“It can.” He smiles, the slow, predatory grin I remember from binge-watching his movies. It’s intriguing to see it in real life. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I don’t think I do,” I say. “That’s the face you get when you’re about to fuck someone over.”
“It’s what?” The smile disappears. “Fangli doesn’t swear.”
“Again, I’m not actually Fangli. Your expression. It’s the ‘you underestimated me and now I’m going to wreak some havoc’ look. From your movies. You did it before fighting the Triad guy in Dragon Claw, and you did it when you were confronting the man who betrayed you in Glass House. Oh, and you did it a bunch of times in Alley Boom Down. It was almost a tic.”
When his eyes widen, I see they’re very dark brown and not the black I thought. “How many of my movies have you watched?”
“Most of them.” I make a face because Mei made it clear skimming the web for plot summaries wasn’t an option and the man’s been busy. “Why is this a problem? Don’t you make them to be watched?”
Sam angles his head up to the ceiling, lost in thought. Then, God help me, he runs his thumb across his lower lip. In the hierarchy of unconsciously sizzling things hot men do, that has to be tops. The incomplete list, as compiled by me on behalf of all people who find men attractive, is:
1. Thumb on lower lip （mentioned）。
2. Look up from beneath eyelashes; only for some men.
3. Hold a kitten. Bonus points if face is buried in fur and he smiles/addresses the kitten directly as if the kitten cares. Puppies will do.
4. That sideways glance over the shoulder.
5. Loosen tie.
6. Run hand through hair.
7. Look in your eyes as he takes his thumb off his lip and asks what you’re staring at.
“What?” I shake out of my musing state.
Sam tilts his head slightly. I add that as number eight to the list. “I asked what you’re staring at,” he repeats.
Mei comes into the room before I have to answer but my Mandarin language app has only gotten me to letting people know I’m feeling happy today so I have no hope of following their conversation. I check the rest of my in-box as they talk. It’s been a couple of days since I’ve seen Mom, but I email her every day and the nursing staff tell me they print out the messages. Occasionally one of the nicer nurses or a volunteer sends me an update. I get antsy if I don’t see her at least once a week in person but I have a couple more days before that becomes a problem.
I put the phone away, dropping my head to the side to try to roll out the faint tightness of a tension headache inching up my neck. If this is how I feel after only two days living as a pseudo celebrity, I can’t imagine the level of stress that is Fangli’s everyday experience.
“Hao.” Sam ends the conversation and Mei glides out the door in the crisp white shirt and black skirt I’ve started to think of as her uniform.
“What?” I stretch and he shuts his eyes as if physically pained when my shoulders pop. I do it again.
“Change of plans,” he says, in the same tone as a general readying himself for an unplanned battle. “We need to go out tonight.”
“Whoa, what?” I’m not prepared for this.
Neither is Sam, by the looks of it. “After the show, we have a dinner reservation.”
“Why?”
He spins his phone over. There’s a photo of Fangli looking tired with Chinese on the bottom.
“Can you translate?” I ask.
“There’s speculation over Fangli’s state of health. Her management doesn’t like it.” He takes the phone back. “Fangli has an image to protect.”
There’s no way I can blow eating food. I’ve been doing it for years. I cheer up a bit. “Where are we going?”
“It’s called Ala.”
I immediately start googling. “Fancy.”
“It’s an appropriate place for us to be seen.”
Out of curiosity, I click on their online reservation system and see the next available table is two months away and at five in the evening. “How do you plan to get a table?”
Sam gives me an unfathomable look. “I can always get a table.”
I let that pass. There’s no menu on their website because the chef only uses the freshest ingredients from the morning markets. Plated with exquisite detail enthuses a Yelp reviewer.
Sam’s phone dings and he picks it up. “I’ve got to deal with this and don’t have time to eat lunch. I expect you to be ready for nine thirty.”