I leave the pot on the stove and turn around frantically to go place the plate on the counter, which sends some brigadeiro spilling onto my hand. I curse at the sudden pain and I instinctively let go of the plate.

I watch it fall in slow motion and shatter at my feet, sending brigadeiro everywhere.

My eyesight blurs with tears. I’ve made a complete mess!

I turn around to grab a rag, but my hip bumps the pot handle, knocking it sideways, and the remaining brigadeiro spills on the hot burner, bubbling and smoking.

“Oh my God!” I kneel down to wipe the floor with the rag before the others come back, holding back tears. My hand is throbbing and red, but I ignore the pain.

“What happened?” Pedro rushes round the counter.

I didn’t realize he’d come back.

“I—I just—” I stammer, pushing myself to my feet, but my injured hand hits against the side of the stove, and I curse again in pain.

“You’ve burned yourself!” He gestures for me to hurry to the sink. “Go put that hand under cold water.”

Where have I heard this before?

“I’m fine,” I say.

“No, you’re not,” he retorts, turning the faucet on himself. “This is my kitchen. I can’t have anyone getting injured and not getting first aid.”

I bite down on my lower lip, making a point to keep eye contact with him as I place my hand under the stream. The burned spot on my skin stings even more in contact with cold water, but I don’t let him see me sweat.

Pedro turns around to inspect all this brigadeiro on the floor, one hand pressed against his forehead like he’s getting a migraine. “I step away for one second and you’ve already made a huge mess.”

“Don’t start,” I say quietly.

“How’s your hand?”

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. He’s concerned? The skin is still throbbing, but I flex my fingers to show him I’m okay.

“I’ll live.”

“Then now you can start explaining how the heck my kitchen ended up covered in brigadeiro.” His eyes shine furiously.

Nope. I was wrong.

The others walk in, and their jaws drop when they see the mess all over the floor. I blush with humiliation.

“I’m so sorry,” I say to them. “I’ll clean this up.”

“Don’t touch anything else,” Pedro says. “If I didn’t know your family, I’d think you can’t cook. Are you trying to sabotage my kitchen or something?”

I stop, balling my hands into tight fists.

“Who says I can’t cook? It was just an accident!”

“You’re being too harsh,” Victor says, going round the counter to stand next to me. “So what if she burned that pot of brigadeiro? These things happen. Lighten up. This is a club. We’re not professionals.”