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 therestaurant 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.”
The question hangs between us, unanswered but revealing. Someone elsewassupposed to occupy my seat tonight, whichdoesn’t sit well with me. The server materializes, all starched elegance and deference to Minji. They exchange a few words in rapid Japanese, which I process at an elementary ‘Konnichiwa’ level, but it’s clear she’s ordering for both of us. The server bows and disappears, and Minji sits back, hands folded, studying me the same way I assumed she would scrutinize witness testimony in deposition rooms.
I go with honesty. “You expecting someone else tonight, Minji? I’d hate to be the rebound for a sushi reservation.”
She lets the barest ghost of a smile slip. “A strategic substitution. You were the next most logical choice.”
I laugh. “You’re the only person I know who could make that sound like an insult and a compliment.”
She shifts, uncrossing then recrossing her legs, like she’s alternating between attack and retreat. “That’s an elite skill to have.”
I lift my glass, studying her over the rim. “So, about these boundaries you mentioned. Are we talking basic workplace etiquette, or specific clauses about underwear sightings and audiobook eavesdropping?”
The sake warms my throat while a flush creeps up her neck to her cheeks. That perfect composure of hers—cracked, just slightly.
“First,” she ignores my attempt at humor, “professional boundaries remain intact. No barging into meetings, no client interruptions, no questions while I’m working.”
“Fair enough.” I nod, leaning in. “What do I get in exchange?”
Her eyebrows arch. “This isn’t some contractual arrangement with mutual considerations, Mr. Singleton.”
“Isn’t it though?” I mirror her formality. “You need my cooperation. I need your expertise. Sounds like the definition of quid pro quo to me.”
The chef appears beside our table, presenting the first course with a slight bow. Slices of tuna rest on the plate like rose petals, each glistening under the amber light. Once he’s gone, Minji leans forward, her voice dropping to a confidential tone.
“My second non-negotiable: personal matters remain off-limits. That includes my history, romantic entanglements, and anything not directly related to divorce proceedings.”
I pick up my chopsticks and select a piece of fatty tuna. “That’s going to be difficult. The best characters are shaped by their pasts.”
“Aaron.” She says my name like she’s testing its weight on her tongue—not dismissing me as she did in her office but acknowledging me as someone worth addressing. The sound of it sends a current through me. “I’m a person with boundaries.”
