Page 6 of Billion Dollar Love: Manlove Edition

He says, with a hesitation that’s definitely out of character for him, “I’d like to have dinner with you.”

That’s new.

Are we going outside of the apartment? He’d have to take off his mask. I turn on my back to see him. “Dinner?”

Behind the silver and gold glower, his dark eyes squeeze shut. “Never mind. I only thought—”

Ah, fuck, he’s being nice. “Dinner sounds great, boss.”

“Good.” He only rises when I agree, as if he had to pin me down or I’d flit out the door wearing only his necktie. “What kind of food do you like?”

I snicker. “I’m partial to sushi.”

The corners of his mouth dent in with disapproval of my joke. I’ve become obsessed with the shape of his lips, the small creases at the edge when he smiles, the deeper line when he frowns.

“All right. Take a shower while I … prepare.”

I lift up on my elbows, as he walks silently toward the kitchen, running his hands through his hair as if it could get any slicker. Tall, broad, like a Japanese Phantom of the Opera, complete with weird fucking mask.

I hate it with a sudden sickening passion, with more personal animosity than I’ve ever felt for an inanimate object. That intensity does not suit the ambivalence I feel toward Mr. Ito.

Let’s not psychoanalyze. Just do what the rich guy in the mask says, Harp.

****

His bathroom is empty and polished as a hotel ad, devoid of anything more personal than a toothbrush. The shower is glass, with a jet spray, and one of those fancy bendy heads. Behind the silver-gilded mirror, there’s a metal comb, hair gel, a glasses case, and the accouterment for someone who wears contacts. In the tiny white hutch, there are six towels rolled up and packed in a way that would give Marie Kondo a lady-boner.

But damn, the shower feels good. Hot and soft water. Higher quality than the tap water in my apartment. Like bathing in Evian. Maybe it’s the fancy showerhead. Maybe it’s the bright lights. Maybe it’s just clean. I don’t realize how knotted up and tense my muscles were until I’m under the hot spray, until the jets relax me. I rub my calves and think of the animal who’s just fucked me. Who wants to fuck me again. After dinner.

I’m not sure I like it.

I clean myself doubly good. Use only water on my hair, because I’m not sure which of his fancy foreign bottles is the shampoo and which is the conditioner or what havoc such products will wreak on my curls. Besides, I’ve already lingered too much. I’m not desperate. I’m not even poor—I mean, comparatively. The point is, I have my own shower, my own shampoo, my own stuff in my own apartment.

Christ, the towel is great. Soft and fluffy. There’s a big gray bathrobe, but it’s too intimate to wear his clothing.

It’s too intimate to eat with him. Don’t want to get comfortable. To take advantage.

Naw, don’t read into this. He’s only feeding you so he can keep you and fuck you again. You’re nothing special, Harp.

Still, the shower calms the color in my face, makes me feel like a person again. Fresh and awake.

I comb my curls with my fingers. It’ll be a disaster if I use his tiny-toothed comb. But damp looks sexier than usual. Less angel. More swimsuit model. I catch sight of his tie and put it back around my neck. There’s an image that would sell some Dolce and Gabbana.

I walk out with the kind of slutty catwalk that would get me in trouble if I actually—

Jesus Christ, he’s making sushi. Harper Brosh, what the hell is your life?

Under the mask’s golden edge, Mr. Ito’s mouth slackens. His gaze flickers over me. As if he’d forgotten I was in his apartment. As if he’d forgotten other humans existed. As if the sight of me makes him forget language.

Very validating.

I try not to be so smug. “Your shower is fantastic, boss.”

“Yes.” He stares down at his hands, the bamboo cutting board, the mat laden with rice, his fillet knife. There’s even tea and chopsticks—real ones with carvings in them and everything. “The robe was for you.”

I flick the tie around my neck and slide into the stool across from him. “You don’t like this look?”

The corner of his mouth crinkles as he suppresses his smile. “I do. If you get cold, it’s your own fault. I will not allow you to change now.”

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