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I smile broadly.“Won’t allow? How extreme, Mr. Ito.”

My throaty purr turns him on, and that irritates him. He gestures to the sushi. “Eat.”

I do. It doesn’t escape my notice that he’s made my favorites, salmon avocado roll and a California roll. They’re probably popular. Definitely simple. Though he’s made them perfectly. Did he take a class, or is it as simple as sandwiches for him? I don’t know shit about Japan.

Like, for example, is it rude to talk while eating? Am I holding the chopsticks properly? Should I actually wait for my host?

Judging by his quiet, respectful silence seems called for. So, I eat my sushi and reach for the tea to pour myself a cup. He startles a bit. Maybe I ought to have poured for him first. There’s definitely some social etiquette about tea I don’t know it.

“Want some?”

“Yes.” He watches me pour with his mouth pressed tightly. “I ought to have poured for you.”

“No harm, boss. You know, we don’t do courtesy in New York. I’m lucky if I notice when some tourist crashes into me.”

He smiles slightly. Then finishes the California roll, squeezing it in the mat and slicing it with the dexterity of a trained chef. He places it on the plate between us.

I grab a piece of that. Crazy good.

Mr. Ito eyes his cup of tea as if it betrayed him, then takes a sip. “I apologize for my awkwardness. I’m not comfortable with small talk.”

“Oh jeez,” I laugh. “Here, I thought I was being polite. Isn’t there some taboo about talking at mealtimes?”

He says something in Japanese, then shakes his head and tries again. “When you enter a village, obey…”

He struggles for the right word, then settles on, “The customs of that village.”

What nuance did he lose in translation? Something about tradition or religion or art. Maybe it was more dismissive. Maybe—

It doesn’t matter.

“Well, since we’re not in Japan…” Shit. What to talk about? Come on, Harp. Be charming, for the sexy billionaire. “I’ll talk your ear off. My mom always said I had a knack for saying nothing while I was talking. This is fantastic, by the way. I’ve never had homemade sushi this good before.”

He chuckles. His face must be so soft under that damned mask. “It’s nothing special.”

I remember reading something about Japanese modesty. Denying compliments. “Except it really is. I mean the most I could give a—”

“Fuck buddy” is not the word I’m going to use to describe this relationship.

“Guest would be burnt pizza. Maybe cold cuts. This is professional-grade sushi.”

Mr. Ito puts off the compliment once more. “The fish is not fresh enough, and the rice is not quite right.”

That’s enough of trying to compliment. “Where did you learn?”

He stiffens. “What?”

How could that possibly offend him?

Without relaxing he admits, “My … uncles taught me.”

The statement offers a million doorways to totally normal pleasant conversations about him, his family, and food. But the tension in his shoulders, the grit of his jaw, steers me away from that path.

“All right, no personal questions. Guess I’ll never learn how to say your first name, then.”

The mask shadows his downcast gaze and gives only the slightest glimpse of long lashes and the curve of his eye. “Joji.”

A little like Joe and Gigi smashed together. “Joji. Cool name.”