Okay, breakfast. My body burning with memories of last night, I head toward the door, which isn’t that far away at all. Of hotel rooms we’ve stayed in, this one is easily the smallest. About twelve by twelve feet, with just enough room for a narrow bed, one thin secretary’s desk, and a small chest of drawers.
Given that the hotel is almost empty, I’m still a little surprised that Hayato didn’t book the honeymoon suite. But according to Declan, this was one of only two rooms that met Hayato’s standard.
“Sorry about the small quarters, but Nakamura’s got a lot of requirements for his hotel accommodations. You know, kind of like feng shui.”
Kind of like feng shui? That explanation didn’t sit quite right with me as I ate dinner with Declan and his mother in the kitchen after Hayato skipped the meal last night, saying he wanted to take a nap in the room.
And it’s still not sitting well with me now, even after our night of awesomeness—one I am not sure was planned or if it interrupted the work, not sleep, which he was doing when I’d walked in last night.
Of course, I don’t care about the size of our accommodations, which we’ll be sharing until the storm passes and the road leading back to the airport can be cleared. The apartments at Santa’s workshop shrink and expand to fit the number of occupants, and I’m a loner. So I’m used to living in a space only slightly larger than the dorm room at Stanford we moved my cousin Kristos into fifteen Christmases ago.
But, something continues to feel off about Declan’s explanation. Feng shui is a Chinese concept, first of all. And, my Japanese—uh, I guess I’ll call him client—doesn’t strike me as the superstitious sort.
As I reach for the doorknob, I make a mental note to ask Declan a few more questions about Hayato’s “requirements” for his hotel rooms.
“Kristal-san.”
I pause, then turn. Hayato’s still on the bed, but he’s once again fully turned toward me. Like both his body and his eyes followed me to the door.
“Yes?” I ask, swallowing hard.
Instead of answering out loud, he stands and walks toward me.
I try not to stare. I really do. But come on, Hayato is basically built like a manga hero. Long and strong with every line on his body well-defined. It’s like trying to look away from a work of graphic art coming to life.
A random memory of the woman in that A-Ha video for “Take on Me” floats into my head. The way she stared in shock when the hero of her comic book suddenly winked at her and held out a hand, offering to pull her out of the boring European diner she was sitting in, into his dangerous world. And she actually took it.
That’s how I feel right now. Like I’m getting pulled into something dangerous by the insanely cute manga hero come to life.
But this isn’t True Love, I remind myself. It doesn’t matter that Krista’s never been wrong about a True Love match. Not even once. Oh dear…in a less chiding voice, I beg myself, don’t fall, don’t fall. Please, don’t fall for this guy.
“Yes?” I somehow manage to ask again, even though my throat has gone completely dry.
He leans in close. And I think, maybe he’s going to kiss me. My breath hitches, and a tingling anticipation courses through my body.
But then he stops his mouth just a few millimeters away from mine. “Breakfast can wait. Come back to bed. Please.”
19
I Know There’s An Answer
Breakfast ends up having to wait quite a while. By the time we make it to the main stairs, it’s closing in on brunch time.
And I’m back to resisting.
I stuff my hands in the pockets of my knee-length dark green corduroy skirt to keep them from wrapping around his. I steal glances at his beautiful profile instead of staring openly at the lips that didn’t kiss me this morning but took their sweet time licking and sucking my most private area until I came with a soft moan.
And though I have questions, so many questions, I keep them to myself. He doesn’t want a relationship. Asking him why won’t change that.
Maybe we dawdled a little too long. The dining room is empty when we arrive at its arched doorway.
“They’re probably in the kitchen?” I say.
“I’m sorry?” he asks, cupping his ear like he doesn’t hear me.
I glance around the completely quiet room but say louder, nonetheless, “Maybe Declan and his mom are in the kitchen.”
“Yes, I agree,” he says, speaking much more loudly than necessary as if he’s trying to make himself heard. “We will go look for them in the kitchen. I believe it is on the other side of this…dining room.”
Hayato casts the large room a disparaging look. I can tell he hates how old fashioned it is, with its pinewood tables, chairs, floors, and walls. But it’s pretty charming if you ask me. Blue and white French country porcelain plates line the walls, serving as decoration. And I love that Maeve left bowls of fruit and assorted bagels out on the standing buffet like she didn’t want us to starve, even if we missed breakfast.
I hand him an apple. “I know you prefer modern interior design, but maybe don’t be so obvious about how much you dislike the inn when we see Declan’s mom, okay?” I suggest softly. “This place is her pride and joy, and I don’t think you want to hurt her feelings.”
Hayato gives me a strange look. But then he simply bows his head and says, “Thank you for pointing this out to me. I will do a better job of hiding my feelings.”
Do you actually have feelings? I wonder, but don’t say out loud.
We’d just been so intimate upstairs, but now he feels cold and distant. As far away as someone can get while standing right there.
“Ma, you’re being crazy. I’m not going to call her out of the blue!” a voice suddenly bellows on the other side of the swinging service door between the kitchen and the dining room.
“It wouldn’t be out of the blue. She’s expecting your call,” Declan’s Irish mother, Maeve, calls over her shoulder, her heavily-accented voice testy as she comes bustling out with a silver tray in her hand. “Oh, there you two are!”
She raises the tray towards Hayato and me. “I was just after bringing this up to your room. But you can eat down here if you prefer.”
“We prefer the room,” Hayato answers before I can tell her that down here is totally fine.
I frown at him, trying to figure out why he’d rather eat in our cramped room, which doesn’t even have a table, than in the wide-open dining room.
But before I can point that out, Declan comes out of the kitchen asking, “Why would she be waiting for my call? I haven’t spoken to her in years.”
“I know, more’s the pity. I told her it was right time we fixed that when I texted her on that pretty new phone you got me. Thank you for that, by the way, a leanbh. It’s so big and easy to use, just as you promised. I never could figure out how to send a proper text on that old flip of mine.”
“And this is how you repay me?” Declan asks with a murderous look. “By texting my ex-girlfriend on the phone I got you for Christmas?”
“Well, what else did you expect me to do with it?” Maeve asks, blinking at him as if her actions upon receiving the phone were a natural conclusion.