Chapter Thirteen
Max
“Do you know where you’re going?” I ask for the third time since we left the hotel to grab dinner.
“Of course.” Rhys squints at the map the concierge sent along with the reservation details, then looks at our surroundings.
Are we even on the right street? None of the restaurants and shops scream fancy or moneyed. At least the area’s busy with foot traffic. So hopefully that means good restaurants, even if they’re too humble for Rhys’s taste.
He eats whatever’s convenient and fast for lunch, unless it’s a business lunch, but for dinner? He prefers something more luxurious and gourmet. The fancy wagyu omakase from last night was much more to his liking than the little mom-and-pop places around us seem to be.
Commuters and tourists mill about everywhere. Rhys checks the map app again.
I suppress a sigh. “If you tell me where we’re going, I might be able to help.”
“I got it.”
He said that ten minutes ago. “It doesn’t make you less of a man to ask for directions,” I say, making sure to keep my voice extra dulcet.
“I don’t speak Japanese.” He glances at me. “Do you?”
I frown. “No.”
“Right. So, in Google we trust. Next time we’re in Tokyo, you can study Japanese beforehand and ask directions all you want. I’ll leave myself at your mercy.”
Just like him to shut me up with the thinly veiled threat of a project as time-consuming and difficult as mastering a new language.
The scary thing is that he might just do it.
One of our new MBAs insisted on buying some company in China that Rhys wasn’t interested in.
To make him shut up, Rhys enrolled him in a Mandarin course and said, “If you can speak conversational Chinese, you can be in charge of it.” Within a month, he stopped bringing it up—and quietly quit the class.
Suddenly, Rhys points at a spot several yards ahead. “Finally! Our dinner reservation.”
“Where?”
“There.” He leads me to a small hole-in-a-wall joint with a bright red and yellow logo on sliding glass doors.
My jaw slackens. “God Burger? Are you serious?” I let out an incredulous laugh. “I thought you wanted to go to some place fancy and eat blowfish, so you wouldn’t feel so bad about lying to your grandmother.”
He starts to respond, but his phone vibrates. He frowns. “Speak of the devil. Shouldn’t have brought her up at all.” He turns the phone so I can read it.
–Czarina: Well? Did you figure out what’s going on with the pregnancy? Can you issue a statement? What do you think about the list I sent? Find anything acceptable?
“You call your grandmother Czarina?”
“It totally suits her. And I was being polite when I voted for this nickname, because I could’ve easily chosen something far worse.”
“Surely she isn’t that bad.”
“You have no idea.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, back to our dinner.” He points to the humble restaurant in front of us. “It apparently has the best burger in the city. Must be godly.”
“It has Godzilla on the door,” I point out with amusement.
“Should be good either way.”
“How did you hear about this place?”
“Bryce Huxley.”
I blink. Bryce is Jeremiah’s nephew and a lawyer from Huxley & Webber, but Rhys never deals with him professionally because he practices family estate and divorce law. “What does he know about Tokyo?”
“A lot. His stepmom is Japanese and he spent some time in Japan when he was younger.”
We walk past a line and step inside. The place is even smaller than it appeared from the outside.
On the left is a modest counter with a griddle and about eight seats, squeezed tightly together.
Four tables, each with four small chairs, occupy the space opposite the griddle.
Despite that, the place is packed, except for one table.
Conversations buzz above the sound of patties sizzling on the hot iron.
Almost everyone has a cold beer in front of them, along with pitchers of iced water and glasses.
A waiter with bleached yellow-orange hair welcomes us in boisterous Japanese, then adds a heavily accented “Hallo!” in English.
Rhys taps his phone and shows the screen to the guy. He nods and takes us to the lone available table, then gives us a laminated menu. It has both Japanese and English, although the latter contains a few spelling errors.
“Go ahead,” Rhys says, gesturing at me.
“The Royal God Set with Asahi Super Dry,” I say without bothering to study the menu too closely—obviously, there’s only one thing to have at a place called God Burger.
The first item listed, it’s a double bacon cheeseburger with fries and a beer.
I pray it’s good enough to satisfy the cheeseburger craving that’s been plaguing me for days.
“Same,” Rhys says.
The waiter confirms our order and disappears. My phone pings, and I check the message.
–Yuka: Watanabe-san says the company is amenable to the deal. The contract drafting and review can happen in the next month, if that’s acceptable for you.
Smiling, I look up at Rhys. “Ohimesama must’ve liked your convincing this morning. Watanabe wants to sign the deal.”
He grins, looking shockingly boyish. “Yes! So much for that ‘forward-looking posture.’” Even though he must’ve done countless deals like this, he always pumps his fist like it’s his first time.
Our waiter brings the beers, and we clink glasses.
“To another deal wrapped well,” Rhys says.
“Cheers.”
I take a sip and sigh with satisfaction, then steal a glance at him.
He’s used to celebrating with a fancy dinner—perfectly cooked prime cuts and expensive wine at a dignified steakhouse with lots of dark wood décor, classy music and the waitstaff in starched uniforms. God Burger’s humble yellowed wallpaper, a couple of wall-mounted fans and some old Japanese baseball player posters with curling edges don’t fit the type of venue he’d prefer for reveling in another success.
His glasses reflect the bright fluorescent light, making it hard to tell what he’s thinking. I take another long swallow. “You know, if you prefer to do Kobe beef or something, that’s fine. The hotel has a steakhouse on the top floor, right above us.”
His eyebrows pinch together. “Is that what you’re in the mood for?”
I bite my lip, torn between honesty and pleasing the boss, although the latter is tugging at me with more force. I can always get a cheeseburger in the States. I start to answer, but get interrupted when the waiter places our burgers and fries in front of us with a red squeeze bottle.
The burgers aren’t as big as the ones you get in the States, but they’re still sizable, with generous patties and two slices of cheddar and bacon strips. My mouth starts to water at the sight.
“I guess that answers that,” I say. “It’d be a shame to have this go to waste.”
“Agreed.”
I pick mine up and bite into it. Juicy meatiness explodes along with a mellow mayo sauce and melted cheese. Wow. I pull back and stare at the burger in awe. “Okay. This really is kind of godly.”
Rhys starts eating, too. From the relaxed set of his jaw and shoulders, guess he’s happy with dinner. “Guess this is worth dreaming about.”
I stare at him with amusement. I’ve never seen him crave any particular food, certainly not enough to dream about it. “You dream about cheeseburgers?”
“No, but you did. The first night here, you were mumbling, ‘Cheeseburger,’ and trying to eat your pillow. Totally woke me up.”
I snort-laugh. “I did not.”
“Totally did. You drooled so much, you almost caused a flood in the room.”
My face warms with embarrassment. “I don’t talk in my sleep. Ever.”
“People who snore don’t know they snore.”
“I don’t snore, either! I’d know if I did something in my sleep.”
“I see.” He cocks an eyebrow, leaning forward a little. “So are you telling me the ‘minor incursion’ this morning was done on purpose?”
The image of what happened this morning fills my mind. The feel of him under my hand, and me clinging to him like a needy puppy. His hand on my shoulder, like he didn’t want me to roll away. It was unfamiliar and—
Abruptly, I realize I don’t hug anybody in my sleep. Even when I spend the night at Jeffrey’s, I wrap a blanket around myself and curl up on my side. He sleeps with one arm flung over his head and the other hand on his belly.
And shockingly, I slept like a baby last night. But admitting that to Rhys would be a bad idea. I can’t articulate why, but my gut says so.
“That’s different. I was lured in by the enemy,” I say finally, then finish my beer and signal for another.
He scoffs, although his mouth twitches. “Hugging the enemy. I’m sure not even Jesus wanted you to do that.”
“Jesus wasn’t a hugger. He wanted you to be open to being slapped, one cheek, then the next.” I turn my face from side to side, showing him both cheeks. “Besides, it’s not shameful to dream about cheeseburgers. They’re fantastic. Taste like home.”
“Not pizza? You order them all the time for lunch socials.”
“I grab them because everyone likes pizza. But me? Cheeseburgers all the way. Mom used to make them for me every summer and for the Super Bowl. It’s my comfort food, especially with fries and ketchup.
Everyday Americana. Her recipe is amazing too, although I’ve never been quite able to replicate the flavor, even when I follow the instructions exactly.
My aunt might be able to tell me what I’m doing wrong, but she and I aren’t really close.
As a matter of fact, we haven’t spoken since Mom’s funeral.
How about you? Any special thing you like to eat? ”
He gives me an inscrutable look, then seems to shake himself. “Comfort food? No… Don’t think I have anything like that.”
“Don’t you have something you grew up with? Even as lavish as surf and turf topped with hazelnut butter and truffle shavings?” I mention the dinner we had the last time the firm closed a deal.
He chews thoughtfully for a while. “Lobster bisque finished with two scoops of Osetra caviar.” His nose wrinkles. He takes a big swig of his beer. “Mom likes it, so we had it fairly often.”
“Ooh… Fancy.” I love lobster bisque, but rarely have it since it’s so pricey.
“Felt like torture when I was a kid. I still don’t like lobster bisque or caviar.”
“That explains why you never have caviar while flying. I used to wonder why you always have either warmed nuts or pate.”
“They don’t taste like cold, fishy salt bubbles.” He shudders. “If I’d been introduced to it as an adult, I might’ve liked it more. Hard to say. But as a five-year-old? Ugh.”
I make a sympathetic noise. “Sounds yummier when you call it caviar.”
“Of course. Why do you think restaurants call it calamari fritti rather than fried squid?”
“Stop. You’re going to ruin one of my favorite foods.”
“Did your mom make that for you, too?”
Something about his tone sounds wistful, but I’m probably imagining things. He grew up in wealth and privilege. Sure, his parents had a ton of scandals to their name, but most were probably fabricated by tabloids—the kinds of things the family might find annoying, but then just laugh off.
I shrug. “No. She hated cooking with seafood. Too slimy when raw, she said. But she loved to eat them at this hole-in-the-wall in my old neighborhood. Owned by an Italian guy who moved from New York City when he was twenty. It’s still there. Maybe I’ll take you one of these days.”