Under the Table Read online

  “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.

  “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? O
r 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.

  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.”

  “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.”