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 isNakazawa. 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.
