“Shit. Sorry.”
She laughs. “Don’t worry about it. This is a kitchen. This floor has seen more than it’s share of blood, I promise.”
By the time my nose stops dripping, Sophie is back at the counter, her hands in the dough.
“What are you making?”
She tosses a glance at me over her shoulder, those big brown eyes pinning me in place. “Wash your hands and help me.”
I do as she says then join her at the counter, rolling up my sleeves. Her gaze snags on my forearms for a heartbeat before she looks away. Interesting.
“Are you making bread?”
“Gnocchi.”
I can’t help the smirk. “Gnocchi is good, but no one gets it right.”
She gives me a dirty look. “I understand the Garden of Olives runs some specials during the week. You’re welcome to eat lunch there.”
The smirk dies on my face. “Fucking Garden of Olives? What they serve is not Italian, and it’s not food. You know they microwave everything they serve? Fucking chemicals and cardboard is what that is. If your gnocchi is anything like that—”
“It isn’t.” She cuts me off, and now she’s smiling that soft, secret smile that makes it hard to breathe. She’s fucking with me. “Would you be interested in a spinach ricotta gnocchi? It will take a little longer, but I promise it’s worth it.”
I narrow my eyes at her, not yet over the Garden of Olives comment. “Is your gnocchi thuddy or pillowy?”
She frowns. “Gnocchi should never be thuddy.”
“Baked or boiled?”
“Always baked.”
“Do you add ricotta to the dough or serve it on the side?”
“It’s in the dough.”
“And the spinach, on the side or in the dough?”
“I use an organic baby spinach and puree it before adding to the dough last minute. Then I shape each one by hand and bake them, which is why it takes more time.” She lifts her chin slightly, waiting for my decision.
I nod. “Fine. Let’s do this.”
“Great. Combine the spinach puree with the dough.” She gestures to a large ceramic bowl full of a vibrant green puree.
That shit looks messy as fuck. I frown and roll the sleeves of my button up shirt higher. “How?”
I catch her stealing a sideways glance at my forearms again, her gaze tracing the veins that run from wrist to elbow. Whenshe catches me catching her, the temperature in the kitchen instantly rises 10 degrees.
She clears her throat and takes my hand, her fingers small and warm against mine, and pushes it into the bowl. “Just knead it gently.”
“Gently?” I squeeze a fistful of dough. “I don’t do gentle.”
“Gentle, Vin. Watch.” She slides her hand under mine in the bowl and pushes my fingers into the dough so that the spinach puree pools in the indentations. Then, she folds the dough over and push down until the puree oozes out. “See? Gentle. You try.”
I try to replicate what she did, but I’m too rough and my fingers shove through the dough, splashing puree onto the counter. She blinks, staring at my hands.
“I’m not doing this right.”
“Here. Follow me.” Before I can process what’s happening, she slides between me and the counter, her back pressing against my chest, and grabs my wrists. “Both hands, please.”
