by Imani King
I tap my ear. “What was that? I didn’t hear you.” There’s no other excuse for my staring at him for so long without replying. I find myself hoping he buys it. Otherwise, I’ll lose my advantage as a top hostess—if a man knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that one of the girls fancies him, he’s likely to use that to his advantage, skimping on buying drinks, far less likely to leave a cash tip—and far more likely to cause one of us to break the rules. And I’m not one for breaking the rules, even for a man who looks like that.
It couldn’t be him, anyway. Even if I’m one of the top girls, I’m not chosen by our high rollers. They’ll be going after Amber or Kaya in a heartbeat. Without fail.
“You heard me. You were just sizing me up wondering how big of a tip I could leave.”
“Not true. At Bar Serendipity, we strive to get to know our gentlemen customers, to really provide the girlfriend experience.” I slide into the chair next to him, and without meaning to, I lean in close. It’s part of my training. But I know to leave a man alone when he makes me feel that thing, the thing I’m feeling right now. And boy am I feeling it. That tingle that starts low in the pit of my stomach, making me think of the first time I kissed a boy, the first time I snuck out of my mother’s brick rambler and drove up to Santa Barbara to spend a night watching the sea.
And fuck, I need to get out now.
“I just need to get one thing from my dressing room,” I add, gulping. I move to get up, but he grabs my wrist, his fingers warm and strong against my skin.
“Girlfriend experience? That’s a new one on me.” I can’t quite place his accent when he speaks—it’s almost British, but there’s a hint of something else I can’t place. “Now what does that mean, girlfriend experience?”
I sit back down again, because his hand is still on my wrist, and the whole of my physical person is focused there and nowhere else. I gulp and try to ignore the flutter in my chest, the heat pooling in my gut, the sing-song voice in my head that somehow sounds like Ayumi’s telling me it’s more than 500 days since I’ve gotten laid. “We have a lot of Kyoto businessmen—and many men visiting Kyoto from Osaka and Tokyo—who don’t have time for girlfriends. Busy lives and all that.” With my free hand, I absently bring my fingers to my hair and sweep a stray lock behind my ear.
What the hell, Reese? You’re going off script. This is bad. I clear my throat and try to remember what I was going to say, but I feel him looking over my body, and it sends a thrill straight to my core. In this business, I hate it when men check me out, but when this man looks at me, I grow warmer under his gaze. I gulp, the silence filled with tension. The man smirks.
“I don’t have time for the ‘girlfriend experience’ either, but I don’t think you’re offering the type of girlfriend experience I’m looking for. Apologies to you, my dear. You’re quite sexy.” I blush, hard, and I’m grateful that my skin tone will likely hide most of my embarrassment. Most Japanese men aren’t quite this forward. They know what hostesses do, and they know not to mock or pressure us, at least not in the confines of Bar Serendipity. What happens outside is our own decision—even Ayumi with her rules knows that. But I’ve seen one girl get straight-up fired for having a relationship. I have to remind myself that nothing good comes of being attracted to a man—not for me, not now. But I know what I look like right now—like I’m drunk on his beauty, my lips parted, my body close to his. I pull back and sit up straight, and he gives me a smile that’s more like a smirk.
“That’s not the kind of girlfriend experience we provide, Mr…”
“Yamakawa. Danilo Yamakawa.”
“Danilo—that’s—” I wrack my brain. It’s not a name I’ve heard before, not in Japan. And with the green flecks in his eyes and the nose that is anything but demure and Japanese, the accent that suggests an education in Europe, he’s not from here. Someone rare, unusual, perhaps more like me than any man I’ve met here so far. But he’s Japanese too. The angles of his face give that away.
He’s an oddity in a sea of conformity.
I pull my hand away, and his fingers slide over my skin. I recognize this is a dangerous thought, threatening to the job that makes me the most money, that pays the debts I need to pay. But his eyes are locked on mine. And I’m making no motions to move mine away from his.
“Brazilian. I’m half and half. But maybe more Japanese than anything. And perhaps a bit British. I went to Cambridge. Not Oxford. Don’t want to give you the impression that I’m conceited.”
I laugh, and it feels like the blush is spreading over my entire body, like a wave of heat snaking its way through my entire being and taking me over. This is terrible.
“I’m not arrogant, or conceited, actually,” he continues, tapping a bit of the cigar ash into the tray and casually crossing one leg over his knee. It’s the way that sexy, self-assured, rich men sometimes sit, and for some reason, that simple gesture sends an exquisite shudder through my body. Shit. “But I am well educated.”
“And what is it that you do?” This is a safe question. Everything about this is safe, safe, safe. I can do this, and then I’ll go home and never see him again.
“I most often live in Tokyo, but I’ll be staying in the Kansai region for a while.”
Shit. No. No one has been tending to him. What the—he’s not—
Ayumi steps over and puts her hand casually on Danilo’s shoulder. Some urge in me, some long forgotten urge, a distant emotion I know almost nothing about, starts roiling in my gut. I barely recognize it. It’s like the anger I feel when a customer stiffs me, but it’s wrapped up in the delicious longing I feel when I look at this man’s face, his broad shoulders, and the distinctly beautiful body that lies beneath. It’s—
“I see you’ve met our distinguished guest, Reese.” Ayumi gives me a hard look. “His father owns one of the biggest food advertisement corporations based out of Tokyo—isn’t that right?”
“Owned,” he says. “Past tense.” Danilo looks at her like she’s no bigger than a fly and casually—but not unkindly—removes her hand from his shoulder.
I’m dumbstruck for a moment, but really I should have known. I’ll look back, and I’ll realize that this was all dangerous from the start.
It hits me all at once—that unidentified feeling—it’s jealousy. And that means I’m totally fucked.
******
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More by Imani King:
Scandalous: The Senator’s Secret Bride
Her Hollywood Hitman
About the Author:
Imani King is a small town girl with a big imagination. She nurtures a passion for yoga and can often be found in the studio when she's not writing.
In her fantasies, she and her billionaire Mr. Right travel the world, exploring different cultures and each other! These daydreams are the inspiration for her sizzling stories, so what are you waiting for? Give one of them a try and let her know what you think.
Find all of my books at www.amazon.com/author/imaniking.
