaric
ALARIC
Scowling at the clock hanging above my La Cornue range, I consider what Evangeline might like.
Forty minutes is more than enough time for a typical lunch break. But there’s nothing typical about this situation.
I yank open the fridge, welcoming the cool blast of air as I try to get my head on straight.
She was hesitant. It’s clear she doesn’t want to be here. Who could blame her? She’s my son’s ex. My son, who I’m disgusted with after what Evangeline shared.
Not only did he disrespect her by cheating on her, but he owes her money. The boy makes more than four million dollars a year. I know, because I help him manage his finances and score sponsorship deals. I used to help him negotiate his contracts, too.
The audacious urge to transfer money out of his account and take care of this situation myself hits me, but I get the sense that stepping in would embarrass Evangeline even more than she already is. This is Luca’s mess. He needs to be the one to make things right.
Feeding her before she makes the drive home really is the very least I can do.
With a heavy sigh, I catalog the sparse options in my fridge.
When I mentioned my affinity for cooking, I may have downplayed my abilities.
I’m not just a decent cook; I’m exceptional.
If I hadn’t been so entrenched in the business side of Formula 1 at such a young age, I would have loved to pursue a career in culinary arts.
Mick, director of culinary services for Granata, is one of my closest friends.
He and I started our careers as dishwashers for Lutero RM, another team on the grid.
I usually keep a very well-stocked fridge and pantry, but since I’m leaving for Australia in less than seventy-two hours, I’ve been eating through the remaining groceries.
“How do you feel about orzo?” I ask, inspecting a carton of vegetable broth and half a block of parm.
“Alternatively, I have everything for risotto, but we might be cutting it close on time, and I don’t have any protein thawed to add into the mix.
” Bending lower, I scour the bottom shelf for options.
“Oh, I do have some pancetta I need to use up.”
Silence follows.
Righting myself, I look her way, only to find her shifting from foot to foot, head bowed and gnawing on her bottom lip.
When I don’t continue, she lifts her face a fraction, and the hollowness in her eyes guts me. The urge to ask her what’s wrong is strong, but I hold back.
“Sorry,” I mumble, shaking my head. “Didn’t mean to invite you in then drown you in questions.” Of course she’s overwhelmed.
To my surprise, her expression brightens, and her shoulders relax, easing away from her ears.
Noted.
Decision fatigue is real, and after what she’s had to face today, it makes sense.
“Please, sit,” I insist, tipping my chin toward the small table near the windows. “I’m going to make a simple pasta dish. Wheat pasta, broth, some grated cheese…”
Evangeline’s face falls once again.
Dammit.
“I’m a vegetarian,” she tells me, grimacing.
“I’ve got vegetable broth.” Turning on my heel, I head back to the fridge to retrieve the carton.
“And I hate cheese,” she adds after my back is turned.
She hates cheese?
I school my expression and straighten. She warned me she was picky, and I’d rather not worsen this situation by making her feel bad about her preferences.
When I turn to her again, she’s seated at the table, still gnawing on that pouty bottom lip, with her hands folded together.
“It’s a texture thing,” she offers by way of explanation. “I love the flavor, just not the feel of it.”
I nod. “I was going to grate parmesan into the pasta toward the end of the cooking process and incorporate it into the sauce. I’ll dish yours out first before I add it.”
“Wait,” she says, sitting straighter. “I take it back. I love parmesan.”
Okay, then. With another nod, I pull it out of the fridge.
“Are onions okay?” I ask, reaching for the basket of aromatics and selecting a fresh sweet onion along with a few cloves of garlic.
“As long as they’re cooked, yes.”
Perfect. I select my favorite sauté pan and get to work. “Give me twenty minutes,” I say, then allow myself to get lost in the familiar motions and soothing choreography of cooking.
As comforting as cooking is, by the time I plate our food, I’m nervous. I wilted fresh baby spinach into my serving but left it out of Evangeline’s per her request.
She’s been quiet since I started, mostly on her phone and occasionally smiling at the screen.
Despite my best efforts, every few minutes, I found myself sneaking a peek at her.
She’s beautiful, and she’s even more alluring when she lets her guard down.
Her hair is voluminous and the color, like the white sand of a tropical beach, emphasizes her bright blue eyes.
Her nose is sloped, and her mouth is plush.
It’s impossible to miss that feature. She’s almost constantly had her bottom lip notched between her teeth, and the visual is enough to drive me mad.
Her style is a little wild—she’s wearing bright red accessories with her bold animal-print shorts. It works for her, though.
My mind has been racing with questions for the last twenty minutes or so. I’m equal parts intrigued and fascinated by her.
It’s no wonder Luca was interested in a romantic relationship with this woman.
“Lunch is served,” I announce, presenting her food and placing it before her.
She giggles, scrunching her nose adorably.
“Please don’t be offended if I hate it.”
I stifle a laugh.
She’s refreshingly honest; I’ll give her that.
“No anticipatory offense taken,” I assure her as I slide into the opposite chair. “Eat up. If you like it, of course.”
I focus on my own plate, resisting the urge to watch her as she scoops up a few pieces of pasta with her fork.
She licks her lips like she’s nervous as she lifts the food to her mouth.
I’m holding my breath, I realize, as she takes her first bite and chews.
“Oh.”
Oh?
My chest tightens. Was that a good oh or a bad oh? Maybe she’d prefer more cheese? I was worried about the lack of protein but didn’t want to overpower the—
“Yum. This is delicious.” She hums, closing her eyes.
My heart hammers in my chest, pride swelling as her words sink in.
“You like it?” I confirm.
“Very much so.” She loads a much bigger bite than the last. “It’s seriously so good.” This time she practically moans through a mouthful of pasta. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was until now.”
She digs in with abandon.
Satisfied, I do the same.
I allow a few minutes to pass before I broach the subject I want to talk to her about.
When she sets down her fork and reaches for her glass of water, I take my shot.
“So. About the money Luca owes you…”