takes it up the ass” tattooed across the page was far more interesting than Jill Norris trying to catch a few dogs. And why catch ’em when you could go to the pound and get one anyway? Unless you wanted a Rottweiler or pit. Plus strays walked the street readily enough. There’d be plenty of opportunity to catch one there. No cause to write a book about it though, or to make him read it. Tony flipped through the pages with a sigh. There’d be no Wendys taking it up the ass in this one.
C HAPTER TWENTY
Kenji was loathed to admit that time with Lizzie was fast becoming an addiction. Already, he had plans for what they could do that night, and another, should she decide to keep him company again. Company . He supposed that was one way to put it, even as he pushed aside incendiary thoughts of what her nights without him entailed.
“Friends,” he said firmly and dialed her number.
He took her to a tapas bar in Little Havana with standing room only. The bar stood a rich tapestry of overlapping browns with plank wood floors, mahogany paneling, and Spanish chocolate marble for the countertops. Only a handful of patrons mingled at the counter, including a pudgy-face man who plucked slivers of ham and olives from a dish. Lizzie’s gaze swept a room rendered dim by a single overhead light and shot a glance backward at Kenji quizzically. It could’ve been the absence of chairs that caught her eye or the planks of ham that hung behind the counter. Then again, Kenji wagered that the stout bartender grinning and greeting them at the door in a bow tie might’ve been enough to baffle.
He placed a hand at the small of her back and surveyed the offerings on display. Rich oils, salted meats, and a plethora of cheeses looked back at him. A chalkboard menu hung low behind the bartender, but even that made no difference. Eyeing the display of Spanish appetizers was the only way to truly know any choices.
He ordered her chopitos, battered, and tiny squid, aceitunas or olives with anchovies, and sliced jamón ibérico, a smooth, rich-textured ham from the rare black-footed pig that ran one hundred twenty-five dollars for a pound. He did it all knowing she would squeal at the squid, shriek at the anchovies, and sniff the jamón before tasting. Half of him enjoyed introducing her to new things because the reaction was always spectacular. The other half of him just enjoyed it.
She surprised him that night, nibbling on a quarter pound of jamón, taking seconds on the chopitos, and daring to try the pulpo a la gallega, or octopus in olive oil.
“It’s not good,” she admitted. “And yet I can’t stop eating it.”
Kenji plopped a sliver of ham in his mouth and chased it with sangria. “It’s because you’re greedy,” he noted. “Among other things.”
Her eyes lit at the barb. “Like?” The tease in her voice unmistakable.
What he’d planned was an insult, a quip that she’d trade, one for another and so forth. But she’d smiled at him, and her hair hung free; loose coffee curls that framed an exquisite face and emphasized full, pink-painted and upturned lips. Kenji sensed that his mouth planned a mutiny.
Lizzie leaned forward, as if knowing, as if suddenly in tune with the very stirring of his heart. Drawn, he did the same.
“Say it,” she said.
“Say what?” he said, the words taking effort.
Only with reluctance did his gaze lift from her lips. The room shrank, bar to table to Kenji and Lizzie.
Friends, he thought. They weren’t just friends, and yet, these weren’t just dates. Dinner, wine, mundane conversation, mediocre sex: those were the ingredients of dates. But this, even calling it “different” somehow did it disservice. More than friends and less than more, they balanced in a precarious limbo of trust where she could admit to drug addiction and prostitution, but not to whatever was happening between them. But Kenji fared no better. He, in turn, could readily talk about the gap between his
C HAPTER TWENTY
Kenji was loathed to admit that time with Lizzie was fast becoming an addiction. Already, he had plans for what they could do that night, and another, should she decide to keep him company again. Company . He supposed that was one way to put it, even as he pushed aside incendiary thoughts of what her nights without him entailed.
“Friends,” he said firmly and dialed her number.
He took her to a tapas bar in Little Havana with standing room only. The bar stood a rich tapestry of overlapping browns with plank wood floors, mahogany paneling, and Spanish chocolate marble for the countertops. Only a handful of patrons mingled at the counter, including a pudgy-face man who plucked slivers of ham and olives from a dish. Lizzie’s gaze swept a room rendered dim by a single overhead light and shot a glance backward at Kenji quizzically. It could’ve been the absence of chairs that caught her eye or the planks of ham that hung behind the counter. Then again, Kenji wagered that the stout bartender grinning and greeting them at the door in a bow tie might’ve been enough to baffle.
He placed a hand at the small of her back and surveyed the offerings on display. Rich oils, salted meats, and a plethora of cheeses looked back at him. A chalkboard menu hung low behind the bartender, but even that made no difference. Eyeing the display of Spanish appetizers was the only way to truly know any choices.
He ordered her chopitos, battered, and tiny squid, aceitunas or olives with anchovies, and sliced jamón ibérico, a smooth, rich-textured ham from the rare black-footed pig that ran one hundred twenty-five dollars for a pound. He did it all knowing she would squeal at the squid, shriek at the anchovies, and sniff the jamón before tasting. Half of him enjoyed introducing her to new things because the reaction was always spectacular. The other half of him just enjoyed it.
She surprised him that night, nibbling on a quarter pound of jamón, taking seconds on the chopitos, and daring to try the pulpo a la gallega, or octopus in olive oil.
“It’s not good,” she admitted. “And yet I can’t stop eating it.”
Kenji plopped a sliver of ham in his mouth and chased it with sangria. “It’s because you’re greedy,” he noted. “Among other things.”
Her eyes lit at the barb. “Like?” The tease in her voice unmistakable.
What he’d planned was an insult, a quip that she’d trade, one for another and so forth. But she’d smiled at him, and her hair hung free; loose coffee curls that framed an exquisite face and emphasized full, pink-painted and upturned lips. Kenji sensed that his mouth planned a mutiny.
Lizzie leaned forward, as if knowing, as if suddenly in tune with the very stirring of his heart. Drawn, he did the same.
“Say it,” she said.
“Say what?” he said, the words taking effort.
Only with reluctance did his gaze lift from her lips. The room shrank, bar to table to Kenji and Lizzie.
Friends, he thought. They weren’t just friends, and yet, these weren’t just dates. Dinner, wine, mundane conversation, mediocre sex: those were the ingredients of dates. But this, even calling it “different” somehow did it disservice. More than friends and less than more, they balanced in a precarious limbo of trust where she could admit to drug addiction and prostitution, but not to whatever was happening between them. But Kenji fared no better. He, in turn, could readily talk about the gap between his
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