Shit. How did I manage to make that invite sound so much like a date?
“Oh. Wow,” Brooklyn says, no doubt working up to the rejection. “Thanks. I’d love that.”
Oh.
Hmm.
She’ll come?
Okay. She must not have felt the date-like vibe there.
Good.
I’m not into dating, and especially not dating tourists. Unlike many of my friends, I abhor flings. They remind me of jerking off to porn, but with a higher chance of catching an STD. If I wanted any form of a relationship—and I don’t—it would be more along the lines of marriage, but there’s a big problem with that. Women don’t want to marry me because I will not give them kids. Before I gave up on dating, my relationships would last right up until I revealed my vasectomy. Then the woman would accuse me of hating children—which is not true—and couldn’t end things fast enough.
“Doesn’t it take great skill to cut sashimi?” Brooklyn asks. “I’ve seen Jiro Dreams of Sushi.”
I sit up straighter. “I went to a school in LA. Studied with a sushi sensei and everything.”
“Oh?” She regards me curiously. “Are you planning to open a restaurant one day?”
I shake my head. “I just wanted to be able to make it for myself exactly as I like it. And control the freshness too.”
“That’s a lot of effort,” she says. “You really like your Japanese food.”
I drive into the private entrance of my community, and Brooklyn blinks in confusion.
“Are we eating dinner at my place?” she asks.
“No. I mean, we could, but I have the bamboo board, yanagiba, and everything,” I say. “Plus my cat loves sashimi so—”
“You have a cat too?” She sounds oddly jealous.
“Yeah,” I say as I pull into my driveway. “She actually escaped to your rental earlier today, and I have no idea why.”
“Wait.” Brooklyn looks at my house, then at me. “They let you live here?”
“They?”
“The owners of this house and the one I’m staying at. Unless… do they let you stay here as a perk for managing the—”
“I am the owner,” I state, figuring her semi-insulting rant could go on for a month if I let it. “Why would you assume I’m not? Is there something about my clothes or demeanor that screams ‘not a homeowner?’”
Brooklyn blushes, and I realize why women invented rouge. On the right face, it’s hot.
“I’m sorry,” she mutters. “You were fixing the sink, so I figured you were a plumber. Then you were cutting the grass and—”
“I enjoy doing those things myself.” I pull the car into my garage and open the door for her. “Usually, when you own real estate, you earn so-called ‘passive’ income,” I say as we walk inside. “That sounds boring, so for me, there’s an active component. Until I’ve built too many houses to manage on my own, I don’t plan to hire anyone to help.”
“What do you mean by ‘too many?’” She gawks around my kitchen—a carbon copy of the one she saw earlier in my other house. “Are you building a lot of houses right now or something?”
“I’ve just built these two so far, but I own the majority of the land in this community, so eventually, I’ll build more.”
I don’t usually brag about my net worth, but I guess she wounded my pride with her assumption.
Now she gawks at me. “You own the majority of the land here?” Then a lightbulb seems to go off in her brain. “Is that why the guard said something about the HOA rules not applying to you?”
I nod. “I have the majority of the vote at the HOA, so I treat their silly rules as suggestions only. To put it another way, I let them have their rules.” I open the drawer with all my sashimi gear. “If they piss me off, I’ll show up to the annoying meetings and vote for the whole community to be run the way I wish. That’s why they mostly leave me alone… at least as much as their quarrelsome natures allow.”
As I open the bag of fresh fish, Sally materializes as if from thin air and slowly blinks her big eyes at me.
Aha, our wiles strike again. Using mind-fuckery of the highest order, we have successfully manipulated our captor into getting us the sustenance we rightly deserve. Once our belly is full, escape will be imminent.
“Oh, my god,” Brooklyn exclaims. “What kind of cat is that?”
“A Ragamuffin.” I begin filleting the salmon as Sally looks on so intently you’d think she were either hypnotized or trying to hypnotize me.
We will forgive our captor for the “ragamuffin” insult… this time. But one day, when the tomcat-in-shining-armor saves us, all scores will be settled. In blood.
“You’re such a cutie,” Brooklyn says to Sally. “What’s your name?”
“Sally,” I say, in case the cat isn’t feeling very chatty at the moment.
“Hold on.” Brooklyn drags her gaze away from the cat and examines me with a grin. “Harry and Sally?”
Keeping a poker face, I slice the fish as I’ve been taught. “What?”
“Oh, please,” she says. “When Harry Met Sally?”
“He barked,” I deadpan. “And she hissed. But now they’re best friends. Usually.”
Brooklyn groans in irritation. “You know perfectly well that When Harry Met Sally is a romantic comedy. With Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan.”
I slice the fish some more. “Fine. Yes. That was my mom’s favorite movie.” The admission simultaneously warms my chest and makes it hurt. I remember Mom and Dad playfully fighting over the last pieces of popcorn when we’d watch that movie during my childhood—and I recall my embarrassment the last time we saw that movie with Mom at the hospital because I was finally old enough to understand the fake orgasm scene with Meg Ryan at the restaurant. I also recall Dad putting on the movie the day after Mom’s funeral and how he couldn’t stop crying throughout.
“I’m sorry,” Brooklyn says, probably spotting my expression. “I didn’t mean to bring up your mom. Again.”
“It’s fine,” I say, but I’m not sure if I sound persuasive enough.
Brooklyn clears her throat. “Do you mind if I play with Sally?”
I hand over a tiny slice of sashimi. “If you want a good start, give her this.”
Brooklyn slowly walks over to the cat and proffers the treat.
Sally devours the fish, but her gaze doesn’t warm up to the new human.
Brooklyn very pointedly blinks in slow motion at Sally.
Odd. But hey, Sally seems to like the gesture. She purrs and even rubs herself on Brooklyn’s sleeve.
Seeing all that, Harry prances over and wags his tail at Brooklyn. Dudette. I totally like to play too, bro. And if you could scratch behind my ear, that would be totally awesome sauce.
Proving she can read Harry as well as I can, Brooklyn scratches behind his ears, making him quite happy. She then rubs his belly, which upgrades happy to ecstatic but makes Sally narrow her eyes.
“Watch out,” I say. “The cat has a serious jealous streak.” And, if I’m honest, I’m also a little jealous of all the PDA my dog is getting.
Fuck. What am I thinking?
Instead of slapping myself, I focus on finalizing our dinner. When it’s ready, I set it on the table on a wooden tray in the shape of a boat.
“Wow,” Brooklyn says, examining my work. “Are you sure you’re not planning to open a restaurant?”
I grin. “Are you just flattering me because of the rescue?”
She plops into her chair and winces.
I frown. “Sunburn?”
Pretending she didn’t hear, she grabs a pair of chopsticks, snatches a salmon piece from the boat, and dips it into the tiny bit of soy sauce that I poured for her.
“Put a little wasabi on top,” I suggest just in time.
She does, then sensuously slides the morsel between her delectable lips.
Great. I’m hard now. And it gets worse because I could swear that she moans in pleasure as she starts to chew.
Maybe my dick is making me hallucinate this? But then her eyes roll back as if she’s about to—oh.
“Very funny,” I grumble. “We talk about When Harry Met Sally, and now you’re replaying that famous scene.”
Brooklyn swallows, her cheeks turning the color of the salmon. “What scene?”