Page 93 of Boss of the Year
Him, yeah. Definitely him.
And maybe still myself.
It was all very confusing.
I shouldn’t call him again, right? That would be desperate; I could already hear Joni’s voice instructing me exactly how and when to lead Daniel on and then leave him wanting more.
Those instructions wouldneverinclude calling a man for the second time after Googling him and leaving a desperate voicemail in the hopes he would call me back.
My thumb pressed the call button anyway, just as the blender stopped.
This time, the message came on after only one ring.
“Hey, it’s Daniel. You know what to do.”
I bit my lip when the tone marked the beginning of my message. “Um, hi, Daniel. It’s Marie. I just thought…well, it’s been about a week, so I thought I would say hi. So…hi. I hope you’re having a good day. Okay, bye, then.”
“Pathetic,” I chided myself as I ended the call and set my phone on the counter face down so I wouldn’t have to look at the lack of response. “You’re pathetic.”
“Who’s pathetic?”
I looked up to find the rice paper door sliding open and Lucas stepping inside.
Quickly, I shoved my phone away and smiled.
God, he looked good. Better than in my dreams, having traded his suit and tie for a pair of dark jeans and a blue linen shirt.
Jeans.
Lucas was wearing jeans?
“No one.” I motioned at his attire. “Casual meetings today?”
“No meetings, actually.” He took a seat behind the long black counter. “I’m taking the day off.”
“Youare taking a day off?”
We’d been traveling now for almost two weeks, and this was the first I’d heard of such a thing in the world of Lucas Lyons.
“It is possible,” he replied. “And I was wondering if you’d like to join me on a tour of a miso factory. As a guest, not an employee. Although I’ll still take that smoothie if it’s for me.”
I swallowed as I poured his drink and did my best to hide my shock.
I should say no, I thought. A shared bath, too many dirty dreams, plus a healthy dose of resentment toward Daniel meant that being alone with this beautiful man wearing what was apparently Marie catnip equaled danger, danger, danger.
That’s right. In triplicate.
Then I turned around just as he was rolling up his sleeves.
Forearms. The man was giving me forearms.
“Give me ten minutes.”
The miso-makingoperation was hidden in a valley that felt untouched by time, about an hour and a half north of Tokyo. Several wooden buildings similar to the ryokan housed row upon row of cedar vats where miso had been fermenting for decades, all overseen by an elderly woman named Tanaka-san who spoke broken English but communicated perfectly through gestures and smiles.
She led us through the process of tasting different misos, from young, white soy to aged and complex barlies, then set us up in a room where we learned the process of making our own miso by pounding soaked soybeans into a paste, then pressing golf-ball-size scoops into a crock to be shipped home ahead of us.
“My brother-in-law’s family owns a miso factory somewhere in Japan.” I used my fingers to smash down the paste, making sure no air bubbles remained that could trap harmful bacteria. “He told me about it when I was in Paris.”
