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“Seriously,” I say when we resume driving. “Why did you ask about sashimi?”
I mean, I have an inkling but?—
“As you might’ve guessed from this morning’s breakfast, I’m a fan of Japanese food,” Evan says. “So the reason I asked if you like sashimi is because I want to make it for you. Tonight. For dinner.”
Chapter Six
Evan
Shit. How did I manage to make that invite sound so much like a date?
“Oh. Wow,” Brooklyn says, no doubt working up to the rejection. “Thanks. I’d love that.”
Oh.
Hmm.
She’ll come?
Okay. She must not have felt the date-like vibe there.
Good.
I’m not into dating, and especially not dating tourists. Unlike many of my friends, I abhor flings. They remind me of jerking off to porn, but with a higher chance of catching an STD. If I wanted any form of a relationship—and I don’t—it would be more along the lines of marriage, but there’s a big problem with that. Women don’t want to marry me because I will not give them kids. Before I gave up on dating, my relationships would last right up until I revealed my vasectomy. Then the woman would accuse me of hating children—which is not true—and couldn’t end things fast enough.
“Doesn’t it take great skill to cut sashimi?” Brooklyn asks. “I’ve seen Jiro Dreams of Sushi.”
I sit up straighter. “I went to a school in LA. Studied with a sushi sensei and everything.”
“Oh?” She regards me curiously. “Are you planning to open a restaurant one day?”
I shake my head. “I just wanted to be able to make it for myself exactly as I like it. And control the freshness too.”
“That’s a lot of effort,” she says. “You really like your Japanese food.”
I drive into the private entrance of my community, and Brooklyn blinks in confusion.
“Are we eating dinner at my place?” she asks.
“No. I mean, we could, but I have the bamboo board, yanagiba, and everything,” I say. “Plus my cat loves sashimi so?—”
“You have a cat too?” She sounds oddly jealous.
“Yeah,” I say as I pull into my driveway. “She actually escaped to your rental earlier today, and I have no idea why.”
“Wait.” Brooklyn looks at my house, then at me. “They let you live here?”
“They?”
“The owners of this house and the one I’m staying at. Unless… do they let you stay here as a perk for managing the?—”
“I am the owner,” I state, figuring her semi-insulting rant could go on for a month if I let it. “Why would you assume I’m not? Is there something about my clothes or demeanor that screams ‘not a homeowner?’”
Brooklyn blushes, and I realize why women invented rouge. On the right face, it’s hot.
“I’m sorry,” she mutters. “You were fixing the sink, so I figured you were a plumber. Then you were cutting the grass and?—”
“I enjoy doing those things myself.” I pull the car into my garage and open the door for her. “Usually, when you own real estate, you earn so-called ‘passive’ income,” I say as we walk inside. “That sounds boring, so for me, there’s an active component. Until I’ve built too many houses to manage on my own, I don’t plan to hire anyone to help.”
