Page 31 of The Quiet Tenant

He bites his lip. “I’m that good at hiding it, huh?”

Something flutters in my rib cage.

“Come to think of it,” I say, “a sous-chef would be nice. Especially, as you said, given my recent injury.”

“Say no more.”

His hand lands on the small of my back, ushering me toward the restaurant. “Cece,” he says in the direction of his daughter, “I’m going to help out. You’re okay to hang out for a bit?” I turn back to see her give him an unconvincing nod.

In front of the restaurant, I search my pocket for the keys, hyperaware of my movements. The lock gives me trouble. “You got it?” he asks. I tell him yes, fumble for a few more seconds. Finally, the door opens to reveal the empty dining room. The tables are set in preparation for tonight, forks and knives and wineglasses gleaming for an invisible crowd. Saturdays are for dinner service only; brunch is on Sundays.

“Welcome to Amandine: insider edition,” I tell him.

He looks around. “So this is what it looks like when all of us have cleared out.”

His gaze meets mine. The last time it was just the two of us in a room, this room, actually, I was a teenager and he was married.

“Follow me.”

This is my world. He’s mine to shepherd, mine to use. We shed our coats and I lead him to the kitchen, switch on the lights to reveal the clean stations, every surface dutifully scrubbed, each utensil in its place, every container labeled and put away. Every parcel of chrome shiny, every tile the purest white. He gives a little whistle.

“Oh, that’s right,” I say, like it’s no big deal. “It’s been a while since you were back here.”

“No one’s invited me in since.”

So you were stuck,I want to say,like a vampire on a doorstep.

I keep my vampire thoughts to myself.

“It’s…unbelievably clean,” he continues.

I smile like he’s just given me an Oscar. “My head chef and I agreeon maybe one thing in this world, and it’s that you don’t go home at the end of a service until your kitchen is as clean as the day it was installed.”

He runs a finger on the prep table nearest to him and nods, then looks around again.

“So what can I do?” he asks.

“Well, first, you can wash your hands.”

I show him to the sink. We soap our hands in silence, take turns rinsing under the hot stream. I hand him a clean dish towel. He dries his fingers diligently, one by one.

“Now what?”

“This way.”

He follows me into the pantry. I gather cocoa powder, vanilla, cinnamon.

“Can you see a plastic jar with a tag on it that says ‘granulated sugar’?” I ask. “It should be somewhere near us.”

We squint together. “Right here,” he says, and reaches for the airtight container on the top shelf. His flannel shirt hikes up his abdomen, the briefest flash of skin in the dark of the pantry. I force myself to look away.

“Excellent.”

I say it like I’ve got it all under control, like I wouldn’t give a kidney to be trapped in the pantry with this man forever.

Next step is the walk-in fridge, where I grab a gallon of milk in each hand. He imitates me.

“Look at you,” I say. “You’re a natural.”

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