wondered if that was why she charged so much for her services and insisted on living on-site. Because she was saving up to open her own restaurant.
“Why no restaurant of your own by now?” he asked.
She hesitated for a short, but telling, moment. “I changed my mind.” She stood and picked up his plate. “I need to see to your dessert.”
He wanted to ask her more about herself, but her posture made clear she was finished sharing. So instead, he asked, “What am I having?”
“Glissade.”
“Which is? To me?” he added before she could.
“Chocolate pudding.”
And then she was gone. He turned in his chair to watch her leave and saw her crossing the gallery to the kitchen, her red plastic shoes whispering over the marble floor. He waited to see if she would look back, or even to one side. But she kept her gaze trained on the kitchen door, her step never slowing or faltering.
She was a focused one, Chloe Merlin. He wondered why. And he found himself wondering, too, if there was anything else—or anyone else—in her life besides cooking.
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