After a short drive, the taxi turns onto a quiet street. You look out of the window, but you don’t see any visible restaurants or shops. Miles pays the driver, then gets out and opens your door for you. You try not to flash your negligible panties as you slide out of the taxi. It’s not as easy as the Hollywood actresses make it look.
You cross the pavement and Miles leads you to a recessed door. It doesn’t look anything like a restaurant from the outside: there are no signs or names on any of the windows, which are curtained so you can’t see inside. So you’re amazed when you step through the door and find yourself in an intimate and discreetly decorated Japanese restaurant. The staff and most of the diners appear to be Japanese, which is always a good sign.
An elegant woman in a kimono bustles up to you, a welcoming smile on her face. “Mr. Cornuti, so glad to see you again! Table for two?”
“Cornuti!” you blurt out as light dawns and your stomach plummets. “Oh my god, you’re Miles Cornuti!”
It’s hardly a common name—you didn’t put two and two together earlier because the taxi driver mangled it.
He nods in acknowledgment before greeting the hostess. “Hello, Katsuko, it’s good to see you, too. May we have two seats at the counter, please?”
She guides you toward the back of the restaurant to a counter that looks directly into a modern kitchen, where two Japanese chefs are working side by side, masterfully slicing fish and rolling out rice. You take your seats beside each other, facing the prep area, which is designed so that diners can watch the chefs preparing the sushi. It’s an art, and quite something to see. You’ve heard that they spend decades in Japan just learning to prepare the rice before they’re ever allowed anywhere near a piece of fish.
The chefs nod politely at you, then get back to their sharp knives and rolling mats, chatting to each other quietly in Japanese. The taller one, wielding a knife that looks more like a sword, effortlessly does a Zorro on a giant slab of tuna, transforming it into perfect sashimi, the muscles in his forearms rippling as he works. These guys are clearly the real deal.
The restaurant is half full, and there’s nobody else up at the counter. You’re sitting so close to Miles that his arm and leg brush against yours, causing a ripple of excitement through your body.
Once your companion has exchanged pleasantries with the hostess and ordered some sake, she disappears, leaving you alone with menus. You seize the opportunity to grill him: “I can’t believe it. You’re Miles Cornuti, the famous media mogul!”
“Hardly famous,” he says.
“Of course you are—you own dozens of magazines and a newspaper, and then there are all the imprints and the e-publishing ventures.”
Katsuko reappears with a carafe of sake. Miles pours some into two delicate handleless cups and offers you one. “Try this, it’s really good. Apparently they fly it in from Japan every month.”
“Don’t try to change the subject,” you say, cradling the cup in both hands and taking a few sips, enjoying the silky liquid easing its way down. “I’ve heard lots about you. I have a friend who’s a writer for one of your publications.”
“I hope it’s not the same friend who stood you up tonight? The one whose boss is a real—what did you call him again?”
“Umm . . .” Now it’s your turn to squirm.
“I do believe you said he was some sort of bastard?”
“Controlling bastard,” you squeak, heat radiating off your face.
“Ah yes, that’s right. Controlling bastard at your service, ma’am.”
You fidget in your seat, grateful to be sitting side by side, so you don’t have to deal with his teasing stare.
“Actually, I think what she meant was . . .” you scramble, trying to backtrack.
“Go on,” he says, smirking. “I want to see how you get yourself out of this one.”
“More sake?” you say, reaching for the carafe and pretending to refill both your cups.
Miles cracks a grin. “Here’s to controlling-bastard bosses everywhere,” he says, holding up his cup. You click your cup against his and take another few sips, praying for a quick change of subject. Melissa is going to kill you. How are you going to explain that you went out to dinner with her boss and let slip what she said about him?
You do a mental stock-take of everything else she’s ever told you about him, coming up with superrich, powerful, and yes, very demanding to work for. But that makes sense. You don’t get to be a media mogul by being a pushover. You get to be a media mogul by being a controlling bastard. But—and more important—why hasn’t she ever mentioned how incredibly hot he is?
You study him surreptitiously while pretending to read the menu. Tall, good body, charismatic, confident. And he has that George Clooney crinkly-smiling-eye look, and it works for him. But still, what are you doing? This is your best friend’s boss. You shouldn’t be checking him out, you should be getting out of there faster than a sumo wrestler at a Weight Watchers meeting. But it wouldn’t hurt to stay for just a quick tuna and avocado hand-roll, surely?
When you eventually look at the menu, you realize the whole thing is in Japanese. You turn it over to see if there are English translations, or at least pictures of the dishes on the reverse, but no such luck.
“So, you say this place is the real deal? What do you recommend?” you ask nonchalantly, as if you read Japanese every day of the week, hoping you aren’t holding the menu upside down.
He leans over and you’re expecting him to say something knowing or pretentious, or to offer to order for you, but instead he says, “I haven’t got a clue. I always ask Katsuko to recommend something. The first time I came here I tried to be clever, and I accidentally ordered one of their more . . . unusual delicacies.”
“What happened?”
He pulls a face. “It turned out I had asked for cod sperm.”
You almost spit your sake across the counter.
“The chefs and waitresses thought it was hilarious. They only told me what I was eating after I’d swallowed the first bite. I made their night.” He nods at one of the chefs, who salutes back with a flourish of his knife.
“What did it taste like?”
“Actually, it was a bit like squid. But no more fish semen for me. These days I stick to safer dishes.”
You can’t resist the temptation to flirt. “So you’re saying you like to play it safe?”
He gazes at you intently. “That depends on who I’m playing with.”
A flicker of sexual tension darts between you.
“And what about you?” he asks. “Would you consider yourself the adventurous type?”
“I like to think I’m always up for a bit of adventure,” you say.
“Well, let’s see if that’s true.” He raises his hand, and within seconds Katsuko is back at your side.
“I’ll have my usual, please: the tuna sashimi, some salmon maki, and some wasabi parcels—and then my friend and I were thinking we might try something a little bit different for a change. What do you recommend?”
You’re sure there’s a mischievous glint in Katsuko’s eye. “Tonight we have fresh unagi, Mr. Cornuti.”
She points at a tank against the wall of the restaurant. An assortment of rather odd-looking creatures are inside, including some very spiny sea urchins, a few starfish latched to the sides of the tank, and half a dozen eels slithering around, tying themselves in knots. “As you can see, we also have fresh uni. And we have our usual more traditional delicacies,” she says.
“Uni?” you ask, your voice a nervous rasp.
“Sea urchin. The reproductive organs,” Katsuko informs you, her face impassive.
Miles looks at you. “I’m game—if you are.”
“I’ll have what he’s having,” you say, trying not to blanch.
“Let’s try the uni. And bring us one of those traditional delicacies, too, please,” says Miles.
While Katsuko turns to instruct the chefs in quick Japanese, you sit back and take ano
ther sip of sake, wondering what on earth you’ve gotten yourself into.
Once your order’s in, you find the conversation flows easily. He’s more forthcoming about his personal life than you would have expected from someone of his standing, and your guilt about Melissa starts to fade; it feels not so much like having dinner with your friend’s boss as hanging out with a friend. A smoking-hot friend, but a friend nonetheless.
You discover he’s been divorced for a couple of years now, but he gets on well with his ex and his two stepchildren, both of whom are almost grown by now. He mentions that he’s a workaholic, which is what led to the divorce. He’s always been married to his business—that’s fairly well-known—but you can’t help admiring his commitment to his work. It’s part of what makes him so compelling. And while you can detect the controlling aspect of his personality lurking around the edges, the bastard part seems to be mercifully absent so far.
“So now I’ve told you all about my love life. What about yours?” he asks.
You look down. You don’t think babbling about the stony desert that is your current romantic life is going to be very appealing, so you decide to keep it simple. “Nope, there’s no one right now.”
“No boyfriend?”
You shake your head.
He grins. “Girlfriend?”
“Are you hoping I’ll say yes? Isn’t that what all guys fantasize about?”
“Not this guy,” he says, draining his cup.
Katsuko interrupts once again, but you forgive her as she places several little plates of food on the counter. You cast your eye over the offerings, relieved to discover that there’s nothing you don’t recognize, and it all looks delicious. As you’re about to dig in, you notice that one of the chefs is over at the tank, fishing something out of it, and you realize you’re not quite out of the woods yet.
Miles twirls his chopsticks, which of course he handles like a pro, and you pick up yours, hoping you won’t drop food down your cleavage or stab yourself in the eye. But at the first bite of the succulent little parcel you’ve snagged, you forget to worry about your chopstick technique. You hadn’t realized how hungry you were—or perhaps it’s because the food is so good. The fish is so fresh it melts in your mouth, and there seems to be the perfect amount of every ingredient in each bite.
Some of the pieces are too big to navigate into your mouth whole, and you’re relieved when Miles abandons his chopsticks and simply picks up one of the rolls with his fingers. Oh, thank heavens, he’s human, you think, following suit.
At one point while you’re discussing the rise of e-books, Miles pauses mid-sentence, then reaches his hand up to your face. “May I?” he asks.
You hold your breath, unsure what he’s about to do. Surely he’s not going to kiss you? He leans in close, then brushes a stray grain of rice from your cheek. But he doesn’t just dab at it quickly with one finger. Instead he holds your chin in his palm and brushes his thumb across the width of your cheek. The intimacy of his touch is shocking, the pad of his thumb soft on your skin, and your body instantly wants more. Once his fingers are gone, you swipe at your scorching cheek, feeling for other imaginary grains of rice, a little embarrassed at both your inept sushi-eating and how you reacted to his touch.
And then Katsuko appears once more and begins to stack up the empty plates while Miles pours out the last of the sake into your cups. Once the counter is cleared, she returns and places two little plates down between you.
“Uni,” she says, nodding at the one plate.
The plate contains something that looks a bit like sushi rolls, with rice luxuriously wrapped in dark seaweed. But lodged on top of the rice are thick wedges of bright orange flesh. It’s textured like a tongue, and it looks almost spongy. The second plate holds even worse horrors—what appear to be two giant eyeballs. Each one is slightly bigger than a gumball, and they still have bits of flesh and fiber attached around the edges. Your stomach churns at the sight of them, and they stare back up at you, equally unimpressed.
You pick up a chopstick and prod at one of the orange fleshy things, and you’re sure it quivers as you touch it. You snatch your hand back. Surely the monstrous thing isn’t still alive?
Miles laughs. “Aren’t you the girl who told me she was up for a bit of adventure?”
“Aren’t you the guy who told me that he accidentally ate cod semen?” you shoot back. “So this should be a walk in the park for you . . . What did you say this was again?”
The more handsome of the two chefs, who is watching the show with frank interest, bows in the direction of the spongy orange tongue thing: “Uni—sea urchin.”
“And that?” you ask, tentatively pointing at an eyeball with your chopstick.
“Tuna eyeball. Big delicacy in Japan,” the chef says, unable to hide his grin.
“Fantastic,” you say, trying to sound convincing.
Miles reaches forward with his chopsticks, going straight for an eyeball. He grasps it and then raises it, not taking his eyes off you for a second. “Here’s to adventure,” he says.
You poke at the remaining eyeball, then pick it up, trying to keep your hand steady. It’s so fat and slippery, you have to take care it doesn’t pop out of your chopsticks and bounce along the counter. It looks disgusting, and as you get it closer to your mouth you realize that it doesn’t smell so good, either. But you stay firm and lock eyes with Miles, who has a challenging expression on his face.
Both of you maneuver the eyeballs closer and closer to your mouths, watching each other carefully.
You stare in horror as Miles opens his mouth, and it hits you: if he puts that thing in his mouth, you’ll never be able to kiss him. And you realize that’s all you’ve been thinking about doing since you met him. So while there’s no way you can put an eyeball in your mouth, more important, he can’t, either.
With a shudder, you drop your eyeball. “I can’t, I give up. You win!” you yelp.
“You give up?”
“Yes, you win. That’s just too disgusting for words!”
“Oh, thank god!” he says, dropping his eyeball onto the plate, where it skids around before coming to a flabby stop next to its mate, both pupils staring up at you dolefully.
“I concede—when it comes to food, you’re more daring than I am!”
He smirks, but then stops and leans toward you. “Wait—what do you mean when it comes to food?”
By now you’re only inches apart. You feel the fizz of sexual energy that’s been building between you all night. The urge to just lean forward and kiss him is overwhelming.
Katsuko glides up to the table again, and clears away the untouched uni and the eyeballs.
“How about dessert?” Miles asks.
“What did you have in mind?”
“Well, they have green-tea ice cream . . .”
Your narrow escape from death by eyeball has made you bold. “How about something a little more decadent?” you say, throwing caution to the wind and sliding your leg between his.
“I think you’re right,” he says slowly. “I’m not in the mood for ice cream, either. Shall we go back to my place? I’m sure we can find the perfect dessert there.”
You hesitate for a minute, wrestling with your conscience, but he’s too magnetic for you to walk away at this point. Sorry, Melissa.
Miles gestures for the bill, then takes your hand as you head to the cash register.
“Thank you for dinner,” you say as you stand together waiting for the credit-card machine to spit out its slip.
The corners of his piercing eyes crinkle, and then he leans into you, brushing his mouth against your ear as he whispers, “I wasn’t going to eat that eyeball at any point tonight.”
You stand on tiptoes to reach his ear and whisper back: “And I wasn’t going to let you.”
OUTSIDE ON THE PAVEMENT, waiting for your taxi to arrive, Miles finally leans down, cups your chin, and kisses you deeply. His mouth is hot and hungry. Your knees feel like they might gi
ve way, and he must sense this, because he puts both arms around you and holds you firmly against him as you kiss.
When you’re both breathless, he pulls back. “Before we go, I need to tell you—I wasn’t joking about being adventurous.” He laces the fingers of his hands in yours. “Are you sure you’re up for it?”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“I just like to do things slightly differently.”
You have no doubt about that—you imagine this man does everything slightly differently.
“But I can guarantee you’ll enjoy it,” he says when you don’t respond.
“How do you know?”
“I was right about the sushi, wasn’t I?”
Your mind whirls through the possibilities. You weren’t lying about liking a bit of adventure. Bungee jumping isn’t entirely out of the question, and you’ve been known to read the odd saucy book—but you have no intention of getting tied up in a love dungeon. But he’s so suave, you think, he couldn’t possibly be into anything too crazy. And he was right about the sushi. You waver, trying to decide what to do.
Sometimes it’s best to leave things on a high note. After all, you’ve had your fun with Miles Cornuti. Maybe it’s time to call it a night, having lost nothing more than an eyeball challenge and perhaps a sliver of dignity. He is Melissa’s boss, after all. No man—however hot—is worth risking a friendship over. And you could always swing by your local late-night coffee shop—maybe all you need for dessert is hot chocolate. But those George Clooney eyes . . .
If you decide to go back to Miles’s place, click here.
If you decide not to go home with Miles, click here.
If you go past your local late-night coffee shop on your way home, click here.
You’ve decided to go back to Miles’s place
WOW. YOU STAND IN the double-volume entrance hall, attempting to take in what you’re seeing. Miles’s house is a masterpiece of understated luxury—it looks like it’s about to be photographed for Minimalist Design Weekly. The white walls showcase an eclectic mix of art. There are beautiful classic pieces mixed in with the kind of modern art you’ve always suspected a two-year-old could do, even though you’re sure each one of these is worth the GDP of a small country. There’s not a thing out of place, and certainly no stray coffee mugs littered about. The subtle lighting softens the white stone surfaces—even the downlighters have downlighters.
A Girl Walks into a Bar Page 8