Burn

Chapter 27: A Temporary Fling

MAX

I pull a quilt over Lily's body, then kiss her temple and slowly slide out of bed. Once I've located my boxer briefs and a T-shirt, I throw them on. Even though it's early evening in July, it's far enough north to have a slight chill in the air — which is totally welcome considering we've been in Florida and Texas in recent weeks.

"Max? Where are you going?" Her voice is gravelly from sleep.

"To make dinner for us."

She frowns and makes a cute little squeak. "Oh. I didn't even ask. Do we have food, or do we have to order some? Or are we going out?"

I've always loved the way she looks when she's sleepy, all sensual and soft. She half sits up. "I can help."

"No, babe. The rental company stocked the fridge. We never have to leave the bed if we don't want to. I'll make dinner. I was thinking about apple pancakes." Not the most conventional of dinners, but for some reason, I've been craving my mom's recipe — and I know that Lily, with her sweet tooth, will love them.

"Mmmm. That sounds amazing." She flops back down and closes her eyes, her lashes almost touching the tops of her cheeks. Her breathing becomes deeper.

For a solid minute, I sit on the side of the bed, watching her sleep. She's so gorgeous that I almost ache a little inside, but part of me is wondering where this is going, and what I'm doing.

There's no question that sleeping with her — my team owner's daughter who is currently in charge of the team — is poor judgment. But the feelings I've harbored for her all these years have come rushing back in full force.

Giving her up again will be impossible.

I pad into the kitchen and assemble my ingredients. Like racing, I'm precise when I do anything, whether it's working out or cooking. Before we arrived here, I made sure that we had only the best, freshest organic ingredients delivered, and I'm not disappointed.

Mostly, I want to show Lily that I'm now capable in the kitchen. Back when we were together, I was a totally different man, one who loved the newfound trappings of wealth and fame. A private chef and exclusive meals at top restaurants were my staples. Now, I try to cook whenever I get a chance.

I'd love to learn to truly cook, and if I left the sport, it's just one more thing I could explore. The offer of consulting for the electric car race circuit weighs on my mind as I begin peeling the apples for the pancake. The owner of the circuit emailed me again today, and I spent most of the flight to Canada trying to decide what to respond.

In the end, I consulted with my agent. We decided to hedge yet again, saying I wanted to get through the next couple of races before making any concrete decisions. My agent thinks it's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to change an industry.

I'm not sure what to believe.

It would be interesting to hear what Lily has to say about the offer. I value her opinion. But she is the team owner and telling a team owner about a rival offer mid-season is a career death sentence. If I reveal that I'm considering retirement, every dynamic between us will shift.

And I'm so damned happy in her presence that I don't want to risk doing anything that will jeopardize what we have right now. For the next forty-eight hours, I want to worship her.

In the all the ways I should have seven years ago, when I wasn't enough of a man to recognize what I had.

I hear footsteps on the wood floor, and look up from the apples. Lily's in a white robe, coming toward me.

"I probably shouldn't be sleeping at this hour. I'll never be able to get to bed later."

She comes over and wraps her arms around me, surveying the kitchen island counter, which is covered in every ingredient for the skillet pancake. "What exactly are you making?"

"It's a bit of a mess right now, but I'm working through it. It's a Apfelpfannkuchen. It's a fluffy apple pancake."

She laughs and kisses my neck. "Fluffy apple anything sounds amazing. You sure you don't want help?"

"Nope. You relax."

Her gaze goes to the small bottle of rye whiskey, and she untangles her arms from my body and picks up the liquor. "What's this for?"

"That's part of the recipe. It's the secret ingredient, according to my mother. She used to make this at Christmas usually. Would you like a little glass? I won't need all of it."

She says yes, and I pour both of us small glasses of whisky over ice. We toast and sip, and I return to the apples. Lily slides onto a stool.

"This is a Christmas dish?" She reaches into the bowl and swipes an apple. "But it's July."

"It feels like Christmas, doesn't it?" I slice the final apple.

"It does." Her voice is soft. She eats the slice in three dainty bites as I arrange the apples in the cast iron skillet and carefully pour the batter over them.

While leaning sideways to check the gas flame on the burner, Lily says, "Max."

It's a warning tone, a definitive, we-need-to-talk statement, all wrapped up in the way she says my name. I know her well enough to recognize this.

I straighten my spine. "Yeah?"

"We need to talk. About this. About us."

I glance down at the cake, then back at her. "Okay. Uh, could we do it after I've made us the pancakes?"

"Oh, yes, definitely."

She gets down from the stool and wanders into the living room, settling onto the sofa with her whisky. I'm left alone in the kitchen, wondering how tonight will unfold. The last time Lily told me that we needed to "talk," she said she was breaking off our relationship.

By the time I'm done with both plate-sized pancakes, my heart is thundering against my chest — no small thing for a person who is so athletically conditioned that my heart beats at a cool fifty BPM when I'm at rest.

"Powdered sugar or maple syrup?" I call out.

She sits up and peers at me, her eyes wide with excitement. "Both?"

This makes me chuckle, and I happily add both to her pancake, then bring her the plate, utensils, and a napkin.

For the next ten minutes, the only sound is us devouring the pancake and her satisfied moans.

"Oh my god, Max. This is incredible. It's like an orgasm in my mouth." She pops the last bite into her mouth.

"Do you want me to make more?"

"Perhaps. It even goes well with the whisky." She takes a little sip. "Maybe after your Formula World career you should think about opening an apple pancake restaurant."

She leans in to kiss me, and she tastes like apples and cinnamon, whisky and maple. I want to take her back to bed and feast more on her body, but instead, I clear the plates away and put them in the kitchen, then return to the sofa.

"So. What did you want to talk about?" I suddenly feel oddly formal.

She holds the whisky glass in both hands. "Us. This. It's a shock, honestly, especially after our past. I thought we should be adults and talk. You're thirty, and I'm thirty-four, and well, I kind of want to know if this is just a temporary fling or what."

I notice that she can't look me in the eye when she talks, and I'm torn over whether I should get on my knees and pour out the contents of my heart, or if I should show her how I feel with sex.

"Yeah, we probably should talk." My words come out like they're spoken by a robot. Why can't I just tell her how I feel? I'm going to have to try, even if emotions don't come easy to me. This is too important to screw up. "What do you want this to be?"

I don't like the way she licks her lips nervously and hesitates to answer the question.