Chapter 25 #2
“Not for myself,” she corrects. “Seems like a waste cooking for just me. I’d rather cook for others, but sometimes that can get … tricky.”
“Tricky how?”
She waves me off before gesturing with her hands for me to sit.
“I’ll get the spoons and forks. I should’ve set the table while you were cooking.” She dashes out of the dining space back into the kitchen. A beat later, she returns with cutlery tucked into neatly folded cloth napkins, handing me a set before sitting.
“Thank you for making dinner,” she says before we begin eating.
I watch her from across the table, noting whether she enjoys the food. I don’t have to wait to watch her reaction.
“This is delicious, Max.”
Another compliment that goes straight to my heart. I know that’s where I’m collecting all of the words that probably seem innocuous to her but are like air to me.
Annalise isn’t shy about eating, which I adore watching. She enjoys her food and doesn’t bother hiding it. This hasn’t always been my experience while on a date.
My eyes drift toward the end of the table where a couple of motorsport and sports magazines lie. At the top of the stack a magazine is opened to an article about Bree Walters.
“What’s that about?” Annalise asks when I chuckle.
I dip my head in the direction of the magazine. “Still think she has a chance in Formula 1?”
She glances at the magazine and back at me, looking me directly in the eye. “I don’t think, I know. Her F2 stats are on par with at least ten other Formula 1 drivers on the grid right now.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You haven’t memorized everyone’s stats.” There’s a challenge in my voice.
One Annalise promptly rises to. She straightens her back, her eyes never wavering from mine.
“Sabrina ‘Bree’ Walters in her three years in Formula 2, has a total of ten career wins, two of the fastest recorded lap times, and twelve pole positions.” She leans in. “She has almost as many poles in her F2 career as you.”
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.”
“Let me guess your favorite. Romeo and Juliet.”
“Wrong,” she relishes in a sing-song voice. “I’ll ignore the sexism embedded in your assumption because I’d rather talk about my favorite play.”
“Sexism?”
“It’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” She plucks the play from her shelf and smiles, thumbing through the pages.
“There was no sexism in my guess,” I grumble, taking the book from her hands. “Haven’t read it.”
Her jaw drops. “What are they doing up there on that island?”
I chuckle. “I assume you’re referring to Britain. You are aware that we don’t start quoting Shakespeare the moment we come out of the womb, correct?”
“What a pity.” She snatches the book out of my hand. “You’re missing out.”
“What and your mum put you to bed at night citing Will, did she?”
She smirks. “Something like that.” She shakes her head, some of her red curls moving about her shoulders.
Unable to stop the urge, I reach out and tuck a few strands behind her ear. Our eyes connect briefly before she turns and looks back at the shelf, this time her eyes on the space beneath the television. Where the DVDs sit.
“In middle school, I developed a fascination with movies from the nineties and early two-thousands,” she explains. “A lot of the movies enjoyed were remakes or retellings from popular English literature.”
“Which films?”
She eagerly plucks out a DVD and holds it up for me to see.
“Clueless?” I wrinkle my forehead as I stare at the image of Alicia Silverstone, Stacy Dash, and Brittany Murphy enshrined in a silver heart on the cover. “It’s a Shakespeare retelling?”
Annalise gasps. “I’m going to pretend like I didn’t hear that.”
I give her a look.
“Have you ever seen the movie?”
“A long time ago, I think.”
“You think …” She trails off, her disappointment obvious. “It’s a retelling of Emma by Jane Austen. This one is a retelling of Taming of the Shrew by Shakespeare.”
I hold the case of the new DVD. “10 Things I Hate About You. That one is by Shakespeare,” I say.
“The play, not the movie,” she corrects.
“Right because Shakespeare wasn’t around in …” I flip the case over, “1999.”
I laugh when she rolls her eyes.
“So you watched these and decided you had a thing for Shakespeare?”
“Almost.” She nods. “I watched them and decided I wanted to learn more about the source material. Which led to me majoring in English literature in college.” She pauses. “That’s uni for you Brits.”
I wink. “Got that.”
“That’s where my real love for Shakespeare emerged. And my collection began.” She waves over her collection with her hand.
I nod. “Let’s watch one.”
“Really?” She sounds surprised. “I mean, sure. Which one?”
I’m almost taken by surprise by how quickly she agrees. I was expecting more protest from her but definitely glad when she doesn’t give any and try to kick me out instead.
I squat in front of the DVDs, running my finger. “How about this one? I read the play in year eight if I recall accurately.”
“Oh no.” She pulls the Julius Caesar DVD from me with a shake of her head. “You are not ready for 1953 Marlon Brando.” She actually clutches the DVD to her bosom, cradling it.
The way she says his name almost causes a surge of jealousy to well up inside of me. Except that the twist of her lips and the somewhat far off look in her eyes has me seeing the quirky side of Annalise that I didn’t know existed.
I like it. I’m realizing there are parts of her I want to discover.
“Not ready?”
She shakes her head. “Very few people are ready for 1953 Marlon Brando, and since you probably haven’t revisited the play since you were twelve years old …” She pauses, a questioning look in her expression.
“Close enough. Thirteen.”
She nods and proceeds, “You’re not ready. How about we start you off slow?”
Smiling, I nod in agreement because this feels like the start of a journey I hadn’t anticipated and am not certain I’m ready for but am more than willing to take.