Page 102 of Healing Eleanor

The sincerity in his tone wraps around me like a blanket. I search his eyes and find no malice, no hidden edge. Just patience. Just him. I know the moment I say stop, he’ll drop everything. That certainty is the only reason I can breathe out the word that follows.

“Okay.” I nod. “We can cook.” A shaky laugh escapes me. “Though you’ll have to teach me. I’m a nightmare with a knife.”

Nik straightens, his hands falling from my shoulders. “A nightmare, hm?” His grin turns playful. “You won’t stab me with it, will you?”

I set my hands on my hips dramatically. “Only if you cross me, Kozlov.” His last name tastes strange on my tongue.

He barks a laugh and lifts his palms in mock surrender. “Whatever you say, Montgomery.”

He moves back around the counter, rummaging through cabinets. I let myself look at him—the backward cap, the worn maroon t-shirt, gray sweatpants that slouch comfortably on his tall frame. He really wasn’t kidding when he said to dress casual. Heat creeps up my neck. I really shouldn’t be in his kitchen. I’m not a part of his world, but selfishly, I’m glad I’m here.

The counter fills with things I never use: pots, pans, mixing bowls, flour, eggs, oil, salt, onions, ground beef, and an army of spices. When he’s finally satisfied, he turns back to me.

“We’re going to be making pelmeni.”

I arch a brow, eyeing the spread of ingredients. “What’s that?”

Nik claps his hands together—just like he does at rehearsals—and the sound makes me giggle. “I’m glad you asked. It’s my favorite comfort meal. My mom used to make it for me when I was having a bad day. They’re Russian dumplings with a meat filling. You can pair them with anything, but I like mine with sour cream.” His grin is contagious, almost boyish.

I tap nervous fingers against the counter. “That sounds… yummy.” And it does. Too yummy. But even as the word leaves me, dread crawls up my throat. Because I know him. I knew he’d never force me to eat. But, how can I spend the afternoon cooking with him, hearing about his mother’s comfort food, and then not try a single bite? The end is already written. I just don’t want to face it.

“First things first.” Nik sets flour, salt, eggs, and a mixing bowl to the side. “We need to make the dough.”

I slide off the stool and stand beside him. “From scratch?”

“Is there any other way?” He flashes a grin, pulling out measuring cups from a drawer. “Here.” He hands me one. “Four cups of flour and a pinch of salt.”

I inhale deeply. Simple enough. I scoop flour into the bowl, dusting my hands in white.

Nik smirks at my mess. “You’re not supposed to bury your whole hand in it, Elenochka.”

There it is again. That nickname. His cheeks turn pink almost instantly. “Sorry.” He shoves the eggs toward me. “Make a well in the center. Three eggs.”

I crack one carefully into the flour, curiosity gnawing at me. “What does it mean?”

His hands keep moving, dusting the counter with flour, smoothing it out. “What does what mean?”

“The name you just called me.” I crack in the second egg then the third, and whisk them in with a fork.

He stalls, puts the flour away, then comes to stand beside me.

“It’s a Russian diminutive of your name—you can think of it like a nickname. A term of endearment, even. They’re affectionate and informal versions of our full names. My mom probably calls me at least thirteen different versions of my name a day.” A short laugh escapes him before his face goes guarded again. “I don’t know why I keep calling you that. I’m sorry.” He turns away, filling a measuring cup at the sink.

I rest a hip against the counter, fork still in hand. “It’s okay, you know. I don’t mind it. I don’t think anyone’s ever given me a nickname before.”

He glances at me, then pours water into the bowl, working the mixture with one hand. “That’s… good to know. I just… shouldn’t.”

“Why shouldn’t you?” I ask, taking the cup from him when he gestures. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Yes.” His answer is quick, almost clipped.

“So can’t friends give each other nicknames?”

He stills, eyes locking on mine—so intense it nearly knocks the breath out of me. “I can’t see why not.”

My lips twitch upward. “There, then. It’s settled. Ella-whatever-it-is.”

His laugh is soft, genuine. “Elenochka.”