Under the Table(7)
“Don’t be. I tried stuffing them with pepper jack cheese. They could be a disaster.”
“Do you want me to try to get a quick dipping sauce going?”
“No need.” He held up the other container. “I made a pepper jelly.”
Tristan pulled out a cookie sheet and started spreading the balls out on it, then halted.
“Do you think it’s too much pepper?” he asked, looking truly concerned.
Zoey scrunched up her face. Should she be honest or just placate him? It was too late to do anything about it now. “I’m not sure. I haven’t tried it. On a positive note, if it burns out their taste buds, my job got a whole lot easier. They’ll never notice if I made a mistake.”
“Pitchers of water,” he said, settling on a solution. “We need pitchers of water.”
“Already done. There’s one in the fridge and one on the wet bar. And if anyone complains, you can just blame me.”
Tristan visibly relaxed. “I would never do that to you, but I can’t thank you enough for offering.”
“We’re in this thing together.”
Zoey would’ve never been able to answer why she was considering them a team. It was not how these things usually went down. She had been told on more than one occasion the new Golden Rule—he who holds the gold makes the rules. Her services were a luxury, not a necessity. Every time she stood her ground, she ran the risk of losing a repeat customer. Positive word of mouth was crucial. But Tristan Malloy was different. She wanted to help him.
“If you want me to, I can taste one before I bring them out. If they don’t work out, I’ll just start serving a little sooner,” she said from her side of the island. That was another thing she noticed—he kept a healthy distance between them at all times. He didn’t overcrowd or overstep. “Now why don’t you throw those things in the oven and go pour yourself a glass of either water or wine and get ready to greet your guests?”
“Thanks, Zoey. You’re a lifesaver. This is my first time doing this. I think I’m a little nervous.”
“With a kitchen like this? You should be entertaining all the time.”
“I love to cook,” he admitted, “but I normally only do it for myself. And I don’t know that I’d classify this as entertaining. It’s more of a business meeting. I don’t have many, but the ones I do have are held in stuffy offices and crowded restaurants. They make me antsy. I don’t think I’m a very good city person.”
“Are you obsessive-compulsive when it comes to germs?” Zoey blurted. They had lapsed into relaxed conversation. That might have been a tad too personal. She was a cook, not a therapist. “I mean, the whole place is spotless. The floors look clean enough to eat off of.”
He seemed to genuinely consider it. “I don’t think so. I just came from a very different upbringing. Moving to New York was one of those things I did jumping in with both feet. But here I am, almost two years later, and I still haven’t embraced the life.”
“It’s a huge culture shock. I’m from Cleveland and I’m still trying to adjust to the difference.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“About ten months. I’m starting to get the feeling that you either love it or hate it immediately.”
“You may be onto something there.”
Zoey would’ve loved to engage him more, get the full backstory, and find out why his home was more like an art gallery. But they were interrupted by his intercom buzzing. His guests had begun to arrive.
“It’s officially showtime. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ve got your back.”
She gave him a reassuring smile and he gave her a nod of his head and left the kitchen. The next thing she heard was music beating softly out of the speakers above her head. Jazz. A little mood music.
“Nice touch, Mr. Malloy,” she softly mused.
The first thing Zoey did was taste the sauce and add a bit of fresh squeezed lemon juice to it to tame the pepper flavor before warming it. It did the trick. When she quietly slid into the living room to place the plated tray on the bar where the party of six other men and one woman were gathered, Tristan was the first to grab one of the appetizers by the toothpick she had inserted in each of the boudin balls, dunk it in the sauce, and eat it. His eyebrows rose and he gave her a covert wink. She had saved his balls, and he knew it. She snickered to herself when safely back in the kitchen.
The men were all dressed in the usual corporate attire, suit and tie. The woman, a sleeveless navy-blue dress. Zoey gave a silent prayer of thanks for being able to break away from convention and having to wear the dreaded sleeveless dress, a garment that had to have been designed by men, to make sure that ladies worked overtime at the gym. Not only did it leave even the most secure woman running the risk of “bat wing” if she so much as extended her arm, but men got to wear jackets to hide their sweat stains, while women got to freeze in the winter to accommodate the style. At least Tristan was the grand equalizer, dressed casually enough to make any guest feel comfortable.
They worked in unison the entire night. Zoey plated the salad and left it for him, taking the soup bowls back with her into the kitchen. Within minutes, Tristan was moving the party into the dining room.
The evening would have been borderline as magical, save for one thing. As a professional, Zoey had to take into consideration the kind of event she was working and have her own behavior reflect that. The Turkish guys wanted to talk to her the entire time. A kid’s party was more her wisecracking while serving them. This particular situation called for her to remain as unobtrusive as possible. And she was.