Isn't It Bromantic (Bromance Book Club #4) by Lyssa Kay Adams

            She pointed to a chair by the island. “Sit and get that leg up.”

            While he got settled, she pulled out all the ingredients for the vareniki. They were every bit as time intensive as pelmeni dumplings, but the recipes were slightly different. Like everything else, Vlad’s mom had taught her how to make them, but they were often a family affair. Vlad and his parents—and often, Elena—would circle the table and work together to shape and fill the dumplings. Those hours were some of her favorite memories, full of laughter and teasing and affection. But they were also tinged with a bitter aftertaste, because it was during those hours around the family table that Elena began to realize how different her own family was. Her father’s job never allowed him to be home in time for dinner at a normal hour. There were no traditions, no recipes to pass down.

            Elena slid the bag of potatoes and a paring knife across the island to Vlad and then handed him a large bowl for the finished potatoes. “How many should I peel?” he asked.

            “The whole bag, if you can. I want to make a lot.”

            Elena stood on the other side of the island and began to dice the mushrooms and onions. Occasionally, she glanced up to watch him work but had to look away each time. His fingers—long and thick—appeared graceful as they swept the knife back and forth across each potato. It was all too easy to imagine his fingers sweeping across her, and that was a train of thought that would end with her cutting herself.

            They worked in silence for a while, each concentrating on their own tasks and lost in their own thoughts. When they were done, he leaned back. “Now what?”

            “Want to roll out the dough while I cook?”

            “Anything but that.” He groaned when he said it, but then he grinned again and, holy God, he winked at her. Elena forgot her own name for a moment. When she opened the fridge to pull out the dough she’d prepared last night, she was tempted to lean her head all the way in to cool herself down.

            “I might need a quick tutorial on this part,” Vlad said, watching her as she carried the dough to where he sat.

            “You don’t remember how?”

            “Only vaguely. Mama usually did this part.”

            Elena grabbed the gluten-free flour, the rolling pin, and a wooden cutting board. After dusting the board with flour, she put the ball of dough in the center. “Start with small strokes,” she said, leaning across him to show him how. “Just keep doing it until the dough starts to flatten out.” She stood back and looked at him. “Got it?”

            He chuckled, and their faces were so close that she felt his breath on her face. “What’s so funny?” she asked, voice stretched tight.

            “You have . . .” He lifted his hand to her face, and one of those long, graceful fingers brushed her cheekbone. “Flour. You have flour on your face.”

            “Oh.” She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand.

            His smile grew. “You just made it worse.”

            Flustered—not by the flour, but by him—she backed away. “Okay, I’m going to get started on the filling.”

            They worked for several hours, shaping, filling, and boiling the dumplings. Long stretches of conversation were bookmarked by content silence. When they were finally done, Elena stretched her arms over her head and winced at the catch in her neck.

            “You okay?” he asked.

            “Just stiff.” She rolled her head back and forth against tight muscles.

            “Go sit on the floor in the living room.”

            Elena blinked and slowly lowered her arms. “What? Why?”

            “Just do it,” he chided gently. “I’ll be right there.”

            Elena washed her hands and dried them as Vlad disappeared into the downstairs bathroom. Then she did what he told her to. She went into the living room and lowered herself to the floor in front of the couch. Vlad joined her a moment later and wedged behind her.

            “What are we doing?” she asked.

            “You are going to sit there. I am going to rub your neck.”

            “You are?” Her voice came out as flittery as butterfly wings. Excitable and frantic.