The next morning, I stood in the kitchen, holding a knife like it was a dangerous weapon. Because in my hands, it was.
Noah leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching me with barely concealed amusement. "You look like you're about to go into battle."
"I am," I muttered, adjusting my grip. "Against these poor, innocent vegetables."
Noah shook his head, stepping closer until he was right behind me. "Here," he murmured, placing his hands over mine. "You're holding it all wrong."
His voice was deep, steady, and way too close. My heart did a little flip. It was just a cooking lesson, nothing special, but the warmth of his touch sent a strange shiver down my spine.
He guided my fingers into the right position, his chest barely brushing against my back. "Relax your grip. The knife is not your enemy."
