Page 32 of Blocked Shot
Natalie stands beside him, peering down at his recipe notes. “Have you ever made dough before?”
Jake shrugs. “How hard can it be? Flour, eggs, water. Boom. Dough.”
Natalie laughs, shaking her head. “Well it doesn’t look that different from pasta dough, which happens to be a specialty of mine.”
Natalie had truly saved his bacon. She arrived an hour after the phone call with Jesse, looking nervous but drop-dead gorgeous in a cozy sweater and tight jeans that hugged her curves. Her wet hair is pulled into a loose plait thrown over one shoulder. She quickly took charge, instructing him to peel the potatoes while she set about frying onions in butter.
Jake clears his throat and rolls up his sleeves. “Chef, yes chef. What’s the first step?”
Natalie leans in to read his notes, her shoulder brushing against his arm. “Combine the flour and salt, make a well in the center, and slowly add the eggs and water.”
“Easy.” He grabs a measuring cup, but before he can scoop the flour, Natalie places a hand over his. Her fingers are smaller than his, warm against his skin. He stills, his pulse kicking up.
“You have to be careful with the measurements,” she says, her voice softer now. “If you add too much water, the dough will be too sticky. Too little, and it’ll be dry.”
He swallows, nodding, but he’s not sure he’s even heard what shesaid. She’s close enough that he catches the faint scent of vanilla and something floral. It’s distracting.
“Jake,” she says, arching a brow. “Are you even listening?”
“Uh-huh,” he says quickly.
“Why are we making pierogis anyway? And who gave you this recipe? Like half the steps are missing,” Natalie asks.
“They’re for Pavel,” Jake explains.
He weighs how much information he should share, but decides full disclosure is best with Natalie. He owes her that.
“He won’t say it, but he’s homesick. His family is still back in Slovakia. He hasn’t seen them since the summer. The food is different here. The hockey is different here. I wanted to give the kid a tiny slice of home.”
“Oh the poor thing! I had no idea,” Natalie says.
“Pierogis are traditionally served on Christmas in Slovakia, that and a soup I can’t pronounce made from sausages and sauerkraut,” Jake says, gesturing toward the container resting on his counter.
“And you know this how?” Natalie asks, arching an eyebrow.
Warmth creeps into his cheeks.Full disclosure,he reminds himself.
“I may have, uh, called his mom. That’s who the recipes came from.”
“Oh my god, Jake. That is so… sweet,” Natalie says, looking up at him through her lashes.
Damn, she has beautiful eyes, Jake thinks to himself. Warm honey-brown, but richer, deeper, flecked with gold that catches the light in a way that makes them almost hypnotic. They shift with her every emotion, darkening when she’s lost in thought, lighting up when she laughs. He wonders if she realizes how easily he gets caught in them, how every time she looks at him like this, he loses his ability to speak.
Jake shrugs. “No big deal,” he says, grabbing the bag of flour and pouring it into a bowl. A cloud of white powder puffs up between them. “Besides, if he’s sad, he plays like crap and the team suffers. So I’m really being selfish here.”
“Uh-huh,” says Natalie. “Totally selfish.”
She narrows her eyes on the bowl. “Wait. Did you dump that in without measuring?”
“Eyeballed it.”
“Oh my God,” she groans, grabbing a dish towel and swiping at her face. “This is why you need my help.”
Jake chuckles, reaching forward before he can stop himself, brushing a bit of flour off her cheek with his thumb. The moment his skin touches hers, she freezes. Their eyes meet, and for a second, neither of them moves. The kitchen suddenly feels too warm, the air between them thick like honey, sweet and impossible to escape.
Natalie turns into his touch, her teeth catching her lower lip in a way that makes Jake's pulse stutter. His gaze drops to her mouth without permission, transfixed by the way her lips part on a whispered exhale, how the soft pink flesh yields beneath the gentle pressure of her teeth. He wants to soothe that spot with his thumb, with his mouth, tasting the sweetness he knows he'll find there.
The moment stretches between them like a held breath.
