Elena looks up from the cutting board, knife paused mid-slice. “You okay, milaya?”
“Yeah, just… the smell.”
“Raw meat bothers you?” She squints at me. “Since when?”
Since this morning, apparently. “I’m fine. Just nervous.”
“Mm.” She goes back to slicing. “Nervous about cooking? Or nervous about who you’re cooking for?”
Both. Definitely both.
“Here.” She slides a bowl of mushrooms toward me. “You do these. Less bloody.”
I grab the knife gratefully, happy to be focusing on the mushrooms instead of my churning stomach. Or the fact that Stefan will be here in an hour. Or that I have no idea what I’m going to say to him.
Thank you for the article seems insufficient.
I think I’m falling for you seems insane.
“In Russia, we have a saying,” Elena says, interrupting my downward spiral. “‘
