Page 34 of Full Throttle

Juliette glanced at Dominic. She hated that they were thinking the same thing: about the day at the academy with that stupid coq au vin. Ranya was right. They had found common ground before. They could do it again, surely? Just for a few weeks?

“Fine,” she muttered.

Dominic’s mouth turned up. Just a little. “Fine?”

Juliette ground her teeth. The arsehole was really going to make her say it, wasn’t he? “I’d like your help.”

“Good,” Dominic said. “We’ll start tomorrow.”

Juliette looked at the car. A thin layer of white foam covered the body. Smoke drifted up like steam from a kettle. When Dominic had last been her instructor, it had ended in a public blow-out and they hadn’t spoken in two years. She supposed that—this time—it couldn’t be any worse.

Probably.

Chapter 12

Then…

The first time that Juliette spoke to Dominic Hastings alone, he was standing in the academy kitchen, wielding a wooden spoon and wearing a black apron that said Oh, Crepe! I Left the Oven On.

She paused in the doorway. The muggy August heat filtered through the window, along with the faint sounds of a car engine revving. Butter sizzled in an iron skillet, accompanied by the mouthwatering aroma of thyme and parsley.

“Please,” Dominic said, without turning. “Don’t let me stop you.”

“Oh.” Juliette hesitated. “I wouldn’t want to intrude—”

“You’re not.”

She ground her sock into the floorboard, hugging her sudoku book to her chest. She was suddenly painfully aware of her outfit: leggings, an oversized hoodie, and greasy hair pulled back in a pink scrunchie. Not that it mattered; Dominic still wasn’t looking at her.

Juliette took a seat. “What are you cooking?”

“Coq au vin.”

Juliette whistled. “Fancy. I’ve never had it.” Most of her childhood meals had involved boil-in-the-bag hot dogs. It had been a good day when they’d had rice pudding cups for dessert. “I thought you’d have your own kitchen. In, you know…” She waved a hand toward the window. “Wherever teaching staff live.”

Dominic crouched to grab a chopping board. “I do. But my oven’s broken, so I’m being forced to mix with the general public today.”

Juliette paused, her pencil hovering over her sudoku. Was that a subtle hint? Was he trying to get rid of her? She was still wondering how to gracefully extract herself from the situation when Dominic said, “Can you hand me that grater?”

She did so. “Nice apron.”

“Thanks. My friend Liêm got it for me.”

He said this casually, as if it was normal to be friends with Liêm Yang, a former F2 champion and heir to Vietnam’s biggest shoe brand. Perhaps it was. She wouldn’t know; Cap rarely spoke about any of his fellow racers. Most of their conversations revolved around his dog Clyde, or their parents’ latest Shakespeare-themed item and whether it was terrible (it always was). She had the sense that her brother relied on their conversations to be about anything but racing; it was how Cap held on to a shred of normalcy.

“What’s that?” Dominic asked, nodding at her book.

“Sudoku puzzles.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You do a lot of those?”

“Sometimes.” Usually followed by chess or any strategy game she could rope Baz into playing. “It gets me out of my head for a few hours.”

Dominic tasted the sauce. “I watched your practice laps today. You need to work on that undertake. If you go into the corner a little earlier, you might stand a half-decent chance at winning.”

She hid a smile. “Was that meant to be a compliment?”

“You don’t need compliments. You know you’re talented.”