Page 72 of Look, Don't Touch

“Yes, with an actual human. An amazing, vibrant, living human.”

I cover my mouth to keep from squealing.

Truly, who the fuck am I?

The elevator dings, and a paper bag with awesome handles is presented. There’s more conversation in the living room, but I can’t hear it. I thank the guy and offer him a tip, but, of course, Arlo has already taken care of it. I bounce into the room with the bag and freeze.

Plinko is winding his way in figure-eight fashion around Arlo’s legs.

“He must have snuck in here when we were…distracted.” I set the bag on the credenza, but Arlo holds up his hand. His call must have ended, and I’m a little sad I didn’t hear any more.

“It’s okay. I think.” He grins at me. “His expression says he’s going to eat my face off, but his body language is saying pretty much the opposite.”

I cross my arms and watch them. “What’s the opposite of eating your face off?”

“What we were doing earlier.” He winks at me.

I scurry to the bag, almost giggling as I carry it to the small table.

While I set everything up, Plinko whirls incessantly about his legs. Slowly, Arlo bends and offers his hand to my grizzly cat. Mr. Cutie belts a meow, then rubs himself on the proffered hand for several strokes. Just as quickly as he ambushed, he wanders off to his window seat as if nothing happened.

“That’s a stamp of approval if I’ve ever seen one.” I beckon him to follow me down the hallway. “He growled at Astor the first three times she was over, and my aunt had to bribe him with treats.” I wave him toward the bathroom. “Fresh towels are under the sink. Feel free to ignore my bras.” Six of them are hanging to dry across the top of the shower. “Or not.”

His brows rise. “Impossible, but I’ll do my best to be a gentleman.”

“Suit yourself.” I leave him, hurry to the kitchen to wash my hands, and fill a small pitcher with fresh water, return to the living room, and set it to the side as Arlo returns. “I don’t have a fancy dining room.” I shrug.

“I never use the one I have.” Arlo pulls out my chair, and I sit, still with no panties on.

“Where do you usually eat?”

He sits across from me, and I’m struck by the juxtaposition of the two of us in my space even though he had his tongue down my throat a few minutes ago. I’m not small, but next to him, I feel it. He feels grand in my little home. He’s almost a stranger, and at the same time, someone I feel incredibly close to.

“Over the stove.” His big fingers snatch a packet of chopsticks. He opens them and offers them to me with a string of words I don’t understand. Then he bows his head and says one word I recognize. “Itadakimasu.”

The man speaks Japanese.

“Itadakimasu.” I offer a palms together bow of my own, and then we each take a bite.

It’s delicious, but not nearly as good as his freaking mouth was. I try to distract myself. “You cook?”

“Every other night or so. I usually make enough to eat leftovers the next day or two, if it’s a busy week.” He shoves a healthy bite into his mouth, chews, and then swallows. I watch his throat work. “It’s soothing.”

“It stresses me out.” I shrug. “Trying to get all the components ready at the same time. Not burning things.”

“Burning things is part of the process. Try. Fail. Try again.”

“Once again, you don’t strike me as the failing type.”

“I fail daily, Siren. I just don’t let it stop me.”

We eat in amiable quiet for a minute, maybe two. Our gazes constantly assess each other.

“Was everything okay with your call?”

“Just Karris checking in, inviting me for drinks.”

Stupidly, my chest caves. “I don’t mean to keep you.”

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