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He gives me an amused onceover. “I think you are a real woman.”
I resist the urge to growl. “I mean, a woman who’d marry you for real?”
All it would take is for him to throw his dance belt into the audience after a performance. There’d be hundreds of takers, and that’s before they’d find out he’s rich.
He squints at me. “Is it your turn for the quid pro quo?”
“That’s over,” I say. “We’re talking business now.”
He sighs. “To marry for real, you need to meet the right person, and I haven’t yet. I’ve been too busy. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to romance a woman when what I need is a green card.”
That last bit is a good point. “Still. Why me?”
He shrugs. “You’re already a lawbreaker.”
Great. Now he’s reminding me about the breaking-and-entering. Does that mean blackmail is still on the table? Before I can probe in that direction, the waitress is back with our check. I assume Art will pick up the tab, but out of politeness, I reach for my wallet.
“I got this,” he says, looking insulted.
Must be some Russian thing. Maybe it’s part of that “servicing.” Well, whatever. I can’t afford my half of that check anyway.
He lays several bills on the table, which the waitress gratefully snatches as we exit the tatami room.
A man is talking to a police officer in the far corner of the restaurant, and I overhear the words “vibrating” and “may be a bomb.”
The cop nods, mutters something about “see something, say something,” then makes a call—I assume to a bomb squad.
Oops. I grab Art’s elbow and drag him out of Miso Hungry. The last thing I want is to be there when the bomb squad robot fishes out my masturbatory panties from the bin. Would the cops check the insides of the undies for DNA? Do lady juices—
“Everything okay?” Art asks.
I look up to see him frowning at me. “Peachy. I just remembered I forgot to turn off the stove.”
He doesn’t know that I don’t own a stove.
He narrows his eyes. “If you want to say no, that’s fine. No need to lie.”
Huh. Maybe he’s not blackmailing me?
“No,” I say. “I mean, I’m not saying no.”
His features relax. “So it’s a yes?”
“It’s still a ‘I need to think about it,’” I say.
He leans closer. “Let me know as soon as you’ve made the decision.”
“I will.” His proximity is intoxicating.
“You know,” he murmurs. “In Russia, we hug and kiss on the cheek when we say goodbye.”
“Oh.” My arms open for a hug of their own accord—or at the behest of my ovaries.
He envelops me.
How many angels can dance on the head of a pin? I think it’s a lot, and they’re all singing a heavenly chorus that reverberates in my privates.
It gets worse. Or better, depending on your perspective.
