Page 39 of I Did Something Bad
“What?” I ask.
“You… look good,” he says with a nod. When he adds, “Your hair looks good, too. And that… lip. Color,” I feel the tips of my earsbegin to heat up. He’s flirting. It’s nice to be reminded that I am an attractive woman with whom attractive men want to flirt. Hey, maybe I’ll even give the apps another go once all of this is over.
I run my hands through my hair and smile to signal a silent thank-you. “By the way,” I start, curiosity getting the better of me. “How did you… describe me? To your parents.”
One brow arches before he answers. “I said you were the rudest, most persistent, least charming journalist I’d ever met in my whole career. Left out antagonistic, though.”
I scoff and, as a reflex, whack his shoulder. I donotlinger on the tingle in my fingertips that spreads and makes my whole right hand go a tiny bit wobbly before I can retrieve it. “First off, I ambrimmingwith charm—”
“Is that why you just physically assaulted me?”
“That was not assault.”
“What do you call it then?”
I purse my lips to the side, trying my best not to focus on the sudden sparks of static that seem to be fizzing in and out around us, like tiny fireflies that disappear the second you look at them. “Physical banter.” As soon as I say the word “physical,” I feel my crotch clench.
I expect him to laugh or lob back something clever, but Tyler goes quiet and simplystares. In my peripheral vision, I note the previously upturned corners of his mouth fall, and a muscle in his jaw jerks. I want to look away, but I also don’t—god, this man is hot—and I want him to look away first but also… I don’t.
And now I’m aware of how dark and secluded this corner of the parking garage is, howwellthose chinos fit him, howeasyit would be to—“Do your parentsknowI’m a journalist?” I ask abruptly, because nothing kills the beginnings of an erection like talking about your parents.
Tyler startles as though I’ve snapped him out of a trance, but if hewaspreoccupied by something, he eases back into the conversation with zero hiccups. “Yes,” he says.
“And they didn’t mind?” I ask, stepping out.
“No,” he says, coming around the front of the car. He waits as I re-tuck my pink scalloped camisole into my jeans. “I told them you were also a friend, and my mom jumped in and said I should invite you and I told her that I already had.”
“You know, momsloveme. It’s my shining yet effortless charm,despitewhat some people think,” I say and start for the elevator. When Tyler pulls his baseball cap farther down, I give a small chuckle. He looks over like,What?,and I point at the plain black cap. “I thought the whole incognito sunglasses-and-baseball-cap disguise was a highly inaccurate trope.”
Smirking, he’s about to say something, but gets distracted and snaps his fingers. “Oh, one thing I forgot to mention. We have a seating chart.”
I stop, one foot in front of the other. “A seating chart?” I echo.
Two couples pass us and Tyler turns and takes one large step in my direction, lowering his head even farther down, toward me.Pine trees.It hits me, and that tingle from earlier returns, stronger now and spreading farther and faster, right down to my toes.You smell like a weekend away,I think without quite knowing what I even mean by that, but it’s my brain’s knee-jerk response.
“Aninformalseating chart,” Tyler answers.
Without meaning to, my lungs take in a deep inhale of his minty breath, and before I can help it, I’m thinking,Have you ever let a date smell your morning breath?And then my gut doubles over with mortification because why am I thinking of Tyler Tun’s morning breath?
I hope I sound breezy andnotlike someone who’s thinking of morning breath as I ask, “Is this a quirky family thing?”
At the elevator, he presses the button four times in rapid succession, and breathes out an audible sigh of relief once when it opens, and again when it closes without anyone else joining us. “It’s a my-father-insisted-that-getting-a-private-room-would-diminish-the-authentic-chaos-of-the-dim-sum-experience-so-we-need-to-be-strategic-about-seats thing,” he grumbles.
I jerk backward once I process his words. “Tyler!” I yell a bit. “Don’t tell me that we’re eating in the main—”
Ding.
You know it’s a good dim sum place when you can hear and smell it before you see it. The cacophony of chopsticks clanging on porcelain plates, kids squealing as they run around, impatient adults calling out to get the servers’ attention, the aroma of stacks of freshly baked, steamed, and poached foods—all simultaneously hit our senses. Tyler grimaces as he pulls his cap so low I wonder if I should hold his hand so I can guide him to the table—for safety reasons, obviously.
Before we reach the front desk, though, a female voice calls out, “There you are!” For a moment, I’m convinced someone’s already recognized him, and panic, unsure what the protocol is for getting a celebrity out of a restaurant unscathed. But by the time I’ve turned in Tyler’s direction, he’s hunched over, a pair of someone else’s hands placed on his back.
“Hi, a may,” Tyler says into his mom’s ear before placing a kiss on her cheek. When they part, he takes a small step back and gestures at me. “This is Khin. Khin, this is my mom, Su.”
“Hi, Auntie.” I smile. I let out an inadvertentoomphwhen my upper torso lurches forward three seconds before my feet can catch up, and I find myself in the middle of a tight hug from Su. She’s tall, about Tyler’s height, so my face meets her collarbone, but, unlike him, she’s round and very,verysmiley.
“We’resoglad to meet you,” she says. “We love meeting Tyler’sfriends! May’s already here! Your shoes aregorgeous,sweetheart,” she says, and we both look down at my black floral Gucci pumps.
I wonder if she’s had five cups of coffee or if this is all her sans caffeine. “Thank you!” I say loudly so she can hear me.
