Page 103 of Healing Eleanor

“Yeah, that.” I smile.

He shakes his head, smiling as he kneads the dough. I dribble in the rest of the lukewarm water, watching the flour and eggs collapse into a sticky ball under his hands.

“I could call you Coach Perfect Posture Who Loves to Bake and Has a Cute Dog Named Louie,” I tease.

Nik chuckles. “That’s… quite the mouthful.” He sets the dough onto the floured counter. “Here—your turn.”

I tilt my head. “My turn?”

“Mm-hm.” He walks to the sink, scrubbing his hands. “Time for you to knead.”

I wrinkle my nose. “But… it’s messy.” Growing up, messes were forbidden. My mother would be horrified right now.

Nik dries his hands, then returns to my side. “It’s okay to get a little messy sometimes.” He gently takes my hand and guides me closer to the counter. His fingers slide over mine, warm and sure. “I’ll show you.”

Our hands press into the dough together, fingers almost lacing as we roll it forward and back. The flour puffs up into the air, dusting the counter, and ultimately dusting us. His chest brushes my shoulder each time he leans forward. My pulse races. By the time the dough is smoothed out, I can’t tell if the heat on my cheeks is from the work or from him.

Nik transfers the dough into a clean bowl and covers it with plastic wrap. “That needs to rest for an hour.”

I dart to the sink, hiding my face as I wash my hands. My voice comes out softer than I mean. “That long?”

“That’s right.” Nik grabs another clean bowl and gathers the ground beef, onions, oil, the small army of spices, and more water. “While the dough rests, we work on the filling.”

I dry my hands on a towel and point at the raw beef. “Do we… have to touch it?”

“Of course. We’ve got to mix everything together.”

I wrinkle my nose again. “Nope. Absolutely not. I draw the line at raw meat, Coach Perfect Posture Who Loves to Bake and Has a Cute Dog Named Louie.”

Nik chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m impressed you remembered all that.” He picks up an onion and holds it out to me. “Fine. No raw meat. But you get to cut this.”

I take it from him gingerly, as if it were a live grenade. “Did you not hear me earlier? I’m a nightmare with a knife.”

His mouth tilts into that maddening smirk. “I believe in you, Elenochka. Just as long as you don’t draw blood, I think you’ll survive.”

I huff, holding the onion like a reluctant soldier going to battle. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Nik places a cutting board and a very, very, sharp knife in front of me, gives the most basic of instructions, and then leaves me alone while he busies himself with the rest of the filling.

I’m smugly proud of the first few cuts. No blood, no missing fingers. Honestly, I’m kind of crushing it.

Until my eyes start burning like I’m in a chemical gas attack.

I drop the knife with a clatter and claw at my eyes, tears streaming in torrents. “Nik, I think something’s wrong with your onion!”

He turns and immediately doubles over with laughter.

I blink furiously at him through the blur. “Why are you laughing? This is not funny. My eyes are on fire.”

His laughter only grows louder, his shoulders shaking. “Give me your face,” he manages between fits.

I freeze, my stinging eyes narrowing… or attempting to narrow. “What?”

He grabs a clean towel, runs it under the tap, and thrusts it at me. “Here. Press this to your eyes. It’ll help.”

The relief is instant. “Oh my gosh, this feels amazing.” I press the cool cloth hard against my eyes, sighing like I’ve been rescued from the brink of death.

When I lower the towel, Nik’s face is red and his hand’s over his mouth.