The Holy Grail

Prologue

Fourteen months ago

“The night of your birthday, I told that hot bartender I would go to the mattresses for you, and I meant it.”

The words, spoken by a woman with a rich, smoky drawl, somewhere off to Malcom’s left, broke through the white noise of the muted conversations around him, immediately capturing his attention with The Godfather reference.

Because … The Godfather.

He’d been coming to Kyoto—the trendy Japanese restaurant, not the city—at least once a week for the past year to eat dinner and not once had his attention wandered beyond whatever he ordered, or the current book he was reading.

Yeah, he was the loner who read books in restaurants, partly because he really liked to read, but partly to make himself look less pathetic for dining alone.

Since the epic implosion of hismarriage six years ago (followed by a divorce two years later making it official), he’d sort of been existing on the fringes of life, only venturing out for work, good food, and the occasional quest for sex.

Sadly, even the allure of sex had started to diminish, to the point where he was actually a little worried about his libido.

Intrigued, and trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, Malcom slowly glanced around in the direction the voice had come from, and knew he’d struck gold when he spotted a woman replying.

“The mattresses? Oh, I get it. The Godfather. ”

He took in her pretty features, caramel-colored hair and brown eyes, then shifted his gaze over to her companion—the one who’d started all this—and froze, feeling like he’d been punched in the balls.

He couldn’t believe his fucking eyes.

The owner of the rich, smoky voice was stunning, with a mass of burnished, copper-red hair that glinted under the hanging pendant light over their table. She was wearing a red jumpsuit, of all things, and totally owned it. When she started speaking, his gaze homed in on her mouth.

“I was there when you had to get over David the first time and I wanted to make sure he wasn’t fucking around with you now,” she said and picked up a piece of her shrimp tempura, pointing it at her friend before taking a bite.

“So you can stay annoyed with me, and David can stay pissed at me, but I don’t regret what I did.

” She chewed for a moment. “I do regret getting caught, though.”

The brunette’s expression softened. “Did you actually think you wouldn’t?”

“I didn’t know, to be honest. But when the two of you were going back to bed, I thought I was home free. I was going to just slip out the door and be gone, with no one the wiser. But, unfortunately, I was caught off guard at the end there and blew a clean getaway.”

“Not sure how clean it could’ve been, since my door sounds like a bank vault when it closes.”

“I know, but I was assuming the two of you would be focused on pink fluff sex. Speaking of which, how was that? Sticky?”

Malcom turned slightly toward the two women, now only pretending to read, because their conversation was so much better than his book. Pink fluff sex?

“It was …” The brunette adopted an exaggerated, dreamy expression, then abruptly shut it down with a fierce glare, which was pretty comical since she looked like a genuine sweetheart who wouldn’t be able to intimidate a kitten. “None of your business. That’s how it was.”

“Jeez,” the redhead responded with an amused blandness.

“So?” The brunette speared another bite of sushi with her fork while Malcom covertly continued to watch. “I’m assuming you didn’t think he was fucking around with me?”

“No, I didn’t. The exact opposite, actually.”

“What if you’d thought he had been?”

“I’m not sure. It would’ve been painful, though. And … likely made him sterile. ”

At that, Malcom almost laughed out loud, because it was said with such conviction, and seemingly without any internal debate. It also made him want to go right over and introduce himself; he hadn’t felt this strong of a pull toward a woman in so long, it almost felt like the first time.

The brunette leaned forward and said, out of the corner of her mouth (but still just loud enough for Malcom to hear most of it), “There’s a guy off to your left checking you out.”

Assuming his cover had been blown, Malcom quickly looked down at his book and plastered what he hoped was a convincing I’m minding my own business expression on his face.

Then, to his surprise, he heard the redhead say in a rather disgusted tone, “I know. And he’s totally on the douchebag spectrum. The way, far end, to be exact.”

Malcom blinked at that. Douchebag spectrum? He didn’t know what that was, but he didn’t think he wanted to be on it.

“You think so?” the brunette asked, sounding a little surprised.

“Yes,” the redhead insisted in a low voice, only to add a second later, “Oh, Jesus, here he comes.”

Since his ass was still parked in his chair, Malcom was now pretty sure the two women weren’t talking about him, and when he discreetly glanced up, it was to see another man making his way to their table.

He was blonde, with spiked hair in the front and wearing a green button-down shirt that was a little too tight.

He’d paired it with slim-fitting, navy pants, hemmed to just above his ankles, showing off flashy, green-patterned dress socks that looked out of place on a grown man’s feet.

So, that’s what someone on the douchebag spectrum looked like, Malcom mused.

“Hi, I’m Brent,” the man said, coming to a stop next to the redhead and gazing down at her with a wide, almost leering smile.

Malcom watched as she gave him a blinding smile in return. “Hi.”

“I normally don’t approach women in restaurants, but I haven’t been able to take my eyes off you, so I was compelled to take a chance.

” Brent pulled a business card out of his wallet and laid it on the table.

“I’d really like to have a drink with you sometime—and if you’d like to have a drink with me, then please text me.

But if you don’t, and I never hear from you, I’ll understand.

” He put a hand over his heart, in what looked like an attempt to convey sincerity, but only served to make him seem like he was a bad actor in a Hallmark movie.

“I’ll be devastated, but I’ll understand. So, no pressure.”

With one last smoldering look at the redhead, Brent left .

“Did you see his attempt at smolder?” the redhead asked her friend, the blinding smile turning into a grimace. “Ridiculous.”

“I saw.”

“And he treated you like you were invisible.”

“I know. But believe me, I’m in no way disappointed by that.”

The redhead took Brent’s business card and ripped it into several pieces, before picking up her chopsticks again. “Now I can get back to enjoying my dinner.”

Malcom couldn’t help but chuckle as he looked down at his book, inordinately pleased Brent had been shot down, even if he didn’t know it.

“So, um, Brent wasn’t the guy I said was checking you out,” the brunette said.

That gave Malcom pause, because unless there was a third guy checking out the redhead, the brunette was likely now talking about Malcom. He perked his ears up, in order to hear as much as he could, because whatever was coming next was either going to be really good … or very bad.

“He wasn’t?” the redhead asked. “You mean there’s another one?”

“Yes. This guy’s wearing a navy suit and has dark-rimmed glasses. And he’s reading a book.”

Yeah, the brunette was definitely talking about Malcom.

“Sounds like a real catch,” the redhead said, deadpan. “Do you mind if I run right over to him?”

Knowing eyes might be on him, he did his best to appear oblivious, but … ouch.

“Be nice,” the brunette admonished, cementing Malcom’s opinion that she was a sweetheart.

“I am being nice,” the redhead insisted. “And anyway, who reads a book in a restaurant?”

“A lot of people do that, actually.”

“I don’t.”

“Okay, a lot of people that aren’t you , read books in restaurants.”

“What book is he reading?”

“ Killing Kennedy. ”

There was a pause, before the redhead asked, “How hard is he checking me out? A flattering amount, or douchebag amount?”

“I’d say a flattering amount. ”

So, either Malcom hadn’t been as discreet as he’d thought, or the brunette was more observant than he’d thought. Or possibly both.

“Is he attractive?” the redhead continued.

“Uh, very attractive. You two would make beautiful babies.”

Obviously ignoring the baby reference, the redhead shifted the conversation. “Is he wearing normal socks?”

The brunette raised the fork to her mouth. “Yes,” she answered, taking a bite. Then, her mouth partially full, added, “And a tie.”

“A tie?”

“A blue one that matches his eyes. Which means your babies would have beautiful blue eyes—”

“That would probably need corrective eyewear.”

Ouch again. The redhead was brutal, but he found himself kind of digging it.

“His glasses look like basic readers,” the brunette said. “I doubt he wears them all the time.”

“But what if he does?”

“I don’t know.” The brunette shrugged, soaking another bite of sushi in soy sauce before eating it. “What if he does?”

“I’ve never dated anyone who wore glasses all the time. I think it would be weird. You know, during sex and … whatnot.”

“I’m pretty sure people who wear glasses all the time take them off during sex and … whatnot.”

Sex and … whatnot. Yes, this conversation was definitely better than his book. Malcom hadn’t been this entertained in ages—even the less-than-flattering things that were being said about him were entertaining.

The redhead grabbed another piece of shrimp tempura. “Does he have spiked hair with gel in it? Because I really hate that. It’s like trying to run your fingers through a cactus plant.”

“No spiked hair, or hair gel.”

“Manicure?”

Manicure? Malcom glanced down at his hands, with his long, blunt-tipped fingers and tried to imagine getting a manicure, but couldn’t.