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“They’re fine. As you will find out tomorrow, since that’s what they’re for.”

“Do we at least get cookies tonight?”

“We do. Andchurros, although your choux pastry is better than mine, sorry.”

I made a mock-horrified face. “Do I have to move?”

“In order to wash off all the flour and sugar, yes, I’m afraid you do.” He stepped back, and I pushed myself to sitting with a groan.

“I think I need help.” I reached for him.

“You do not.” There was laughter in his voice.

I snagged one of his belt loops. “Yes, I do. I really do.”

He laughed again, running his fingers through my hair. “Do you?”

“Mmhmm.” I pulled him toward me.

“Val.”

I leaned forward and rested my forehead against his abdomen. “What?”

“Getup.”

I groaned again, then let him pull me to my feet, which I’m sure looked ridiculous, given the difference in height between us. But it let me put my hands on his waist and hold him against me.

“Val.” He put one hand against my chest as though to push me away, but he didn’t actually push, and his mismatched eyes danced.

“What?” I was being entirely inappropriate, considering what my body was doing in response to how close I was holding him, and my parents or Elliot could walk in at any moment. Taavi bit his lower lip, and I could see the color rising in his cheeks and feel something else rising a good deal lower. “And…” I continued. “I might need your help in the shower.”

“Will you?” he asked, but his voice had dropped, and his body made it really clear that he wasn’t nearly as resistant as his words suggested.

“Definitely. I don’t want to strain anything.”

“I suppose I can help, if you really think you need it.”

“Oh, I do.”

I let him help me up the stairs, pretending to behave myself. Okay, I actually did appreciate the help up the stairs, since every time I lifted my right leg, my side twinged. The other aches weren’t too bad anymore, but that damn stab wound was a bitch. Especially since you use your obliques—I knew a new term now for my side muscles—were necessary for fuckingeverything. Breathing. Sitting. Getting up or lying down.

And stairs.

So I was happy to have Taavi’s actual help—I was just also happy to have his arm wrapped around my waist and the heat of his body radiating that soap-and-cloves smell I loved so much.

I tried to grab him again when we got to our room, but he batted my hands away. “Shower, Val.”

“I thought you were going to help me,” I pouted. It was half teasing, but I really was disappointed.

“I am,” came the answer. “In theshower.”

Oh.

I grabbed my toiletry bag and a change of clothes—Mom liked to do a formal Christmas Dinner, which meant slacks and a button-down, as well as a ridiculous Christmas tie and matching socks my mother had given me yesterday for precisely this. Taavi also grabbed clothes, then herded me toward the bathroom.

I was a willing victim.

The bathroom was small, but big enough that there was a step between us. Taavi flicked on the switch to turn on the bathroom fan—then leaned against the closed door.