“You too,” Chloe says.
The door closes behind her. The sound carries too far in the suddenly empty space.
I should tell Chloe to go. She’s had a long night. So have I. The sensible thing would be to say thank you and lock up.
Instead, I watch her reach for her coat and something in my chest tightens.
“You’re not done,” I say.
She pauses. “I’m fairly sure I am. I’ve eaten my way through your menu like the hungry caterpillar.”
I stack containers I’ve already stacked once, buying myself a second. “You missed the most important thing.”
She turns back, sceptical. “Oh.”
“Tiramisu.”
The word lands better than I expect. She looks curious.
“I didn’t see it on the menu,” she says.
“It’s not on tonight,” I reply. “I’m prepping for the weekend.”
She folds her arms. “That sounds suspiciously like a you problem.”
“You can’t write about the restaurant without tasting it.”
“I’m not reviewing dessert that hasn’t been finished.”
“You’re writing about the place,” I say. “That includes dessert. And this is one of my signature dishes.”
She studies me, weighing whether this is stubbornness or strategy. Possibly both.
“And you want me to help,” she says.
“I want you to see how it’s done.”
“Front-row seats, then.”
“Think of it as professional development,” I say.
She smiles like she’s already decided to stay.
I pull open the low fridge and take out a covered tray, setting it on the counter between us. “We make the savoiardi ourselves. Baked this morning. They need time to cool and dry properly.”
I lift the cloth briefly, then replace it. Pale. Light. Exactly right.
Reaching back into the fridge for a sealed container, I add, “Mascarpone cream’s stabilised. No egg yolks in mine. Health and safety matters.”
“I’d hate to poison Carlisle,” she says.
“So would I,” I reply. “Coffee’s strong and cooled. Hot coffee ruins the texture.”
She nods, actually listening. That does something inconvenient to me.
I slide a shallow dish of coffee towards her. “You soak.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You’re a trusting soul.”
