Page 8

He nods. Sharply. Not an agreement, but a well-rehearsed reply. “Just like the singer. But no one calls me that. Most people call me—”

He pauses.

Before it gets awkward, I finish the joke for him. “Mr. Ito?”

“Well, yes.” That makes him smile, but it’s not what he intended.

I can’t guess what he intended. Maybe a nickname that’s even more complicated for an English speaker. Such an unreadable man. Is he naturally so mysterious, or is it because I have no facial cues? The cultural difference or that fucking mask?

One thing will always translate, so I lean closer to him and flirt. “Would you prefer I stick to Mr. Ito? Maybe Ito-sama?”

I only notice his shiver because I’m hyper-aware of his body language. Still, I can’t tell if that was an insulted flinch, or if he really, really likes the way Ito-sama sounds. His lips remain a firm, neutral line.

But he lifts his gaze. The mask reduces his eyes to black beads inside the inhuman face. “That. Yes.”

He averts his gaze again. “Though -san is more appropriate in mixed company.”

From what I understand—which is precious little—both “san” and “sama” are titles for a person higher-up than you. I think “sama” is more formal, but I’m a Jew from Jersey City. The hell do I know about politeness or the Japanese?

“Oh, are we going into mixed company, Ito-sama?” I pop another piece of sushi into my mouth, tilting slightly back to remind my formal host, I’m only wearing his necktie. “Dressed as we are? Maybe we could take a stroll through the park. I bet we’d even scare the locals.”

“No,” he says dryly. “They’d just file it away under oddities to discuss on Twitter.”

“No doubt.” I like his sense of humor. Refined. Makes me want to rile him up. So, I cross my legs and tease. “Guess we’ll just have to do it for the ‘gram, then.”

“You should finish eating before you tempt me, Omocha.” The low growl of command rumbles through me. Does he know that turns me on? I don’t show it.

“Yes, sir, Ito-sama.” I’ll tempt him all I want. For now, I change my tone. “So, tell me about you. Where you from originally? What do you do?”

“San Francisco.” He answers tersely as if daring me to challenge his right to be in America. Then he softens a bit. “You know I deal with software start-ups.”

Christ, he really doesn’t want to talk about himself. I eat the last of the salmon and avocado roll and wait for the questions about me.

He won’t meet my eye. “Are you seeing anyone?”

I laugh outright. Bastard has been fucking me for two months, and this is the first time he’d thought to ask. My mind immediately jumps to Carlos. Not that I’m not “seeing” Sweetness. Too many reasons not to get involved with a coworker. Not the least of which has just made me dinner. “Hell no. Just you, boss.”

He suppresses his smile again and nods, approving. “Any roommates?”

Why is he asking? Does he want to meet at my place? Christ, there’s a stage picture. This character in his perfect suit and his gold and silver mask standing beside my pile of dirty laundry and takeout containers.

“Naw, I got my own palace. Sixth-floor walk-up. No elevator. Studio with a private bathroom smaller than your closet. But it’s got a great view … of a wall.”

He finally laughs, glancing toward his own view. The smug bastard.

“Why?” I pick up another piece of the California roll. “You looking for roommates, boss? Cause this is probably out of my price range.”

He stands straighter, unamused by this joke. No, embarrassed. “Yes, actually. Not rent sharing. That’s ludicrous, but yes, I want to … hire you to live with me.”

It’s my turn to gawk. “I’m sorry. What?”

“Live here. With me. I want that. Is that crossing a line?”

Oh, honey, you’ve crossed so many lines by now I could build a fucking bridge. “How long you thinking?”

He shrugs. “Until the arrangement is no longer acceptable to either party involved.”

Dude, it’s called a breakup.