Page 63 of Heart and Seoul (Seoul 1)

His eyes widen in surprise but he doesn’t back away. He sets his phone down, curls his hand around the back of my neck, and angles my head to deepen the contact. My heart soars and my fingertips tingle. I press myself closer, forgetting the food and beer sitting on the bench between us. He pushes it all to the ground and hauls me so close I’m practically in his lap.

The tingles intensify and my fingers itch to touch him. They skate over his shirt-clad sides; they trip up the buttons lined up in front; they find their way to his collar. I dip inside and feel his Adam’s apple bob against my fingertips. Electricity bolts through my bloodstream. I clench my legs together and open my mouth wider, willing him inside.

I don’t know how long we kiss. It might’ve gone on all night if an older couple hadn’t walked by and said something in a sharp tone that made Yujun set me aside abruptly. He stands and gives a small bow while I nervously pat my hair into place and wipe the wetness off my lips. He says mianadae, which I know is “I’m sorry.” I bow, too.

The older couple gives us a stern nod and says something else, which puts a little color on the tops of Yujun’s cheeks. Once they’re gone, he bends down to pick up our mess. I join him.

“No kissing in public?” I joke, feeling awkward. We sweep up the remnants of our gimbap roll onto the paper boxes.

“Maybe not that . . . enthusiastically,” he replies with a small grin, small enough that the dimple appears to be a shadow.

Yujun produces a small trash bag and then produces a second container of gimbap. “I didn’t know how hungry we would be,” he says.

I resettle on the bench with the newly produced food. “How hungry are you?”

“Ravenous.” But he looks at me as he says it, which makes me think he’s not talking about food.

The tingling returns and doesn’t go away the rest of the night.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Yujun texts me first thing Saturday morning to tell me that he will be busy all day with work and into the evening because they have new employees—or “friends,” as he calls them—joining the family and the company is treating them after work.

YUJUN: We are celebrating new friends joining our family by taking them out for hanwoo and much soju. Let’s meet tomorrow. I have a forest to show you.

In contrast, it’s utter silence from Boyoung, and by midday all the warm feelings from my outing with Yujun have been erased. I don’t want to bother her but I’m so anxious for results that I can’t sit still. I turn off my cell phone and bury it in the bottom of my suitcase so I don’t use it again—at least for the next hour.

Downstairs, the front door opens. Someone’s home. It’s probably Jules, but I don’t care because a cranky Jules is better than sinking into my own head. I run downstairs to greet her.

“What’s up?” I ask.

Jules doesn’t look up from the small carton she’s digging into. “Eating ice cream. What does it look like I’m doing?”

I tap my fingertips together. Jules is in quite the mood today, but ice cream for lunch sounds perfect. “Any more in there?”

“One carton, but it’s mine, and if you eat it, you need to pay for it.”

I reach inside and grab the small carton with the odd heart-shaped face and blue body on the cover. Jules is always buying this brand, but at least it’s good. I prop myself up against the fridge and use the small wooden spoon attached to the lid to feed myself the creamy strawberry goodness.

“How’s the job going?”

“It sucks. Pay is terrible. Rich people are the worst. They ask for the most outrageous shit and treat you like dirt when you can’t get it.” Jules mimics one of her passengers. “‘What do you mean you don’t have Armand de Brignac Ace of Spades? Veuve Clicquot is for cheap hookers.’”

“I have no idea what any of that means.”

Jules makes a face. “Champagne, and she wanted a mimosa, which, why are you mixing four-hundred-thousand-won booze with thousand-won juice? Makes zero sense.” She gets up with a huff, her chair legs scraping against the tiled floor, and stomps to the recycling bins. “If I had money, I’d be everyone’s favorite customer. I’d tip well. Say thank you. Wouldn’t give a rat’s ass if my mimosa was made with five-thousand-won Brut or five-hundred-thousand-won Louis Roederer, which, by the way, is a hundred times better than the other stuff.”

An idea pops into my head. It’s a bad one, but it’s better than standing around here all day holding up the appliances. “How much money would it take for you to be my translator today?”

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