Page 23 of Beastly Mountain Man

His mouth curved. “Good to know.”

I worked flour into the eggs while the mixture went through several stages, none of which looked remotely like pasta.

“It’s sticking to me, it’s under my fingernails, and it looks terrible.”

“All normal. The terrible part is temporary.”

“Thank you. That was almost reassuring.”

Lucky moved to my side and pressed his fingers into the rough dough. “Feel this part. It’s still tacky, but it’s starting to hold together. Keep working it until the surface gets smoother and it pushes back a little instead of collapsing.”

I pressed where he had, and the explanation made sense immediately.

“Why didn’t you start with that?”

“I did. You wanted numbers.”

“Numbers have never betrayed me like eggs just did.”

His laugh filled the kitchen.

I kneaded while Lucky turned on the oven and started the garlic for the sauce. The dough eventually changed beneath my hands, growing smoother and more elastic until I could finally imagine it becoming food.

By then flour covered the counter and one pale streak crossed the front of my sweater.

I looked down.

Lucky followed my gaze.

He wisely stayed quiet.

Normally I would have dealt with the stain immediately. Cashmere had rules. Clothing had care instructions. Flour did not receive diplomatic immunity because dinner was underway.

I rubbed at the mark once, made it worse, then looked at the dough.

“Does flour come out?”

“Yes.”

“You’re certain?”

“I’m more certain about flour than cashmere, but I think the sweater is going to survive.”

I considered the white streak.

“Fine.”

And left it there.

Lucky’s smile appeared slowly.

“I like the flour.”

I looked at him. “That may be the strangest compliment I’ve received this month.”

“I meant on you.”

“That did not improve it.”