Under the Table(4)
This is just another job. Get ahold of yourself.
She reached the end of her walk, took a few centering breaths, and lightly rapped on the door.
Chapter 2
There was no immediate answer. After waiting thirty seconds, Zoey lifted her hand to knock louder, but before she could, the door opened.
She tilted her head at the spectacle standing before her. Her eyes tried to take it all in at once, but it was too much. Between the bright, silky, salmon-colored polo shirt and the plaid pants that were interwoven with the same color as well as teal and purple stripes, she fleetingly wondered if a Cajun clown had been hired to answer the door. It was March—maybe there was a whole Mardi Gras theme going on.
“Zoey?” the man in neon plaid asked. “Hi. I’m Tristan. Come on in.”
“Hi, Tristan,” she replied, remembering his request to drop the formalities while stifling a laugh. All the worrying seemed silly now. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope I’m not too early.”
“You’re right on time. Dinner isn’t supposed to be until seven, but I wanted to give you time to acclimate yourself to the setup. Can I take your coat?”
He opened the door wider. She stepped into the foyer, looking down at the floor, until she was sure she wouldn’t break out into a fit of giggles. Half expecting to see him wearing red, floppy shoes, she was relieved to see standard white sneakers. By the time she looked back up, he was already leading the way through the living room toward the kitchen. She followed behind him, watching his long strides. Thanks to the pattern of the pants, she couldn’t tell where his butt ended and his legs began. He was dressed bright enough to be located in an avalanche.
Tristan pushed a swinging door and her breath caught in her throat. What a magnificent kitchen it was, and she had been in enough kitchens to know.
Recently remodeled, it was a paradise of granite, gleaming chrome, and stainless steel. There were dozens of spotless white wood cabinets. Cabinets that were so high, even six-foot-plus Tristan would need a step stool to reach the top shelves. It smelled of coffee and freshly baked cookies.
“I was going to pull out pots and pans, but I figured you would want to explore the space yourself,” he commented while opening two drawers in the center island. “There are both warming and refrigeration drawers here. I turned them on for you.”
He had to know he possessed a kitchen worthy of the culinary gods, despite the nonchalant way he moved across the room and pointed out the twin Sub-Zero refrigerators stationed side by side with paneling that matched the cabinets.
“I put everything from your list in this one,” he said while opening the one on the left. It was fully stocked and shelved neatly. He closed it and then regarded her curiously. Zoey had yet to utter a word, still bowled over by the room itself. She couldn’t wait to start opening drawers and turning on burners.
“Do you carry that around in case you inadvertently poison someone?” he asked, gesturing to the bag she still held in her grip.
This time Zoey didn’t hold back the giggle. The old worn-out doctor’s bag was the first purchase she had made when she decided to go into business. She had found it in a secondhand store in the East Village. She placed it on the nearest counter, where it looked woefully out of place in such a shiny space.
“I call it my magic bag, but it really holds my apron, knives, a clean shirt, and spices,” Zoey explained. “Spices are the key to unlocking flavor. Unfortunately, if anyone gets food poisoning, they’re going to need more help than I can give them. I do taste all the food before I present it, so I’ll be going down for the count with the rest of you.”
“Now that’s what I call dedication,” he quipped, adding a small grin.
Zoey liked him already. “I’m not doing such a great job at building your confidence with my abilities, am I?”
“I wouldn’t call it your strong suit.”
“I can only promise I haven’t poisoned a client yet.” She held up a hand in pledge.
“Then you’re doing just fine. I like honesty. And a doctor is on the guest list tonight.”
“If you point him out to me, I’ll serve him last. Just in case,” she teased back, and he laughed.
It was then that Zoey got her first good look at Tristan, without the distraction of the clothing. She placed him at close to thirty. His hair was a little nerdy, too long, with a part straight down the middle. Somehow it suited him. It was full and brown, highlighted by either the sun or John Frieda. His eyes were green, already showing crinkling on the outside corners. His clean-shaven chin was strong. There was simply no way to judge his physique given his current state of dress, but he was lean enough to tuck his shirt into his pants. There was a cuteness to him, but she’d be hard-pressed to classify him as sexy. His voice was deep and strong, but not overbearing. His laugh was welcoming. Zoey couldn’t think of anyone less intimidating than her newest client.
He was giving her a quick once-over too, she could tell. She hoped he could see beyond her hazel eyes, figure that showcased her love of food, and brunette hair that no matter how many times she had it cut always found its way back to the curls she had in her teens. She wanted him to see beyond the exterior to all the things she was—intelligent, confident, and conscientious. He wasn’t leering at her, it was more like a brief yet thorough assessment.