“I had coffee,” I say.
He lifts a brow and says nothing.
“I’ll eat after I finish planning,” I add.
“See that you do. There’s a key fob for deliveries. Rolando will give it to you. Keep it. Use the service elevator.”
“Understood.”
Silence that isn’t uncomfortable slides over us for a beat. He taps the rim of his cup once, a habit. I realize I’m holding my breath and let it go.
“This kitchen work for you?” he asks finally.
“It does,” I say. “It’s wonderful.”
“Good,” he says and leaves it at that.
His eyes drop to my knife roll on the counter.
“The famous knives,” he says, and steps over to look for a second.
“The very ones,” I say, sliding off the stool. “Every self-respecting chef has their own set of knives.”
“I can get you the best knives in the world here,” he says, leveling me with a look.
“Ah, but they wouldn’t be mine, would they?” I set my hand on the roll. “These are.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
He takes a step back and turns away.
Something occurs to me, something I have to ask. Something I have no idea how to ask, but was just presented with the perfect moment to do so.
“Actually.” I clear my throat. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”
He stops and turns back to me, a small tilt to his head.
“My knives,” I say, tapping the roll. “These are backups that I keep here.”
His eyes flick to mine. “Backups.”
“My main set is in Italy.” I wet my lips. “I didn’t bring them when I came because I wasn’t supposed to be staying. I was only coming back for the funeral.”
“I’ll have someone send for them,” he says, already turning toward the hall like it’s solved.
“Well—no.” I step around the island. “It isn’t just the knives. I have a few things I need to settle there. I wasn’t planning on being gone for months. My apartment, some paperwork. And I need to speak to Chef Sorrentino in person.” I force myself not to rush the words. “He deserves to hear it from me.”
He studies me. “You want time.”
“I know I just started.” I hold his gaze. “But yes.”
“How long.”
“A week?” I say, and make it sound like a question even though I’ve already done the math—flights, two days to sort the apartment, a day at the restaurant, packing, shipping, flight back. “Four, five days if I move fast. A week is safer.”
He doesn’t blink. “When.”
“If… if it works for you, I could leave this weekend. I can prep meals to cover you through—”
