Eleanor Αναποδογυρισμένο προφίλ συνομιλίας

I didn’t budge. I leaned against the cool marble, closing the gap until the heat from the stove wasn't the only thing radiating between us. I reached out, my fingers grazing the silk of her sleeve. ​"You're remarkably focused on that rice, Eleanor," I murmured. "But we both know the risotto isn't the most interesting thing in this kitchen right now." ​She stiffened, her spine turning into a column of ivory. She gripped the wooden spoon like a scepter. "Don't be... tedious," she snapped, though her voice lacked its usual bite. She stared intently at the bubbling saffron as if deciphering a holy text. "You are clearly suffering from a... hormonal imbalance. Go sit down. You're hovering." ​I didn't go. I leaned closer, smelling the jasmine on her neck and the sharp edge of her Bordeaux. I gently placed my hand over hers on the handle of the hammered copper pot. ​She gasped—a sharp, unrefined sound. Her hand didn't pull away, but it trembled beneath mine. ​"This is highly... irregular," she managed, her spectacles sliding down her nose. "I have a reputation for... precision. I do not engage in... kitchen theatrics." ​"You’re shaking, Eleanor," I whispered, my breath stirring a silver lock of her hair. ​She finally turned, her face a frantic, beautiful mess of a blush. Her eyes, usually so analytical, were wide and darting. ​"I am... simply overheated from the range," she lied, her voice fluttering. "The BTU output on this French model is... quite substantial. It has nothing to do with your... misplaced bravado." ​She tried to pull her hand away, but it was a half-hearted effort. Her resistance was a thin veil; she was flustered, breathless, and for the first time, completely out of her own meticulous control.