Babe, you’ve been gone a long time. Anything you want to tell me?
NATALIE
We’re not making eggplant.
NATALIE
Natalie takes another sip of her wine, a pleasant buzz spreading through her as she watches Jake struggle with the dough. His large hands press down with too much force, causing the delicate circle to stick to the counter. He lets out a frustrated grunt, prying it off the countertop, but half of it tears in his grip. His colorful curses fill the kitchen.
“Yikes, and I thought Jesse had a potty mouth,” Natalie teases.
“Occupational hazard,” Jake says. “They say all hockey players are bilingual. English and profanity.”
Natalie laughs. “I believe it. I’ve spent enough time at the rink.”
“Is that where your aversion to hockey players came from?” Jake asks.
Natalie is quiet for a moment. Considering.
“You’re not the first, you know,” she says carefully. “I went on a couple dates with a trainer from Jesse’s team a couple years ago. He was around my age, seemed sweet.”
“What happened?” Jake asks, not looking up from the dough he’s rolling. Natalie senses him holding his breath, taking in her every word.
“It ended badly. He wanted more than I was willing to give him,” Natalie says softly. “And he—” she pauses, trying to push down the pain and embarrassment. “He gave Jesse a hard time about it. On the ice. In the locker room. There were all kinds of rumours about me. It was awful. Jesse hated it.”
Jake stops and looks at her, searching. “I would never do that to you. Or to Jesse.” His voice is tight.
“I know,” Natalie says quickly. “I just… There’s a reason I’m careful. I can’t do that to Jesse again.”
“I get it,” Jake says. “But your happiness means something too.”
Natalie swallows, pushing past the warmth curling in her chest.
“That’s the third one I’ve crushed,” he grumbles, shaking his head. “I think my hands are too big to make pierogies.”
She laughs, setting down her own glass and dusting her hands with flour. “It’s because you’re treating it like a puck, not dough. Be gentle.”
Jake lifts a brow, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. “Are you implying I’m not gentle?”
Her stomach flips, heat blooming low as she catches the teasing glint in his eye. “I’m saying you need to stop manhandling the poor thing.”
His smirk deepens but follows her lead as she demonstrates.
“Roll it evenly,” she instructs, gliding the rolling pin over the dough in smooth, light strokes. “See? No unnecessary roughness.”
Jake mirrors her movements, concentrating. “This is ridiculous. How do those little grandmas make hundreds of these without losing their minds?”
“Decades of experience,” Natalie says. “And probably a lot less wine.”
Jake huffs out a laugh, reaching for his glass. “Wine makeseverything better, though.” He takes a sip, eyes twinkling over the rim. “Even my manhandling.”
She chokes on a surprised laugh, shaking her head as she picks up a small round cutter and presses it into the dough. “Now, we fill them.” She reaches for the bowl of mashed potatoes and cheese, scooping a small spoonful. “Less is more. If you overfill, they’ll burst.”
Jake watches her closely, then attempts his own. His fingers work carefully as he pinches the edges shut, and for a moment, Natalie finds herself distracted by how deftly he moves, how his forearms flex with the motion. She quickly looks down at her own dough, biting her lip.
“This isn’t so bad,” Jake says, holding up his first successful pierogi.
Natalie claps. “Look at that! A masterpiece.”
