Under the Table(6)
Did Tristan Malloy do all this himself or had someone lent a feminine touch? Zoey gathered up the sorbet bowls and salad plates, taking them back to the kitchen. Then, with curiosity getting the best of her and a little time to kill, she set off to investigate the apartment. He had told her to make herself at home, after all.
Tristan’s apartment held more secrets than clues. Zoey meandered from room to room and down the halls. There wasn’t much furniture, save the basics. A large couch and several chairs in the living room. The elegant dining room set that could accommodate twelve, given the extra chairs pushed up against the walls. All the floors, be they marble or wood, were polished and bare. Was she dealing with a germophobe, perhaps?
But all the walls had artwork. Exquisite works, museum caliber.
She opened up the first closed door and her breath came out in a giant rush. It was a library full of books. Shelves that went from the floor to the ten-foot ceiling of all four walls were lined up with books. Hardcovers, paperbacks, classics as well as reference volumes. She couldn’t resist running her fingertips along them until she made her way across the room. Not a speck of dust. In the center, a large oak desk and leather chair. On one corner of the desk was a Mac desktop computer. Next to the computer, the archaic fax machine. Zoey smiled. Tristan Malloy was an enigma wrapped inside a riddle with a side of time warp.
There were three bedrooms with nothing in them except more paintings and large leather benches that she assumed were to sit on to admire the art, like a museum. When she came to the last room, the farthest down the hall, she felt her conscience give a tug. She was going to take a peek into his most personal space, his sanctuary. She should be ashamed, she thought as she opened the door. The first thing Zoey noticed was the familiar smell of what she best remembered her grandfather for . . . Old Spice cologne.
Who is this guy, and why do I even care?
His bedroom, like all the others, was stark but masculine. A king-size bed with a geometric-patterned black comforter and crisp white sheets. A table next to the bed served as a nightstand. There wasn’t a dresser, but she could see the open door that led to his walk-in closet. She took several steps toward his bathroom when she spied the gorgeous sunken tub and stopped. This was wrong. If you’re doing something that would embarrass the hell out of you should you get caught, then you shouldn’t be doing it. This would certainly qualify. Zoey closed the door and swiftly made her way back to the kitchen.
But there was one other thing she noticed. Unless it was hidden in a wall somewhere, there wasn’t a single television set. After seeing the number of books in his library, it made sense. But with the exception of the kitchen, the apartment was far from cozy.
The kitchen was where she stayed and where Tristan found her when he returned promptly at five fifteen.
“This place smells heavenly,” he announced when he came through the door. She was in full swing, with pots on the stove and the oven working. She wondered which smell was tantalizing him. And whether the tint on his cheeks and forehead was from sun or windburn.
“How was your game?” Zoey asked, like she had a clue about any of it. She knew nothing about the sport and hoped her simple inquiry wasn’t taken as an invitation to engage in a full-fledged conversation on the topic.
“I double-bogeyed four holes. Not one of my best rounds.”
“Sounds like you were attacked by the bogeyman.” I’ll be here all night, folks. Don’t forget to tip your waiters.
Tristan looked at her and deadpanned for a beat before shaking his head. “I think you mean boogie.”
“Why? Was he dancing?”
“That’s very funny.”
Clearly it wasn’t all that clever and he was just being polite. They stood in awkward silence for a minute until Zoey lifted the lid of the nearest pot and stirred it to look busy.
“If you don’t need me for anything, I’m going to go shower and dress for dinner,” he said.
It sounded vaguely like he was asking for permission. It was the strangest thing. He had this way of making her feel like she was a guest that he was hosting and not the hired help. She was more accustomed to being ordered around. And she was loath to admit, she was way more interested than she should be in what he looked like cleaned up.
When he returned nearly an hour later, she got her answer.
Chapter 3
If Zoey had to choose a single word to describe Tristan, it would’ve been geek.
She had assumed that a man living on the Upper East Side would be dressing in a suit and tie for a dinner party. Tristan was wearing khaki pants, complete with pleats and relaxed fit, the outline of his suspenders stopping at the trousers’ high waist, a white shirt, and a red sweater vest. He topped it all off with a bow tie that had musical notes on it. The only things missing were a pocket protector and a pair of glasses being held together with tape. His hair was still damp and slicked back but devoid of any gel or product.
He was the cutest Brainiac she’d ever laid eyes on.
“Can I borrow an oven for a few minutes?” he asked while going to the fridge and pulling out what she had also wrongly assumed were the take-out containers. “After we got everything all settled, I forgot that an appetizer might be nice, so I whipped up some boudin balls.”
“Sure.” Zoey walked over to the double ovens, turning the bottom one on to preheat. “I’m only using one. And I must say I’m impressed.”