18. Dashi
DASHI
*it’s the foundation. Everything else depends on it.
T he yellowtail was seared.
The shallots were crisped.
It was ten thirty at night.
But the person for whom I’d prepared the dish I was mentally calling Chawanmushi à la Marie was nowhere to be seen.
It was too bad, too. I’d already eaten my own helping.
The delicate, silken custard was made with egg and dashi and infused with a hint of beurre noisette instead of soy, then topped with seared yellowtail tuna glazed in miso and yuzu, and garnished with slivers of shiitake confit, a drizzle of white truffle oil, and shiso leaf.
In other words, I’d outdone myself. And Lucas was missing out.
Not that he cared.
The sun had set long ago beyond the paper screens, painting everything in darkness lit only by the lanterns scattered around the ryokan. The whole compound was silent.
I sighed, drumming my fingers on the counter as I looked at the covered dishes.
Robbie had warned me that meetings would consume Lucas’s time and attention, and he wouldn’t return until after ten. I didn’t know why I still expected him to show up and to maintain the routine we’d established in S?o Paulo of sharing dinner and conversation.
It was stupid, really, getting attached to those evenings.
Lucas was my boss, not my friend, no matter what he said.
He didn’t owe me anything.
And all I owed him was to do my job, which included the carefully prepared meal on the counter.
I glanced toward the door that led to the onsen, steam rising from under the pagoda. All day, I’d been thinking about the spring right outside of my room, guarded by the dense grove of cedar and maple trees.
Private access. Robbie had been very clear about that.
The decision came suddenly. I was tired of waiting around for Lucas, tired of the awkward tension that had followed us from Brazil. I deserved to enjoy at least some part of this incredible, peaceful place.
The path back to my room was lit by small lanterns, and the stone was smooth under my bare feet as I walked from the veranda, through the carefully planted vegetation, and down to the edge of the spring, cast milky white from the minerals.
The pagoda only covered the entrance to the pool, where steam rose like incense. The water spilled out into the night.
I stood at the edge, clutching my cotton robe around my waist and watching the pool’s surface like a mirror about to tell my fortune.
I wasn’t the type of person who’d ever been comfortable naked.
That was Joni, who was as easy in her own skin as she was in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.
I’d seen her perform in avant-garde shows wearing little more than body paint and a thong.
If she were here, she probably wouldn’t have even bothered with the robe, just walked straight from her room and cannon-balled into the water.
I, however, was the kind of person who dressed as quickly as possible, even in my own bedroom. I changed in bathroom stalls at the YMCA and covered myself with a towel as soon as I got out of the shower in my own home. I’d certainly never been naked outdoors or anywhere someone might see me.
But Robbie had said this was private, accessible only from my room. Xavier had said that traditional onsens were meant to experience nude. And the warm water looked so inviting after the stress of the past few days.
Do it for me . I could practically feel Lea on my shoulder, begging me to jump in.
So, I let the robe drop to the deck and slipped into the water in nothing but my skin.
Oh. Oh .
As I made my way across the pool toward a stone bench nestled between a pair of Japanese maples, the heat relaxed muscles I didn’t even realize were tense. I sank down until the water reached my shoulders, leaned against the water-polished lava rock, and closed my eyes.
As a child, I relished time alone. Growing up in a house of eight, Joni and I shared a queen-sized mattress until we were maybe seven and eight.
Even after Lea and Matthew were out of the house, we still shared a room.
During the rare moments I had to myself in the small brown house on Hughes Street, I used to suck on the silence like candy.
In the city, no one is ever truly alone.
Beyond the house, there was always the B60 bus huffing down 187th, neighbors calling directions to the nearest butcher, or tourists humming around Arthur Avenue.
In Paris, it had been the same. My little apartment in St. Germain was perched over one of the main pedestrian thoroughfares of Rue de Seine, which meant it was full of charm, but also full of the chatter from brasseries and cafés.
Here I had only my skin and the sound of trickling water for company.
I was free to be myself.
If only I knew who that was.
When I had come home from Paris, I thought I knew.
After shedding years of long black dresses and low-key misanthropy like a chrysalis, I had thought that everything would be different.
That my fears had all been conquered, and I would finally be able to reach out and take the life I wanted, just like all my family members seemed to do for themselves.
How na?ve I was.
For so long, I’d held everyone, even my family members, at arm’s length. I saw what love and closeness did to them, costing them nearly everything, time and time again. Likewise, I saw what the cost of attracting the wrong type did to them.
As the heated water cupped my body in its warm embrace, I had to admit one thing: I was still hiding. And I was tired of it.
Not of solitude. Not of peace, like this.
But I didn’t want to be lonely in my life anymore.
My hands moved absently through the water, and I wondered what it would be like to share this space, this silence, with another. To have hands other than my own sliding up my arm, pinning me to the rock.
Like I’d been pinned to the refrigerator.
I closed my eyes, and the memory appeared of Lucas’s body, solid and warm, pressed against mine in the S?o Paulo kitchen. The way his hands had felt on my arms, steadying me. The intensity when he growled that I could never be invisible.
Not to anyone.
My breath quickened as I imagined those broad hands moving over my skin, that low voice murmuring my name as he did…what?
I could see it. Sort of. Between Joni, Hollywood, and the internet, I had enough images in my mind to fill my imagination. I knew which ideas made my body heat with anticipation instead of fear. But lately, my imagination hadn’t been enough.
Maybe that was because with Lucas, I was coming to realize that I couldn’t anticipate anything he did at all. One moment, he was the epitome of control. The next, he was a live wire. In the kitchen, every inch of him moved on instinct, demanding that I submit with just a quiet few words.
And the thing was, I wanted to. There was a strong possibility that I would have done anything he ordered, right there in the kitchen. A simple hand on my shoulder would have sent me to my knees.
The thought was so vivid, so immediate, that heat that had nothing to do with the spring water bloomed low in my belly.
No. I shook my head, trying to clear the dangerous thoughts. Lucas was my employer. Daniel’s brother. Completely off-limits, no matter how he made me feel.
The sound of footsteps on stone made my eyes snap open.
Through the steam, I could make out a tall figure approaching the pool. My heart stopped as I recognized the silhouette.
Lucas.
Moving with the same quiet purpose he always had, he undid the sash of his cotton robe with quick, efficient movements as he stepped toward the pool.
A glimpse of bare chest caught my eye as the fabric parted—hair curling over muscle honed from discipline, not vanity, which narrowed to a ladder of abdominals and down to—oh, God .
I jerked my gaze away, face burning, shielding my eyes with a hand that was too late. I’d already seen him. All of him.
His hips narrow, his thighs strong. And his—I had to force myself even to think the word—cock, soft, but still thick and substantial as he made his way down the steps into the spring.
The part of him that had been distinctly not soft when it was pressed against my hip in the kitchen.
What was a woman supposed to do with something that large?
How was it even supposed to fit?
Panic spiked hot in my throat.
He’d entered through the only path to the spring. The path that Robbie had said was private to my room, but which clearly connected to Lucas’s as well. If I tried to get out now, I’d have to rise from the water and walk straight past him—soaked, naked, exposed.
So, I did what I’d always been able to do.
I wedged myself into a corner and hid.
Lucas was oblivious to my presence as he waded through the pool, humming something incoherent in his deep baritone.
He was beautiful when he was relaxed. That powerful body moved fluidly without the invisible pressure he carried on his shoulders daily. He looked younger, almost boyish, as the lines beside his eyes and mouth disappeared without his perpetual frown.
The only thing I liked better was his smile.
As he came closer, still unaware of my presence, the song he was humming became a bit clearer, albeit off key.
Why did knowing that Lucas Lyons couldn’t hold a tune make him even more blazingly attractive?
“‘Quiet nights of quiet stars,’” he murmured as he circled closer.
I sucked in a breath. It meant nothing. Just because Lucas was singing the same song we’d danced to in Brasília didn’t mean he thought as much about that night as I had. He probably just had it stuck in his head.
I pressed myself deeper into the shadows, willing the rising mist to cover more of me, my knees pulled tight to my chest, heart pounding so hard I was sure he’d hear it over the quiet lap of water and his own poor singing.