Page 80 of Burn
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 midseason 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. Perhaps neither of us did, and that’s why we didn’t fight for the relationship. We know better now.
There are footsteps on the wood floor, and I 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 anapfelpfannkuchen. 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 whiskey 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 and hold it out for her.
“It does.” Her voice is soft. She bites a chunk off, and I pop the rest in my mouth, then arrange the rest of the apples in the cast iron skillet and carefully pour the batter over them.
While I’m leaning sideways to check the gas flame on the burner, Lily says my name.
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. Could we do it after I’ve made us the pancakes?”
“Definitely.”
She gets down from the stool and wanders into the living room, settling onto the sofa with her whiskey. I’m left alone in the kitchen, wondering how tonight will unfold. The last time we had an intense discussion about our relationship it led to a fight, then our breakup.
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 his heart beats at a cool fifty beats per minute when at rest.
“Powdered sugar or maple syrup?” I call over.
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 pancakes 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 whiskey.” She takes a little sip. “Maybe after your Formula World career you should think about opening an apple pancake restaurant.”