I pull open the door of the refrigerator and pull out the carton of eggs, a bunch of fresh mixed herbs, and a block of gruyere cheese. The coffee is finishing brewing, but I fill a mug with hot water and let it sit for a minute to warm. Then I turn the stove’s burner to low and place a copper saucepan over the flame so it will heat slowly.

I’m trying to impress her. I realize this with a shock. I run my fingers through my hair, keeping my back towards the counter island where she’s sitting, looking delicious and rumpled in my old t-shirt and a pair of my boxer briefs.

I inhale deeply and realize that her smells are all over me—the creamy notes of her cum mixed up with the sweet musk of her own scent. I release a low growl—like a caged animal I pace towards the coffee, dump the water warming the mug, and pour in the black liquid.

I can’t remember the last time I did this morning ritual for an audience. I can’t remember the last time I brought anyone to stay overnight or cook for them. Not before Jenna. It feels intimate, personal, intimidating and sexy.

Like Jenna.

I turn my head slightly, so I can catch a glimpse of her sitting at the large island in the kitchen. She’s fingering the paper I laid out for her. She’s nervous—I can tell by the way her finger is tapping and playing with the collar of the white shirt—but she’s also glancing over the front page with genuine interest.

I bring the coffee and set it down in front of her. She lifts her head and smiles at me. Her expression is open. For the briefest moment, it feels like we’re just two normal people, and the mess with the FBI and the races feels very far away.

“How do you take it?” I ask, gesturing at the coffee.

She leans forward on the stool, resting her elbows on the island, and putting her hands around the mug. She’s not wearing a bra, and the shirt is loose enough that I glimpse the roundness of her breasts for a moment. She’s not wearing makeup, but somehow looks more striking than ever.

Her hair tumbles around her face in waves. I stare as she moves her mass of dark curls to one side; I can feel the pulse in my neck beginning to race.

She catches me staring and I watch her blush slightly, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue before answering me.

“I’d like it with a little cream if you have it, but black is fine if you don’t,” she says.

I nod. This is a quiet moment. That personal exchange of information, which has nothing to do with racing or the industry or betrayal. That has nothing to do with our fucking or sucking, and being pulled towards each other. She just told me how she takes her coffee.

And it feels like the beginning of something.

I clear my throat, take out the cream, and place it front of her. I’m careful not to touch her. I need to get my balance back.

She might be the enemy, I remind myself. She might be my enemy. She could be the end of me; the end of this career I’ve built up through ingenuity and sheer force of will. She could be lying to me—and I’m lying to her.

She might be on my side. This might be the beginning of something; it might be real. It might actually be the most real thing I’ve ever experienced.

Being around Jenna, I feel like I’m behind the wheel of the most powerful machine I’ve ever driven. With her, I hear the constant purr of the engine. Anticipation floods my body, pushing my senses into overdrive. All I feel is adrenaline; all I think about is strategy. Being with her is like the pure excitement of a race, the feeling of barrelling into the future and leaving everything on the course.

I smile to myself, because the only person who could get this would be Jenna. But we’re not there. I’m not ready to trust this, yet. I have to wait and see what she’s going to do.

The pan is warm. I begin to move, cracking eggs into a bowl.

“What do you think about an omelette for breakfast?” I ask.

“That sounds perfect,” she says, taking a sip of coffee.

“Bread? I have a fresh baguette delivered every morning I know I’ll be here,” I say.

“Of course you do,” she says with a laugh.

I can feel her eyes on me as I whisk the eggs and then tear apart the fresh parsley, basil, and thyme. I shred the gruyere and put it aside. I pour the mixture in the pan.

“He cooks,” she says. I can hear her smiling. It loosens something inside me. I don’t know what it is, but it makes me laugh.

“I cook,” I say, nodding. “I like the kitchen. I like being alone in here and focusing on my cravings as I try to create something simple to satisfy it. It’s like any other kind of inventing process. Just with cooking it’s finding the right combination of flavors to satisfy me.”

“Is that what you feel when you’re tweaking the engine or playing with the design of the car?”

I open my mouth to respond, and then consider my options. This could be, I realize, an opportunity to figure her out. Another exchange of information. I know now how she takes her coffee, she knows now that I cook. I know that she stole from me, but now will she find the words—or will I find the question—that will help me understand if she’s a tool for the Feds or her team. And if she’s not, how and why did she get caught up in this?

She asked a simple question. Do I answer it honestly, in the way of two people learning the contours of each other? In the way couples do at the beginning of an affair?

I lower the heat on the burner and leave the omelette to cook a bit. Then I turn to her, leaning against the counter and we look at each other for a moment. Her green eyes are locked on mine.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve never really thought about it before, but I suppose there are parallels between cooking and the way I approach racing. I’m not sure if I can explain it—”

“Try,” she says.

I nod.

“It’s never about driving, not really. When I race it’s about becoming enveloped in the machine or going so fast you feel one with the wind.” I shrug. “I don’t know how to explain it better than that. It’s not just about speed, but it’s about cutting through the world, whipping between objects so quickly it’s like you’re invisible.

“It’s not like flying—I’ve never been interested in being in the air, I like the feeling of being connected to Earth, but so loosely, it feels otherworldly. A perfect drive is combining the grit of the earth—smell of gasoline, the black tar, sweat pouring down your back—all with the elegance of a dance.”

“That’s what you’re doing with your ‘adjustments.’ You’re trying to streamline the dance?”

“That’s a good way of putting it, yeah. But it’s also more than that.”

I turn back to the pan and sprinkle the cheese over the bed of eggs, a pinch of salt and grind of fresh pepper. I fold the omelette perfectly.

“Or, that’s the racing part, that’s what I’m craving. The other part to it is trying to mix things up to satisfy that craving.” I slide the omelette on to a plate, tear off the heel of the baguette, and place the plate in front of her.

“Eat.”

She breaks into the eggs, bringing a morsel to mouth. I watch her eyes close for a second. She’s smiling.

“This is really good.”

“I know,” I say. We’re both smiling. Then I say, more seriously this time, “I’m glad you like it.”

I clear my throat and I start on my own omelette.

“Don’t stop,” she says. “Keep telling me.”

“Okay,” I start, “what I’m trying to say is the innovation part is the puzzle. It’s not about breaking laws or hurting people, it’s about pushing the industry forward—safely, but also for the sake of it. Inventors don’t always have a grand plan in mind, they are simply trying to improve on the past.”

“I get that,” she says. “I really do. I fell in love with racing because it feels miraculous—how can a lug of a machine cut through air and be maneuvered so beautifully? Watching a race feels the same as watching a beautiful hunt—a pride of lions trying to make it to the prey.” She pauses. “I’ve never articulated that before.”

She opens her mouth to say something. I feel like she’s going to tell me what’s happening. I feel like she’s about to come clean. But she smiles instead.

I’m about to say something to urge her to talk more, challenge her to speak to me, but she speaks first.

“Yours ready, yet? I’m almost done here.”

“Yep,” I say, sliding onto the stool beside her. And then she passes me the butter, and we casually eat together in my kitchen. She can’t know what this is doing to me. I don’t even have the words for it. But I’m suddenly terrified that now that I’ve had this, I won’t be able to let it go. And that could be my undoing.