Chapter 25
Max
“How do you know I have everything you need to make everything you’ve brought?” Annalise asks while lifting on her tiptoes to peer over the edge of the tote bag I’ve placed on one of the wooden dining room chairs.
“What did you bring?” she asks, looking in the bag a curious pinch between her brows. “What are you cooking? I hope there’s not any raw meat in there leaking onto my chair cushions. And you didn’t cross contaminate the meat with the vegetables, did you?”
“Which one of those would you like me to answer first?”
She glares up at me.
“There she is.” I smirk.
“Who?”
“My princess,” is all I say before I begin pulling out the ingredients I plan to use for tonight’s dinner.
“Not going to dignify that with a response.”
My smile widens as she hovers behind me while I place the wrapped peeled and deveined shrimp into the white ivory sink and the vegetables onto one side of the butcher block countertop.
I do a sweep of the kitchen with my gaze admiring the light colored, wooden cabinets and cupboards, the orderly way she mixed the practical kitchenware—knife storage block, spoon holder by the gas stove—with the decor for aesthetics, a porcelain vase that held a large bouquet of hydrangea, along with other smaller plants that when I lean over and take a whiff it confirms my suspicion that they are indeed fresh herbs.
“You grow your own herbs.” I point at one of the pots in front of the window, presumably to get direct sunlight. “If I had known I wouldn’t have bought the basil.” I hold up a bunch of basil I’d purchased earlier in the day.
“If you had called, you would’ve known not to come,” she throws at me, arms folded across her chest. She holds up a booklet that I’d placed at the bottom of the bag.
“You do sudoku?”
“Those flights are kind of long,” I answer. “Need to do something besides sleep.”
I thumb through the half-finished booklet. I had some time between picking up the groceries and coming over to her flat, so I worked on a few of the puzzles to distract me.
“This one is wrong.”
I peek over at the last puzzle I’d been working on. It’s half-finished. “It’s incomplete,” I correct.
She shakes her head. “This one doesn’t work.”
I look at the square she’s pointing at and at the rest of the grid. She’s correct. I misplaced a nine, probably where a three should be. “I wasn’t finished and that’s why I work on them in pencil, not pen.”
Annalise frowns, a wrinkle appears between her eyebrows. “You’re more than welcome to complete it while I make dinner.”
Turning toward the counter, I begin looking through cabinets and the cupboards, searching out the pots, cutlery, and cutting board I’ll need to get our meal started.
“Are you going to share with me what we’re having for dinner?” Annalise asks after placing the sudoku back into the bag. Now she’s eyeing the cocoa powder, condensed milk, and rainbow sprinkles I’ve moved to the side to make room for the cutting board.
“Chocolate is after dinner,” I say sternly.
I look back down at the task before me to hide my grin after noticing the way she pokes her lips out at my words.
Annalise sighs as I go to wash my hands right before properly cleaning all of the fresh vegetables.
Once everything, including my hands, have been sterilized I look over at her. “Since dinner will take a little while to prepare, I thought we’d start with a drink.”
“I’m not a heavy drinker,” she says. Her gaze darts toward the bottle of cachaca I’ve placed on the counter.
I know that as well. I stop the words from exiting the racetrack of my mouth.
“I’ve also brought sparkling water if you don’t want to use the cachaca,” I tell her.
“You’re cooking Brazilian food?”
It does something to my insides when her expression lights up in an easy, effusive smile. I’ll cook Brazilian food for her whenever she wants if it will keep that look on her face.
“You’re familiar with it.”
“You’re joking, right? I wait all year for Sao Paulo just so I can go to my favorite restaurants and indulge.” Reverie fills her voice. “It’s the only reason I’m Travis’ assistant to be honest.”
The husky laugh she lets out stirs a rumbling in my chest.
I don’t realize I’m just staring at her, enraptured until she abruptly stops.
“Well, no. It’s not the only reason I work for my brother. That was a joke.”
“Noted,” I say before gesturing toward the spread of food. “We’ll begin with red currant caipirinhas, followed by shrimp in coconut sauce over rice, and for dessert—”
“Brigadeiros,” she gushes, cutting me off as I point to the cocoa powder.
“How’d you guess?” I tease, already knowing that she loves chocolate.
“Do you need help?” she asks hesitantly, sidling up to me.
“Stand right here, beside me,” I tell her before I can pull the words back.
To my surprise, she doesn’t object. Instead, she silently watches as I prepare Brazil’s national drink.
Annalise points to the bottle of cachaca when I hold it up along with sparkling water to give her the choice.
“You brought the good stuff,” she comments.
“I buy a few bottles when I’m in Brazil. You’re not the only one who waits for that race all year.” I give her a sideways glance, spying on how she likes the drink.
When her eyes fall closed for a second, the corners of her mouth tipping upward, I know it’s perfect.
“You look like you’re enjoying this,” she comments after watching me chop the vegetables before rinsing the shrimp. “I never would’ve pegged you for a cook.”
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.
“I think your grandmother would be proud,” she says as if she means it.
Words aren’t enough to express the way my heart sings from what I think she assumes is an innocent compliment. Which is why I find her lips with mine.
I tease, keeping the kiss light but allow myself enough closeness to taste her lips with my tongue. The tanginess from the caipirinha offers a delightful edge to her natural sweetness, followed by the savory flavor of the shrimp and coconut broth.
“I thought dessert was for after dinner,” she says breathlessly when I pull away.
My lips quirk up. “A small taste before dinner never hurt anyone.”
She nods, her gaze on my lips.
Before either of us allow things to go too far, I begin preparing the brigadeiros and Annalise pours the sprinkles out onto a plate to roll the balls in, once they’ve cooled off.
I watch as she cleans up easily, waving me off when I told her that I would clean up after myself. She’s meticulous at it, which isn’t surprising to me in the least.
“What about you?” I ask while plating the rice. “Are you a cook? I would imagine a kitchen like this.”
She chuckles. “It’s mostly for show.”
“What? You don’t know how to cook?”
Her eyes bulge then narrow from across the dining table that we’ve made our way over to.
“I know how to cook,” she says rather defensively. “I just don’t do it much.”
“You don’t like to cook,” I say.