The rest of their time in Tokyo sped by. Dante didn’t micromanage Cleo as much as before, solely because he didn’t have the time to oversee her every little move. She did her work efficiently and gave him no cause for complaint.
Their nights were equally busy. They never spoke about it, never gave what was happening between them a name, but they spent every night together having mind-blowing sex. And when it was over, Cleo always retreated to her room, and Dante never made any attempt to call her back. And if she ever had any doubts as to the nature of their “relationship,” his indifference and distance during the day when he was focused on work certainly made things clear. He never, by word or by deed, let on that theirs was anything more than a working relationship. Yet he had a chocolate-glazed doughnut waiting for her at whatever conference room they happened to find themselves in on any given day, and he always ensured that her plate was full at lunchtime and that the menu would be palatable for her. When they headed back to the hotel in the evenings, Daisuke always took a different route so she got to see a bit of the city, which she suspected was Dante’s doing as well. It was all so sweet, Cleo didn’t know how to respond to it.
By their last day, the zoning problem had been completely ironed out, and everybody was in a celebratory mood. They would break ground on the new hotel in less than a month.
“Tonight, we will have an enkai to celebrate this wonderful occasion,” Ms. Inokawa stated happily. “This is a very formal Japanese event, so there will be many speeches, but after that we will all enjoy drinking together and have many after-parties.”
Her pretty eyes slid to Dante in clear invitation, and Cleo pretended not to see the smile he slanted the woman in return. Of course she wasn’t jealous. Dante Damaso meant nothing to her. Just a bit of fun. A casual fling.
So that evening as they were preparing to leave the hotel, Cleo suggested she stay behind. After all, she told herself magnanimously, he might feel a bit awkward flirting with Ms. Inokawa while Cleo was hanging about.
“You’re not staying behind. You’ve read enough of those etiquette books to know that it’s damned bad manners,” he snapped. He’d been in a pretty foul mood most of the day, despite the news that his new hotel had gotten the green light.
Cleo sighed and checked her appearance in the mirror one final time. She was wearing yet another variation of the same boring skirt, jacket, and blouse combo that she had rocked the entire week. She truly hated her work wardrobe; it wasn’t at all to her taste. She was more at home in torn jeans and T-shirts, or slip dresses with long bohemian skirts, than in these horrendous suits that made her feel like a trussed-up pigeon. She didn’t know who she was when she wore these clothes.
Because this was a work-related enkai, everyone would be dressed in business suits. Dante looked his usual dashing self in a three-piece, pin-striped, navy-blue, bespoke Desmond Merrion suit with a white shirt, red tie, and Tanino Crisci Lilian shoes, all of which she knew were ridiculously expensive because she had seen his personal bills. The man looked gorgeous and smelled luxurious. Cleo, on the other hand, just felt frumpy in her department-store knockoff gray pencil skirt, matching blazer, and pink cotton blouse. Ugh, and the sensible black pumps she was wearing were completely hideous too.
“Let’s go.” Dante ushered her out of the suite and to the elevator, and Cleo tried to drum up some enthusiasm for the event. At least she would get to see someplace other than a boring conference room in a bleak building.
“I hope the food’s good,” she said once they were in the elevator. He stood beside her, close enough for her to feel his body heat without physically touching him. His hands were clasped in front of him, and his feet were braced shoulder-width apart. He looked like a soldier ready for battle.
“Hmm,” he merely grunted, and she raised her eyebrows. So it was going to be like that, was it?
Right, then.
She didn’t say another word until they were seated in the car. Daisuke greeted them enthusiastically, like he hadn’t seen them just hours before, and Cleo smiled warmly at him before continuing the fascinating conversation about Japanese pop culture that they’d been having earlier. He was entertaining and genuinely funny, and it wasn’t long before Cleo was laughing at some of his anecdotes.
“My girlfriend loves purikura, and she has many hundreds of tiny pictures of herself and her friends.” He told Cleo about something called “print club”-specialized photo booths found in most malls-that took tiny airbrushed pictures, which could be Photoshopped before being printed.
“Do you have any pictures, Dai?” Cleo asked curiously.
“I only go to purikura with Miki,” he explained. Miki was his girlfriend. He flipped down the sun visor and retrieved the pictures he had stashed behind the mirror. He handed them back to her, and Cleo exclaimed in delight over the colorful, brightly decorated little photographs of Daisuke and a pretty girl. She turned toward Dante to share the images with him, but he was staring out the window, ignoring them, his jaw tightly clenched as he glared at the passing scenery. Her smile slipped a little as she stared at the back of his head, wondering what was going on with him.
She handed the pictures back to Daisuke.
“They’re really cute. I wish I’d had time to take a few myself.” She could hear the wistful note in her voice and told herself to snap out of it. She was here for work, not vacation. “Miki is really pretty, Dai. How long have you guys been dating?”
“Two years.” He beamed proudly. “She is studying to be a teacher.”
“Fabulous. What will she teach?” He looked stumped for a moment as he considered her question.
“Uh . . . she will be a shodo no sensei. A penmanship teacher?” He looked uncertain. “She will teach the art of Japanese writing.”
“Oh?” Cleo was not quite sure what he meant but didn’t want to embarrass him.
“Every stroke must be correct. It is almost artistic. Very difficult.” He glanced around before pointing to an incomprehensible sign written in bold black Japanese. “Like this!”
“You mean like in cursive?”
“Christ,” Dante suddenly said beneath his breath. “He means Japanese calligraphy.”
“Oh,” she breathed, feeling like a complete idiot for not realizing that immediately.
“You know it?” Daisuke asked eagerly, and Cleo nodded.
“Yes, I read about it. I should have known when you said artistic writing,” she said apologetically.
“It’s okay. My English is very bad,” he said with a diffident grin. That was such a staggering untruth that Cleo’s mouth dropped open.
“Your English is great, Daisuke,” she said firmly, and he waved a hand in front of his face.
“No, no, very bad.”
“But . . . it’s not bad at all.”
“Thank you. Thank you,” he said so abruptly she blinked.
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.