Chapter 4: RecipeI suggested we return to the main floor. I watched his right hand firmly take the banister and inch down with every step. The sixth step’s protest seemed to please him, as did my suggestion of coffee. In the kitchen, I started grinding beans, watching as Albin skimmed his thumb along the spines of my collection of cookbooks on a chrome baker’s rack. I noticed how immaculate his nails were, buffed and bearing a matte sheen, and how they shamed my own.
“I read those to relax. I like the science and the chemistry of cooking,” I told him.
Given his age, Albin easily hopped onto a leather barstool at the eleven-foot kitchen island. “Just not the clean-up,” he smirked. He pointed at the DeLonghi Dinamica machine. “Does that do espresso, too? I loved an espresso after dinner, b
