by Misha Bell
Whew. It’s going to be stressful enough resisting the temptation to turn this clearly professional dinner into a date.
We walk into Miso Hungry.
The usual hostess isn’t here, which is reasonable. It is late.
“Welcome back,” says the waitress from earlier, her gaze glued to Alex’s face. “Your usual table?”
He nods, but when we sit down, he whispers, “I don’t think I’ve been here often enough to get a usual table.”
Well, this is the table where he sat with Bella when I saw them, and I guess anything related to Alex is burned into this waitress’s memory.
Twat.
She comes back, and when I ask for my usual, she makes a confused face.
I’d bet anything she knows it. She just wants me to say it out loud in front of my not-a-date.
“Three avocado rolls with one piece held back,” I grit out. “A miso soup with forty-seven cubes of tofu and seventeen pieces of scallion.”
I expect Alex to smirk, but his face is completely unaffected—like he hears people order prime numbers of food items all the time.
“How many pieces is the teriyaki cut into?” he asks with apparent seriousness when it’s his turn.
“Eight?” The waitress’s smile is a little too chummy for my liking.
“Please tell the chef to make that seven,” he says, again completely deadpan.
She raises an eyebrow. “Your order comes with a soup. Do you also want—”
“Yes,” he says. “Same number of tofu cubes and scallion for me, please.”
This is it. I’m going to propose to him and get fired.
No. Get it together, Holly.
I excuse myself to go to the bathroom, and when I get there, I stare into the mirror, chanting a single mantra:
Do not fall for him.
Do. Not. Fall. For. Him.
Chapter Thirty-One
When I return from the bathroom, Alex pulls out a chair for me—a gentlemanly gesture that wreaks havoc on my determination to keep things professional between us.
The waitress comes back with a little pot of green tea.
He pours a cup for me first, then one for himself.
Seriously, he needs to do something rude and soon. Else I’m not holding myself accountable for any creepazoid behavior.
Like dry-humping him right on this table.
“What gave you the idea for VR pet therapy?” he asks.
I blow on my tea—and pretend I don’t see him staring hungrily at my puckered lips. “As hard as it is to believe, I grew up on a farm, surrounded by animals—and I don’t mean just my sisters.”
He chuckles.
“It was insane,” I continue. “Untidy, chaotic… Yet after I left, I realized that a part of me missed the animal companionship—and hanging out with my twin sister didn’t help that go away.”
He laughs.
“What I like about VR in general is how everything in it can go away when you take off the headset, leaving no messes behind. When I thought of a VR pet, I hoped it would tap into that need for companionship, but would let me keep my living space ordered. And it’s worked out exactly as I hoped.”
He nods. “What about the hospital? Why did you decide to partner with them?”
I take a sip of the tea. “I had my appendix taken out when I was ten. It was the worst time of my life, and the only thing that made it semi-bearable was my dad’s Game Boy. VR is a bit like that Game Boy, but much, much more effective as a distraction—and studies prove it.”
Alex looks intrigued. “What games did you play?”
“At that time?” I strain my memory. “One with Mario and one with Kirby.”
He looks disappointed. “Any falling block puzzle games?”
“Not then, but I’ve played Dr. Mario since. Why?”
“I was hoping you’d say Tetris,” he says. “I might be slightly obsessed with that game.”
The waitress comes back with our soups and lingers next to Alex a few seconds too long.
“Your Tetris obsession is somewhat logical,” I say when she finally leaves. “You own a video game company, so you’re clearly into games—and Tetris was created in Russia, your country of birth.”
He picks up his spoon. “You know a lot about it considering you’ve never played.”
I blow on the soup, mostly to see if he stares at my lips again—and he does. “I have played it, just on the PC.”
“Ah, good. Did you know Tetris can improve spatial reasoning and help with anxiety?”
Huh. He sounds like my mom when she touts the benefits of orgasms.
“Surely Dr. Mario has the same advantages?” I ask.
“Doubt it.” He grins. “What’s your favorite tetrimino?”
I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t like the very idea of tetriminos. Sorry.”
There’s a hopefully joking look of outrage on his face. “Why?”
“They’re all four squares,” I say apologetically. “If I’d designed that game, I would’ve made them pentominos.”
He rubs the stubble on his chin. “You don’t think five square shapes would’ve made the game too difficult?”
I shrug. “Difficult could mean more fun.”
He seems to seriously consider this, then shakes his head. “I just can’t picture that version of the game becoming as popular as the original.”
I swallow a spoonful of soup after making sure there’s a prime number of tofu and scallion pieces in it. “What’s your favorite tetrimino?”
“The T-block, hands down.” He makes a T in the air with his index fingers, conjuring up inappropriate images of one of those fingers going into me instead. “The T can bridge gaps, square up edges, and set up places you can put Z- or S-blocks.”
“Interesting.” What’s really interesting is that I somehow find his explanation erotic.
“Yeah,” he says animatedly. “You can also stick a T into otherwise impossible holes with a T-Spin maneuver.”
Okay, now I feel less like a weirdo for getting turned on. I mean, sticking things into holes?
I clear my suddenly parched throat. “I thought the I-block is what everyone prefers. It’s long and straight and helps you clear four lines at once.”
Is this flirting? I did just talk about something long and straight. Add in hard, and I might as well be talking about his cock.
“I’ll agree that the I-block is better than J and L,” he says. “But it has nothing on the T.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
He smiles. “If you had to choose a tetrimino, which would you go for?”
“A square. It’s symmetrical, nice and tidy.”
He nods approvingly. “Dependable choice, especially early in the game.”
The waitress brings out the main course, and he pours soy sauce for me when she leaves.
“How did you get into Tetris?” I ask before sticking the first avocado roll piece into my mouth.
“When I was a kid back in Russia, we didn’t have a computer at home, but there was a business nearby that rented computer time by the hour. I think my love of games and coding goes back to that time and those games—of which my favorite was Tetris.” He smiles. “I guess now it’s nostalgic. Reminds me of Russia and all that.”
Since he’s brought it up, I pepper him with questions about growing up in Russia, which was still the Soviet Union when he was a child. The stories he tells me about Perestroika and the wild corruption of the nineties are equally chilling and fascinating, and the more he talks, the more I feel like I understand him—which is terrible for my goal of not falling for him.
“What about you?” he asks. “What was it like growing up with so many sisters?”
Of course. Many people ask this out of the same kind of curiosity that makes them slow down at a scene of a car accident.
“For someone who likes order as much as I do, it was unadulterated hell,” I say honestly. “Going to college abroad felt like getting out of ja
il.”
“The college being Cambridge, right? You didn’t do a year or two in an American school first?”
“Nope. It was the UK from the start. As you can tell by my occasional verbal slips, I loved it there.”
“And yet you came back here.” He looks at me with so much interest I feel equal parts giddy and unsettled.
“Not surprisingly, I wanted to work in VR,” I say, averting my gaze to hide from the naked intensity in his. “The best job I found happened to be in New York, so I took it. My whole family is in this country as well, so that was a variable too.”
He covers my hand with his. “I know it’s selfish, but I’m glad you took the job.”
Wow. His skin is touching my skin, and the warmth of it destroys what passes for my resolve in a heartbeat.
If we weren’t in a public place, I’d jump him.
“I’m glad too.” I stop avoiding his gaze and get lost in the cerulean depths.
“Will you be having dessert?” the waitress asks, wrenching me out of my trance-like state.
“No.” I reluctantly pull my hand free.
“Just the check please,” Alex says.
She glares at me and stomps away.
Oblivious to her anger and the cause of it, Alex asks, “Have you been back to the UK since you finished college?”
“Unfortunately, no. But I have watched every non-violent movie and TV show set there, from all the entries in Masterpiece Theater to The Office.”
He cocks his head. “What’s your favorite?”
“Downton Abbey, of course.”
“I haven’t seen it.” He rubs his stubble again. Is that why he doesn’t shave, to have something to touch? I’m going to have stubble in a place he can touch soon—
“—is it any good?”
The question acts like a cold shower. “Is Downton bloody Abbey any good?”
Was my voice a tad too shrill there?
He raises his hands palms out. “Hey, I didn’t mean any offense. I just thought it was about a bunch of rich people having tea in a fancy castle.”
“That’s like saying The Lord of the Rings is just a bunch of social rejects on a hike.”
He chuckles. “I guess I’ll have to see it now.”
And afterward marry me.
No. I seriously need to stop this.
“Here you go.” The waitress slaps the bill on the table.
As I dive into my purse for my wallet, I see Alex reach into his pocket with a frown.
“What?” The question carries a good dose of challenge in it.
“I thought it was clear the dinner would be on me,” he says, plunking down his credit card.
I match his frown with one of my own. “I can pay for myself, thank you very much.”
“I don’t doubt it. But when you work late and your company feeds you, that’s on their dime.” He pushes the credit card toward me, and I see that it’s his business one, not personal.
“Fine.” I’m about to put my purse back, but it slips out of my hands.
Bloody hell.
The open bag hits the floor—and, of course, the dildo rolls right out of it.
I suppress a horrified yelp.
Please don’t let him see.
Please, for the love of virtual reality, don’t let him see.
I lean down to get the purse, my eyes following the path of the escaping dildo.
Wait. What’s this shadow over it?
Bugger.
It’s the waitress.
She’s heading back to our table.
“Wait!” I shout at her, but it’s too late.
She steps on the dildo, trips, and flails her arms in desperation.
I leap to my feet to catch her, and in the corner of my eye, I see Alex do the same.
Only we’re too late.
She faceplants.
We rush over to check if she’s okay.
By some miracle, she is—which is good, but it doesn’t answer the next question that becomes rather urgent for me.
Where the bloody hell is my dildo?
Chapter Thirty-Two
Alex gets the sushi chef to take care of the poor waitress, then signs the bill and drags me out.
I leave reluctantly. The dildo was a gift from Bella, but more importantly, I’d like to be able to come back to Miso Hungry one day, and I won’t be able to if they find that dildo.
A limo is waiting for us.
I’m so flummoxed I let Alex shepherd me into it without so much as a, “Where are we going?”
Just as I recover enough wits to ask the question, Alex pulls something from his pocket and hands it to me. “I believe this is yours.”
Of course.
It’s Optimus Prime, the dildo.
It didn’t disappear. Alex found it and hid it—as though that would minimize my shame.
For a second, I’m surprised I don’t sink through the floor of the limo and get run over by the cars behind us.
It would be a relief if it happened.
“Thanks,” I stammer and violently thrust the dildo into my purse.
“Bella’s gift, right?”
Face on fire, I nod.
He grins. “She gifts stuff like that to everyone. For what it’s worth, it means she likes you.”
She likes me because he didn’t tell her what I tried to do—else she would’ve shoved that dildo up my bum.
“Do you mind if I ask you for a favor?” he asks, his expression suddenly serious.
Is the favor sexual?
Cheeks flushing even hotter, I realize we’re sitting next to each other exactly the way we did when we kissed.
My breathing quickens in anticipation, and I instinctively dampen my lips. “What did you have in mind?”
“At the meeting with the hospital tomorrow, don’t let Dr. Piper and the others know that I’m part of Morpheus Group.”
His words are like an ice compress to the face. My flaming blush recedes. “They don’t know?”
He shakes his head. “Bella is both the official and the de facto head of the venture. I was originally there to help her secure funding, and now I’m just supporting her.”
“So you are worried they’ll associate 1000 Devils with porn. Didn’t you say it wasn’t porn?”
And if he’s worried, I was justified to be worried as well.
He rubs the back of his neck. “It’s not that. I don’t think Dr. Piper would care about ‘porn,’ as you call it. But he is a very thrifty administrator, and would make an argument for incorporating your VR pet project into our existing contract. To him, I’m 1000 Devils, so if I’m also Morpheus Group, he’ll see an opportunity to save money.”
“So this is about money?”
“Exactly.”
I massage my temples. “Isn’t that playing loosey-goosey with your contract?”
“Not really. Even if he pays extra for your project for the remainder of our current contract, he can pounce when it gets renegotiated.”
“So you don’t think he’d care about what the suit will be used for?”
Alex shrugs. “I can’t be sure, of course, but it’s a moot point anyway because I don’t see how he’d find out. The suit isn’t out yet, and won’t be until your VR pet trial is well underway. If the trial is a success, we can talk to Bella about spinning off your project as a separate venture, so there should never be an issue.”
I feel floaty, like I’ve taken off a thirty-pound weight vest I’ve been wearing all day.
If what he’s saying is true, my worries were groundless. I didn’t need to break into his office and attempt that sabotage. I didn’t need to owe my evil twin. I didn’t need to jeopardize my relationship with Alex and Bella—not that I knew there was a relationship to be had at the time I broke in.
Alex must read some of my thoughts on my face. “I’m sorry. I should’ve reassured you when we spoke after your break-in. I was upset then, and there wasn’t a good time later.”
“You’re apologi
zing to me?” I grab his hand. “I’m the one who is sorry. I should’ve talked to you guys instead of acting so rashly.”
He squeezes my palm, his fingers warm and strong around mine. “Water under the bridge.”
Uh-oh.
My eyes lock on his lips, and a familiar magnetic pull draws me toward him.
He leans toward me as well, his lips about to fuse with mine.
The limo stops a little too jerkily, yanking me out of the sexual trance.
Blinking, I draw back.
“Your place.” He nods toward the window, answering the question I never got the chance to ask.
“Jolly good,” I mumble.
His eyes glint. “Do you want to stay with me a little longer?”
I swallow hard. “I do. But I shouldn’t.”
His face turns solemn. “I understand.”
Why is he being so bloody professional and accommodating? If he pushed even a little bit, I’d kiss him and not look back. More than kiss him, in fact.
I reluctantly grab my purse. “I guess I’ll go?”
“If that’s what you want.” He comes out of the limo and holds the door for me.
I get out clumsily and stand there, unsure how to say goodbye under the circumstances.
Would a kiss on the cheek be inappropriate?
“See you tomorrow at the hospital,” he says with a wave.
Unsure of what I’m doing, I snatch his hand from the air and give it an awkward shake.
Great job. Maybe I should curtsy or kiss his ring while I’m at it?
The corners of his eyes crinkle—he’s obviously trying not to laugh at my expense.
Mumbling “do svidaniya,” I beeline for my building. A part of me is grateful he didn’t push. This is how things should be between us. Professional.
I just wish being a saint didn’t feel so crummy.
Once home, I run through my usual routine on autopilot, my mind already on tomorrow’s meeting—except I’m more worried about seeing Alex again than the fate of my project.
Ugh. What is wrong with me?
Getting into bed, I decide to finally do something about my raging hormones. If I don’t sleep tonight, I will jeopardize tomorrow, and that can’t happen.
So, the big question is: dildo or au naturel?