Chapter 10
The investors threw a total curveball. I expected the usual boring shit like financial reports and maybe talk about expanding overseas, but instead, they hit me with a full purchase offer.
It’s probably too good to be true.
If I sell, I’d be free to do whatever the hell I want. Like completely inserting myself—pun one hundo percent intended—into Morgan’s life and following her to Seoul, whether she likes it or not.
I have a feeling our pushy parents would be happy about that. Parents, not grandparents. My grandfather would be livid.
But like I said yesterday, he can go to hell, even if that makes me a piece of shit.
But on the other, much shittier hand…
Without my business, I’d lose the purpose that’s kept me grounded for the last decade. I hate to admit it, but I owe that to the same grandfather who can go to hell. He taught me to take and keep control, and those lessons worked. Now, I use my success to take care of my people—my parents, my sister, my friends. Without that steady cash flow, how the hell am I supposed to do that?
I don’t have time to hop on that fun fucking spiral because the doorbell rings, already knowing it’s John. Jetlagged, he texted me before the ass crack of dawn—the goddamn gooch—saying he’d be here around nine to lift weights.
When I asked why he wouldn’t just go to the Flex Factory, I received a lovely string of heartfelt texts.
He’s not actually pissed. Or if he is, he won’t be after I give him the damn best reason I ditched him. Hell, the dude’s been trying to get me to settle down for years.
I open the door, and there’s good ole John with Mandu—his Shiba Inu—parked at his feet.
“Sup, bro?” I say, holding out a hand.
In full Blasian fashion, he clasps it and brings us in for a hug. “Sup, Hyung . Good to finally fucking see you.”
He’s got his dad’s dark skin, sturdy build, and easy swagger, but otherwise, he’s a masculine carbon copy of his Korean mom. Basically, he’s about as good-looking as dudes get.
I step aside as his African-American-Korean ass and Mandu’s furry one stroll in like they own the place, Mandu curling up on my couch like the dumplings he’s named after.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “Bitch all you want, but I’ve got a good reason.”
He looks up at me over his glasses, mid-shoe removal. “Yeah? And what the hell is that?”
Proudly—and I mean proudly —I whip out my phone and shove a photo of Morgan in his face.
John cocks a brow. “ Hyung , I told you to stop jerking off to photos of random women. It’s weird.”
“Shut the fuck up. She’s not some random woman. She’s my girlfriend.”
John straightens, snatching the phone. “Seriously? What’s her name?”
“Morgan. Asterman.”
“About damn time,” he says, way too casually.
My smile drops. “You already knew.” His answering grin tells me everything I need to know. “Goddammit, Jina…”
“You know she tells me everything. But she didn’t say you locked it down.” He claps my shoulder. “Congrats, Hyung . I’m happy for you. Does the old man know?”
Sighing, I run a hand through my hair. “He knows of her. That’s it. She’s moving to Seoul in three months, so it’s a temporary thing. Not really worth telling him more.”
“And her moving to Seoul makes it temporary…why? You’re Korean. Go with her.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“It is,” he says, arms crossed. “You’re just a dumbass.”
“Thanks, man.”
“Anytime. Now, can we pump some iron? I need to clear my head.”
“Sure. You good?”
He nods, and I let it go. John only opens up when he’s ready. Push him, and you’ll land in the doghouse, ignored for anywhere from three business days to three weeks.
I run upstairs to change, give Mandu a head pat on the way down—he really does look like a dumpling, or mandu in Korean—and head to the basement. John’s already warming up on a treadmill.
Overall, I’m pretty frugal with my money, but I’m still human and like to splurge on some things. One of them being a house large enough for a home gym of any meathead’s wet dream. The other two are my Supra and F-250 King Ranch. And now, Morgan. I can’t wait to splurge on her—I don’t mean that how it sounds. But also, yes. Yes, I do.
My home gym’s roughly the size of Jina’s with pretty much all the same equipment—including a massage room used by my massage therapist, Daniel, on a weekly basis for the ever-present knots in my shoulders. Add an ice tub, sauna, office, and higher ceilings, and you’ve got the Flex Factory.
So why not invite Morgan here to work out, Jiho? Great question. Even better answer…
If Morgan Asterman ever sets foot in my gym, we won’t be working out. We’ll be making out. And fucking. Definitely fucking.
I hop on the treadmill beside John, walking since I plan to get my cardio in later tonight.
“What’re we working today?” I call over to him.
“Legs,” he says shortly, lowering the treadmill speed. “Ever since the flight, they’ve been restless. Nothing a good leg day won’t fix.”
And so we begin, running through squats, walking lunges, hamstring curls, calf raises, and the hell-spawned Bulgarian split squats. Even as a personal trainer, those things make me question my life choices.
Mid-cooldown, John finally cracks. “I didn’t go to the Flex Factory because Jina hired Kelsey as the new yoga instructor.”
I freeze mid-stretch. “Are you fucking serious?” He sighs and nods, and I immediately grab my phone and call Jina on speaker.
She answers on the third ring. No hello. Just, “John told you,” like she’s been waiting.
I all but yell into the phone. “Kelsey Bradshaw, Jina? What the hell were you thinking?”
“Calm down, Oppa . It was a good business decision.”
“A good business decision?” I bite out on a scoff. “That girl is dumber than a bag of rocks.”
“Woman. And that’s rude,” Jina snaps.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Jina, last time I saw her, she literally asked if people in Canada speak Canadian.”
Silence. Then, “Yeah, that was…unfortunate. She just wants to impress you. You know she’s had a crush on you since our first year of college.”
John mumbles, “Also unfortunate.”
“I heard that, John,” Jina snaps. “Look, she’s my friend. I owe her.”
My turn to snap. “You don’t owe her shit. A friend wouldn’t make you feel like you owe them for saving your ass from a creep.”
“Wait, what?” John cuts in, standing. “What creep, Jina?”
“Don’t worry about it,” she mutters. “It was a long time ago.”
John points at the phone like my sister can magically see him. “Fuck that, Jin. You’re telling me later.”
I groan. “Look, Jina, if Kelsey does anything—and I mean anything —that fucks up the business, she’s gone. You got that?”
She fires back, “Not your decision.”
“The hell it isn’t. I’m serious, Jina. She does anything, and I pull my funding.”
“You’re an asshole, Oppa .”
I let out a long, probably dramatic sigh into the phone. “No, I just don’t tolerate fuck-ups when it comes to my money. I invested in Flex Factory because you’re smart and ambitious. Kelsey is the exact opposite.”
A beat. Then Jina asks in that cutesy, whiny tone I can’t say no to, “Can you at least just give her a chance? Please, Oppa ?”
Fuck.
John and I lock eyes, and he gives me a why not shrug. Apparently, he can’t say no to it either. Useless.
Running a hand down my face, I give in with another groan. “Fine. When’s her first class?”
“Tomorrow evening. A beginner class.” I can hear her smile. “Morgan’s actually signed up for it.”
Double fuck.
“Sign me up, too,” I rush out.
“ Oppa … You’re giving me whiplash.”
I probably am. “Tell Kelsey it’ll be her trial run. See you tomorrow.”
As soon as I end the call, John says, “I take it you never told her the other reason you hate Kelsey.”
“Of course not. For some reason, Jina loves her. I’m not going to ruin their friendship for my sake.”
“Fuck, dude, you’re her brother. Pretty sure she loves you more.” He points to the phone in my hand. “And what if Kelsey ruins this relationship too? Or worse, tells Morgan what happened?”
My eyes narrow. “Nothing fucking happened, and you know it.”
“Still. Better to get ahead of it before she stirs the pot.”
“I plan to, but not tonight. It’s our first date.” Or maybe I should. Shit. Hesitantly, I look at John. “People don’t…talk about their ex-things on first dates, right? It’s been a while.”
John pats my shoulder. “No, Hyung . They don’t. Try to relax, okay?”
“I am relaxed. I just care about this one. Morgan’s different. I’ve never met anyone like her, and I’ll be damned if Kelsey chases her away.”
John smirks, his voice taking on a teasing, Southern lilt as he drawls, “I dare say, our Jiho Park has got it bad.”
“Shut the fuck up, man.” I shove his shoulder, and to my goddamn gleeful surprise, he trips and falls on his ass.
Serves him right for telling me something I sure as hell already know.
***
The moment Morgan opens her door, my lungs collapse. Or maybe I inhaled a Mandu hair because I can’t breathe. My girl’s breathtaking.
That yellow sundress hugs her curves just right, and her curls gracefully frame her face in a sexy, effortless way. And yeah, I want to skip dinner and have her instead. Good thing I brought five packs of condoms. Never again will I find myself butt-ass naked in front of Morgan and not have her come around my cock.
But seriously, this woman…
I want to worship the ground she walks on. Is it too soon to propose? Yes? Shut the hell up.
Our eyes meet, and I finally exhale. “Wow, baby. You look stunning.”
“Thank you,” she says, looking shyly to the side. At least she responded to my compliment this time. “You look very handsome.”
I wink and click my tongue. “I always look handsome.” Cue a pretty, golden-brown eye roll. “You ready to go?”
“Actually, I need five more minutes,” she says sheepishly, stepping to the side to let me in before running toward the stairs.
Fuck, we’re going to be late.
A pang of annoyance shoots through me as I sigh and sink onto her couch, fingers drumming. Five minutes pass. Then six. Then eight.
Never in my life have I met a woman as unpunctual as Morgan Asterman. If she were my employee, I’d have fired her ass on day one.
But eleven minutes later, she finally makes a reappearance—an absolute vision—and suddenly, I’m not so worried about time. Which is a first.
How does she do this? How does she simultaneously steady me and light up my bleak world with warmth and color just by walking into the room?
“Okay, I’m ready now,” she says, moving to the door.
“Wait.” I hook an arm around her waist and pull her in for a kiss. It’s been less than twenty-four hours, but all I can think about is tasting her. When I finally tear my lips from hers, I murmur, “Now we can go,” and give her ass a smack as she heads for the door.
“Oh my God, Jiho!”
“What? It’s a nice ass.”
The drive to Al’s takes less than fifteen minutes, and when we pull into the restaurant parking lot, she looks at the sign on the window and reads it aloud.
“Al’s Ristorante. Italian food?”
“Not just any Italian food. The best Italian food in the city,” I say with the cheesiest grin. I mean, it is an Italian restaurant, and I’m about to eat the hell out of some parmesan.
“I don’t think Italian food adheres to my nutrition plan.”
“I know the guy who owns this place,” I explain, planting a kiss on the back of her soft hand. “He’s making us something nutritionally acceptable.”
She gives me one of those hidden smiles, and my heart just about melts in my chest. “Who don’t you know, Jiho Park?”
Another cheesy wink and a kiss to her hand, then I tell her to stay put, walking around to the passenger side to help her out. Why? Because I’m a goddamn gentleman. Chivalry isn’t dead—it’s just buried under deadbeats. But I digress.
Walking inside, the restaurant looks like any other Italian place. Booths, low-hanging lights, checkered tablecloths, and Sinatra on the speakers. But unlike all the other Italian places, this one is fucking delicious and actually authentic.
We settle into a booth near the window, and before I know it, an hour’s passed, and our plates are clean. Al made us his special spaghetti and meatballs with protein pasta, a shit ton of veggies, and a surprise bottle of a vintage Chianti. I guess the geezer’s just as excited about my new relationship as good ole fucking John.
Morgan takes a sip of her wine and hums when it hits her tongue. Hot damn. I’ve never wanted to be wine so badly in my life.
“This is so good,” she says, admiring the wine through the glass. “How nice of Al to surprise us with it. Is he from Italy, or was he born here? How do you know him? And how did he learn to cook so well?”
She’s cute when she rambles. “Damn, baby. I knew I’d have competition, but I didn’t think it’d be Al.”
She chuckles. “Any man who cooks like this is competition, Jiho. I don’t discriminate based on age.”
“That’s fair,” I mutter, mentally crossing John off her meet-and-greet list. “Al moved here twenty years ago from Florence with his nonna’s recipes and opened this place. Word got out about how good it is, and celebrities started showing up.” I nod to the wall of signed headshots. “They all begged him to upscale.”
“Why didn’t he?” she asks, then winces. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply… This place is charming.”
I chuckle. “Nah, it’s a hole in the wall, and Al knows it. But he likes serving the little guy. Hell, he gave me and a friend jobs when we were dumb teens. I’ll probably regret saying this, but my friend loved the work so much, he went to culinary school. Now, he’s a Michelin-starred chef.”
“A Michelin-starred chef, you say?” she asks, swirling her wine. “Is he as handsome as you?”
“Not even close.”
She grins. “Fine, I guess I’ll keep you.”
“Smart choice.”
“Why’s that?”
I stretch my arm across the booth. “Because luck’s on my side. Case in point—I’m dating the hottest woman on the planet.”
Morgan snorts. “Oh, please.”
My arm moves from the back of the seat, reaching across the table, palm up. She gets the hint, placing her hand in mine.
“Why do you do that?” I ask.
Her eyes avert to our entwined hands. “Do what?”
“Look at me, Morgan.” She does as she’s told—good girl. “Why do you brush off all of my compliments? How exactly do you see yourself?”
Her eyes narrow, contemplating for a moment. “I don’t know… I see myself realistically. Most women with a similar story to mine do. I was sexy in my twenties, only to reach my thirties, gain weight and wrinkles, and date a terrible man or two. I know I’m smart, but physically…I’m nothing special.” She chuckles. “Definitely not the hottest woman on the planet.”
I lean in as far as the table will let me. “That’s bullshit, baby. You’re still sexy. Probably even sexier now.” Craning my neck, my eyes feast on that glorious ass of hers. “Were your ass and thighs that thick in your twenties?”
She groans. “No, they weren’t.”
“Then I don’t want twenty-something Morgan. I want this Morgan, wrinkles, racism, and all, babycakes.”
Her jaw drops amidst a smile as she swats my arm. “Insufferable asshole. What about you? Any flaws, or are you a perfect specimen?”
I lean back and take a sip of wine, her hand in mine replaced by her foot rubbing against my leg. Fuck yeah. Here’s hoping she takes off her shoe and starts rubbing that foot of hers on a different appendage.
God? Sir? It’s me again. A little help with the shoe-foot thing would be great.
Swirling my wine, I list them off, tapping a finger as I go. “You already know I’m stubborn. But, according to my family—one, I’m a workaholic. Two, I take care of everyone else. Three, I never let anyone take care of me.” I shrug a shoulder. “Honestly, I don’t know what they expect. It’s the eldest child’s job to take care of the family and pave the way for siblings. It’s an uneven score, but it is what it is.”
Morgan tilts her head. “And who’s keeping this score?”
“My grandfather.” I laugh, but it’s empty, trading my tapping and wine glass for my thumb rubbing hard against my palm. “It’s not just him. It’s the expectation. You don’t question it.”
Morgan’s eyes track my movements as she sets her wine down. Then, mirroring my tactics, she places both hands palms-up on the table. Clever little fox. When I oblige, her thumbs trace circles over my reddened palm, soothing a bit of the ache.
“I get it, at least in theory,” she says softly, her voice and touch cutting through the noise in my head. “But you’re not a machine. You can ask for help, and you’re allowed to screw up. Your family loves you . Not some mythical, perfect version of you.”
My jaw clenches, but another gentle stroke from her thumbs has it relaxing again. “I know they love me. But love doesn’t erase responsibility. Someone has to get it right, or everything falls apart.”
“Did someone else say this, or is it something you told yourself?” she urges gently, her thumbs pausing as her brown eyes shoot back to mine.
I blink, caught off guard by the question. “It’s not about who told me. It’s just the truth.”
“Hmm,” she hums, leaning back, releasing her hold. And just like that, my hand feels too damn cold without hers. “I wonder what you would say if someone else, like me, for instance, held the same sentiment.”
My chest tightens, her words hitting like a punch. But they also make me feel…lighter. God, I can breathe around this woman. Talk about shit I never bother to say to anyone because she listens. She actually hears me.
The thought loosens the punch-like vice around my lungs, replacing it with warmth. Fuck, that’s it. I’m a lost cause. I want Morgan Asterman or no one else.
“Maybe,” Morgan adds, “you’ve been holding everything together so long, you forgot how to let go.”
And speaking of good ole fucking John… “You sound like John,” I mutter, scoffing.
“And who’s John?”
“The Michelin chef you’re dying to meet.”
Morgan leans forward, mischief flashing in her eyes and her cleavage looking like my favorite dessert. “Jiho Park, are you jealous?”
I almost laugh—until her foot moves against my leg again. There definitely is a God because her shoe is off, climbing higher and higher.
Jiho Jr. stirs in his sleep just as her toes brush the zipper of my pants, and—
“Morgan? Is that you?”
Goddammit.