She runs a hand over the comfy furniture, cherry tables, bookshelves heavy with leather-bound classics. “Have you read them all?” she asks.
I snort. “One day. The only reading I have time for now is work stuff.”
She nods. “Makes sense, given how many hours you bill.” Her eyes twinkle as she turns around and explores the kitchen. Fancy copper and five-ply stainless-steel pots and pans hand-crafted in France hang from the hooks. “Mauviel?” Klein squints at the label, her voice vibrating with excitement.
“Yes.”
“Wow. I’ve only seen them in Williams Sonoma and drooled over them. They’re so pretty. Do they feel good when you cook with them?”
I shrug. “I wouldn’t know. Never used them.”
She spins around, her jaw slack. “No way! But you have thisamazingkitchen!” She sweeps her arms around, indicating the massive twelve-burner stove, complete with two ovens and a griddle, two stainless-steel refrigerators and every type of appliance you could ask for.
Wonder how she’d react if I tell her there’s a fully stocked extra kitchen in the back? The architect said they were all the rage and insisted that I add it, so I did.
“I had to choose between becoming Wolfgang Puck or a great white shark,” I say.
She laughs, shaking her head. “Still! Oh my God, justlookat this kitchen! Damn.”
Her eyes shine as she takes in the space. If she starts drooling, I might become a little jealous of my own kitchen. “Well, it’s all yours. Take whatever you want from the fridge and pantry,” I say with a small grin. “Or order and stock up on whatever you like.”
“Thanks. I’ll have to think about what to make. It has to be something special, to do justice to this—this incredible…” Words fail her. Damn, she’s so adorable.
“I look forward to it.”
“You should. I’m a pretty good cook, if I do say so myself. Everyone loves my Thanksgiving turkey and ham.”
A sudden smidgen of wistfulness dampens the bright joy in her voice, and I can guess her family probably uses her like an unpaid cook for holidays. She, in her sweetness, has also probably decided they adore her cooking.
I know families can be vicious and nasty, but what kind of people would be cruel to someone like Klein? You might as well kick a puppy. My estimation of her folk drops deeper into negative territory. “Akiko’s probably going to take care of the main dishes, but you could do a pie or two, if you like baking.”
As intended, Klein shakes off the shadow of her family and brightens. “Sure.” She snaps her fingers. “Ooh, I’ll make my special eggnog cream pie for Christmas! It’s to die for, although it doesn’t need baking. I never had a chance to bring it to the office for a holiday potluck because somebody else always called dibs on the desserts.”
I grin at her enthusiasm. “Come on. Let me show you the basement.” We walk down the staircase. “This is basically just a gym and a boxing room. You can use the gym, but maybe not the boxing stuff unless you know what you’re doing. Don’t want to sprain a wrist or anything.”
She shakes her head in agreement, taking in the state-of-the-art workout equipment. “Don’t want that.” She doesn’t ask to go inside the boxing room, thank God. It’d be awkward explaining why a half-torn photo of my mother is taped to the big bag.
“All the bedrooms are on the second floor,” I explain as I lead her back up.
“Which one’s yours?”
“Second door to the left. And nothing’s off-limits. Not for you, anyway.” I realize with a shock that I want her to want to get to know me, not just as a boss, but as a person and a man, even though the fear that she might see the darkness inside runs its icy fingers along my spine.
“I should probably get my own room, right?” Klein asks.
“Sure. You can take any room you want.”You can even take mine.
“Okay. Thanks. Maybe this one?” She indicates the one across from mine.
I open the double door for her. “Not a bad choice.” It’s almost a mirror image of my own bedroom, except the en suite bathroom’s smaller because it has a cozy reading nook with a massive bay window and a cushy chaise longue.
She cranes her neck to look at the vaulted dome ceiling. I commissioned a mural of white flowers on a whim because they represented innocence, something I wish my brothers and I hadn’t lost so soon.
“Wow. That’s masterful,” Klein breathes as she walks inside, her eyes still on the mural. “I didn’t realize you liked white flowers. I’ll make sure to bring more.”
“Don’t change,” I say. “What you do at work is already perfect.”
She flushes with pleasure, then looks around the rest of the room. The bed is pristine, white sheets threaded with gold and silver, all very chic and discreet. The walk-in closet is empty, as is its center island. I realize she has nothing after the fire. I’ll have to correct that soon.
