Alex bites the inside of his cheek. “I spent all last night trying to forecast revenue for Bite the Hand’s first six months. Gus wants me to distribute packets in tomorrow’s meeting.”
I think I know where this is going, but I want him to squirm for it. “And?”
He steps toward me. Today, he smells like soap and linen. “And I think my numbers are garbage because I’m trash at this kind of stuff. Can you please take a look?”
“Why didn’t you ask me for help earlier, Alex? That is literally what I’m here for.”
His eyes are pinned to mine. “Honestly?”
“Um. Sure, why not?”
“I was trying to impress you.” His voice comes out rough at the admission.
And that’s when I see it: Behind the humor on his face, there’s a sort of desperation. A hunger that makes me feel so desired, I could bottle that shit and sell it as an aphrodisiac.
“So…，” he goes on, “since that obviously flopped. If I go grab my stuff, and I buy you dinner in exchange for thirty minutes of your analytical brilliance … will you leave with me?”
I clutch my computer tight to my chest and say, “Sure.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
We settle into a table with a rickety leg at a quiet restaurant in SoHo, split the second-cheapest bottle of red wine, and order a couple of appetizers to share. Twenty minutes after we’ve finished grazing on the food, we pore over his spreadsheet, shoulders touching, working out the kinks.
The waitress comes by to clear our plates, and Alex closes the laptop and puts it back in his leather Herschel backpack. “So, Brijesh told me you play guitar.”
My lips pull up. “I’m not positive you could call what I do to a guitar playing it, but yeah, a little. My dad taught me.”
“What was the first song you learned?”
I conjure a snapshot of me and Dad sitting on our porch. A tiny house on a huge acre of unkept land. The association is pre-Jerry, because he basically transformed the landscaping of our place when he moved in, but for a few years there, Dad and I lived among the proper brush, two people healing together while nothing else mattered. When I was really young, Dad would strum for me as I held down the strings with the finger pads of both of my hands, working to build up calluses and memorize chords.
“It was one of my dad’s songs. ‘Road to Heartbreak.’ He wanted to teach me songs like ‘Smoke on the Water,’ ‘Dust on the Bottle,’ and ‘American Pie,’ but I just wanted to learn all his stuff first.”
Alex sets his elbows on the table and leans forward, causing the muscles of his shoulders to strain. “Did you ever … I don’t know, like, perform?”
What I will absolutely not be telling Alex Harrison about is the talent show fiasco. “I’m sort of allergic to strangers.”
“Yes,” he rasps. “I’ve noticed.” When I glance up, he’s watching me thoughtfully. “I’m sensing an ellipsis.”
I bite my bottom lip. Rolling over how honest he’s been with me. Thinking I can tell him something honest, at least.
I can be patient with you, Casey.
“I had a stutter as a kid. It was Jerry who first suggested I try singing along while I played guitar. I still have no idea why it worked better than speech therapy, but somehow, music was the thing that helped.”
He holds my gaze and nods. “Sure did. You slayed karaoke like a champ.”
“Well, all credits to my Hello Kitty boom box and Miriam’s One Direction phase.”
He laughs and empties the wine between each of our glasses. Something about the angle, the lighting, makes him look like his father’s son right now.
“Alex?”
“Hmm?”
“Is there a chance your father telling you to put in your notice was his way of trying to protect you?”
The corner of his mouth pulls down. “Protect me from what?”
From a layoff.
“From Dougie. From failure.” I shrug. “I don’t know. I was just wondering if you thought there was a fatherly instinct to it.”
Alex rubs at his jaw. “It’s hard to know,” he says. “There have been moments throughout my life when Robert showed his fatherly instincts. When I was eight, living in Seoul, attending the international school, I was bullied by this kid who loved to say that I didn’t have a father. A few days after I told my mom about it was the first time I consciously remember meeting Robert. He appeared in our apartment, knelt down in front of me, and said, ‘Your last name is Harrison, because you’re my son. You have a father, and that man is me.’ Then I asked him why he didn’t live with us, and he said it was because his wife wouldn’t let him. I’m sure you can imagine how confusing that was for me.”
I nod. “I bet you had so many questions.”
“Did, and do. There’s a lot about my parents’ relationship that I’ll never know. That nobody knows, except for them. Aunt Jane has pieces, but even she never got the full picture. She seemed surprised when I told her that sometimes Robert appeared in Seoul, at our apartment or at the park, sometimes at a restaurant. I don’t know if my parents loved each other, but I think they might have.”
“Did you ever ask your dad? When you got older?”
Alex nods. “Once. I was told that it wasn’t my business,” he growls. “So, to answer your question, yes, Robert does have fatherly instincts. He just doesn’t have enough of them.”
“Tell me something happy,” I say. “About your mom.”
His lips kick up, and he reaches his arm toward me. My gaze tracks to his forearms, and his tattoo—the one I’ve only ever glimpsed peeks of—is displayed proudly now on his skin.
“What is that?”
“Roses of Sharon. The national flower of Korea.”
The femininity of the design, and his frank explanation, is a startling turn-on. The tattoo is delicate with dark branches that span Alex’s upper wrist and an inch or so of his forearm, covered in soft white and pink flowers.
The wine is warming the tips of my ears, and Alex’s hot eyes watching me across the candlelit table are making me squirm.
“My mom loved them. We’d go on adventures all the time to find as many trees as we could with the flowers in bloom.”
“That sounds adorably aesthetic. And happy.”
“It was,” he murmurs. “Also…” Alex drifts off, peering at me through thick eyelashes. “It means eternal blossom that never fades. Which is supposed to be a reminder for me when I look at it. I’ve always thought of myself as rootless and untethered. I don’t have much in my life that’s permanent, let alone eternal. But this tattoo is, which means other things can be, too. Plus, it always reminds me of Mom.”
His words are gentle, almost a confession, but they make a pit open up in my gut.
I have a crush on someone who thinks of himself as a rootless, untethered person.
It’s like Alex is giving me a warning.
My body starts to lock up, and I realize how close I came to falling for someone who might be incapable of falling back.
“I … bathroom,” I mutter, jerking up from my chair.