Chapter 6
AARON
Minji’s got me walking a tightrope, fully aware of my precarious position.
Sure, I claimed she wasn’t my type, but what the hell do I know anymore?
Less than forty-eight hours in her orbit, and something inside me keeps realigning whenever she’s near.
The way she maintains that icy facade just makes me want to crack it all the more.
I caught her red-handed with my audiobook—chapter fourteen, for crying out loud.
The chapter where clothes come off and inhibitions follow.
Her expression said it all: flushed cheeks, lips slightly parted, eyes wide with that caught-in-the-act look.
She wasn’t just hearing words. She was living them.
Seeing her like that brought back memories of her in my dorm room, on my bed, wanting something yet doing everything in her power to deny it.
Minji’s walls were immovable but her body, even a decade ago, was honest to the bone.
I can’t help smiling as I make my way to Joe’s on Waverly.
Not saying I’m one step closer to getting her to let her walls down, but I think I am.
She is listening to my audiobooks, so that means something…
right? Joe’s is buzzing by the time I get there.
The place hums with its typical afternoon energy—students typing away, suits having casual meetings, tourists consulting their city guides.
Coffee in hand, I settle at a corner table by the window and open my laptop.
My phone buzzes before I can start reviewing my manuscript.
Tabitha
Please tell me you are done with the second draft. The publisher is getting antsy.
I sigh.
Me
Coming along. I need more time.
Tabitha
More time? You’re going on your book tour next month. I thought you only needed to flesh out the characters. Change minor things. Please don’t tell me you are about to rewrite the entire damn book again. We do NOT have time for that.
Tabitha is a great agent, and I love her to death, but she doesn’t quite get that I can’t just force myself to write a damn love story.
Forcing it will only produce shit. The authenticity would be gone, and readers can always tell.
They’d see right through it in a heartbeat.
At least my readers will. They hold nothing back when giving their honest reviews.
Thunder cracks outside, and I glance up to see the sky has turned the color of a bruise—New York weather is always tricky.
Rain slashes against the windows while pedestrians scatter below, a scene straight out of page thirty-seven in my last novel.
I catch myself wondering about Minji. Does she carry one of those compact umbrellas in her designer handbag?
Or maybe she has a weather app with notifications enabled.
Knowing her, she’s prepared for every contingency.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I type a message:
Me
Ch 20 is nothing compared to what happens in real life when you let yourself feel something. The dinner offer still stands.
The rain pounds harder against the glass, turning the world outside into a watery blur.
My phone buzzes. I snatch it up, pulse quickening—then deflate when I see Grayson’s name.
Grayson
Bar crawl tonight?
Me
Deadline. Rain check.
Grayson
Come on. Even Axel’s making an appearance.
I pause. Axel. Our fellow orphanage brother, who’s barely surfaced since his graphic novel empire exploded.
Me
Two hours. That’s all you get.
Another buzz makes my fingers fumble.
Honeybee
Chapter 19. Mediocre at best.
A grin spreads across my face. She can claim indifference all she wants, but nineteen chapters in. She’s hooked.
Me
Keep going. Trust me, it gets better.
Three dots appear, disappear, then reappear. She’s struggling to find the right words. Typical Minji.
Honeybee
I have work to do, unlike some people who can sit in coffee shops all day.
I look up from my phone, scanning the room. How did she know? I look out the window, but the rain continues to pour outside, obscuring the view of the street.
Me
Are you stalking me?
Honeybee
Me? A stalker, of course not. Don’t writers frequent coffee shops?
I laugh under my breath. She’s got me there, the writer hunched over a laptop amid the coffee steam is practically a required uniform in this industry.
Me
So, what about dinner?
Three dots appear, then vanish. I set my phone down and try to focus on my laptop screen. I need to get some writing done. My phone vibrates again.
Honeybee
Dinner. Tonight. 8 PM. Sushi Nakazawa. Don’t be late.
I stare at her message, reading it once, twice, three times to be sure.
Me
I’ll be there.
I snap my laptop closed and push through the door into the rain. Water streams down my collar as I navigate puddles, my mind racing faster than my feet. Nakazawa. The place where reservations are as rare as four-leaf clovers, where chefs train for decades to perfect a single slice of fish.
The questions bubble up with each splash of my shoes on wet pavement. Why me? Why now? What changed her mind? I’ve written dozens of first meetings, hundreds of pivotal moments, but none of my characters ever felt this knot of anticipation in their chest.
My soaked clothes leave a trail from my front door to the bathroom. I towel my hair dry, suddenly clear on one thing: tonight has nothing to do with research or my manuscript.
My phone chimes with Grayson’s message about the bar crawl.
I type back quickly: Can’t make it. Something came up.
His response—a barrage of middle finger emojis—makes me grin.
I’ll make it up to him and Axel, because I can’t pass this dinner up.
Some opportunities arrive once, like comets, and you either reach for them or spend a lifetime wondering.
Standing before my open closet, I freeze.
The question looms: how to dress for dinner with a woman who considers my life’s work a joke?
I slide hangers across the rod, deciding what I should wear.
There’s no official dress code, but this is Nakazawa.
It’s arguably the most intimidating sushi bar in the city.
I probably go with something more upscale.
I pull out my charcoal suit pants and a crisp white button-down.
Simple but elegant. The kind of outfit that says I respect the establishment without trying too hard.
By 7:45, I’m waiting outside the restaurant, punctual in a way I’ve never been for dates before.
Something about Minji demands this extra effort.
The rain stopped about an hour ago, leaving Manhattan streets slick and gleaming, every puddle a mirror for neon and headlights.
Maybe I should ask her tonight if she remembers me from the college chemistry class.
I check my watch: 7:50. My palms are sweating.
I wipe them on my pants and take a deep breath.
Get it together, Aaron. You’re not that freshman anymore.
You’re a best-selling author with four million copies in print.
You’ve done book tours and television interviews. You don’t get nervous about dinner.
“Mr. Singleton?”
I spin around to find Minji behind me. Gone is the power suit, replaced by a black dress that hugs her body before cutting off above the knee.
Her hair spills around her shoulders, softening the sharp angles of her face.
She’s in heels that make her already impressive height even more striking.
For a second, I’m caught somewhere between disbelief and admiration.
Minji is… dazzling. Not in a flashy, over-the-top way, but in a way that makes you forget your surroundings.
It’s the kind of presence that arrests your attention and holds it, no matter how much you swear you’re immune.
She checks her watch. “Eight minutes early.”
“Great minds,” I say, finding my voice again.
“I prefer to be punctual,” she replies, smoothing her dress.
The host appears, his face lighting up at the sight of Minji. “Ms. Lee! Your usual table is ready.” He leads us through the restaurant to a quiet corner where amber lighting casts soft shadows against minimalist Japanese design.
“I thought we’d be at the sushi counter.” I slide into my seat.
She settles across from me with practiced grace. “Chef Tanaka saves this spot for regulars. Better omakase. More privacy.”
A waitress appears with two glasses of water and a bottle of sake.
The sake appears already warmed, steam curling from the bottle as the waitress pours it with practiced precision.
I can’t help but notice how comfortable Minji seems here, how the staff greets her like an old friend, rather than just another customer.
This is her territory, not mine, and I wonder if this was deliberate, her way of maintaining control.
“This is a good look for you,” I say before I can stop myself. “The dress is quite a departure from this morning.”
Her eyes snap to mine, calculating. “Different settings call for different armor.”
“You wear both well,” I lean closer across the table. “Though I’m wondering what prompted this dinner invitation after all your resistance.”
“Professional curiosity,” she says, repeating the same excuse she gave me this morning. “I figured if I’m going to be shadowed by a writer, I should at least understand his work.”
“Professional curiosity requires a dinner at Nakazawa?” I raise an eyebrow. “Most people would consider a simple email sufficient for setting boundaries.”
The rim of her glass catches the light as her finger slowly circles it. She takes a slow sip, then sets it down with the care of someone placing a chess piece. “I had a reservation anyway.”
“Were you meeting someone else?” Is she dating someone?
Her eyes flick up. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”