Under the Table(5)
“I’ll let you get settled in,” he suddenly said, turning on his heel and pushing through the swinging door. “Holler if you need me.”
Left alone in the gorgeous kitchen, Zoey’s first instinct was to spread her arms open wide and give a twirl, like Julie Andrews did when the hills came alive. But she’d end up looking like a loon, so she opted for pulling out drawers and opening cabinets to familiarize herself before starting to get down to work.
He had every utensil a gourmet chef could want, all neatly lined up in rows in the drawers next to the six-burner stove. Both Calphalon nonstick and top-of-the-line stainless-steel pots and pans were housed in spacious drawers beneath it. There were multiples of every size of mixing bowl and matching serving dishes she could imagine. She opened up a cabinet next to the stove and found all his spices. Dozens of labeled glass jars, again neatly marked and rowed. She took a quick inventory.
“There is no way this guy has his own fenugreek,” she said under her breath, right before her gaze settled on it, right in between the jars of fennel seed and garlic powder.
Alphabetized spice cabinet and exceedingly easy to work for. This guy was a treasure. Zoey thought she might actually wet herself and left the kitchen in search of the bathroom, unable to recall if she had passed one on the way in.
She stepped into the living room and stopped. Tristan was standing in front of a big picture window, feet slightly apart. He wasn’t admiring the view, he was looking down at his feet, his hands loosely balled, one resting on top of the other. He shifted his feet from side to side then swiftly pulled his arms across his body and to the right, hands still together and eyes still downcast, before swinging them to full extension on the opposite side, his eyes finally lifting. There were two things that became clear to Zoey. The first was he played golf, which explained the clothing. The second was that with the stretching of his body, the silky shirt was tightly flush against his torso. The result was the detailing of some sleek abdominal muscles. His biceps and triceps clearly defined.
The verdict was in—golf clothes made for outrageous fashion statements and were designed for comfort and not style, unless the wearer was aiming for bizarre. Zoey cleared her throat to get his attention. His hands dropped back to his sides as he turned to her. Not startled per se, but like he had been forced out of deep concentration.
“Sorry to interrupt. I was just looking for the powder room?”
“Right down the hall. First door on the left from where you came in.” He went back to lining up his golf swing.
When Zoey returned to the kitchen, Tristan was waiting. Now he was wearing a purple visor and a matching windbreaker.
“I have a one-thirty tee time in New Jersey. I want to leave you a key to the apartment in case you need to run out for anything,” he said, placing the key next to her now-unneeded spice bag.
“That’s not necessary. You seem to have more than enough of everything.” Zoey picked up the key and tried to hand it back to him.
“Take it anyway,” he politely insisted. “Just in case you need a breath of fresh air.”
He had an awful lot of trust for someone who lived in the city. Never once had she ever been left alone in a client’s home. Maybe someone else was here? She didn’t want anyone sneaking up and surprising her.
“If I have to leave, maybe your cleaning lady can just let me back in? Or your wife?”
His curious look was back, only this time he added a pair of pursed lips. “I don’t have either one of those.”
“I’m sorry,” Zoey said quickly. “I’m not used to someone leaving me alone in their home, especially after knowing each other ten minutes.”
“Were you planning to rob me?”
“Of course not!”
“In that case, I should be back by five, five thirty at the latest. Make yourself at home,” Tristan said over his shoulder as he left. Zoey waited to hear the front door close before shoving the key in the front pocket of her standard black serving pants. When dealing with food, there should be nothing extraneous around it. The best way to turn this gig into a nightmare was for one of the guests to scoop up access to the host’s home in their soup. She pulled out her apron then dropped her bags on the floor in a corner. She found cleaning wipes and ran one over all the surface areas, although the place was clean enough to eat off the floors. Better safe than sorry.
“Ruth!” Zoey exclaimed to the empty apartment, rushing back to the closet and retrieving her phone from her coat. After turning it on, she saw that her husband had called several more times. She quickly texted an “All good, see you tonight” to her sister and powered the phone back down. Double-checking that her apron was tied tight, she got to work.
Once all the vegetables were cut and the shrimp shelled, cut, and cleaned, Zoey made up the salad and set it in the adjoining fridge to chill without exposing it to any fish smell. The other fridge looked like a typical bachelor refrigerator, filled mostly with bottled water, beer, and several take-out containers. There was more than enough room.
She set the soup stock to simmer and went to see about how to set the table. Zoey left the kitchen in search of the dining room and the fine china through another swinging door on the opposite side of the kitchen.
The dining room table was already set, complete with sorbet dishes at the top of each place setting and a gorgeous centerpiece of fresh flowers.