She ditched the trash in the Dumpster and headed to work.
After working late, she didn’t have the energy to drive to the penthouse. As much as she loved being there, she felt the need to be in her own space for a change. That was another indication she wasn’t ready to move in with Ronin. Her phone pinged with a text message.
RB: Where are you?
I’m at home.
RB: At the penthouse?
No. My loft. Where are you?
RB: Dojo. You didn’t stop in, so I figured you’re working late. Are you about done and on your way?
I’m done, but I’m tired. I’ll probably just stay here tonight.
RB: Fine. I’ll be there in a bit. Have you eaten?
I was just about to make a sandwich. Should I make two?
RB: Please. See you soon. I’ll let myself in.
Twenty minutes later, the high-pitched whine of a motorcycle echoed from the alley. The back door slammed. He didn’t clomp up the stairs. The next thing she knew, Ronin was standing next to the breakfast bar looking at her.
“Hey.”
Maybe she was being paranoid, but he didn’t cross the room to kiss her. “Hey, yourself. Have a seat. Food’s almost ready. Can I get you something to drink?”
“I’m good.” He sat on a barstool. “What did you work on today that kept you in the office so late that you’re crashing here?”
Rather than point out that she lived here, she focused on assembling the sandwich. “A new campground contacted me about designing promotional material. They’ve got a unique concept, so that’ll be a fun project.”
“What’s unique about it?”
Amery placed two slices of thick-cut twelve-grain bread on the cutting board. Then she spread brown mustard across each slice. “It’s a winter campground close to the slopes that offers modern tent camping but in the snow. A cheaper option for winter sports enthusiasts to enjoy the ski season in the Rockies instead of staying in pricey hotels in Aspen and Vail.”
Ronin watched as she piled on sliced turkey, tomato, avocado, and alfalfa sprouts. She drizzled balsamic vinaigrette over everything. Then she slathered hummus on the top pieces of bread before layering them on top. She cut each in half, plated them, and slid one in front of him.
“Eat up. And yes, all the ingredients are organic.” She cracked open a small bag of veggie chips—slices of baked beets, sweet potatoes, and spinach. “I seriously eyed the jumbo bag of kettle-cooked salt-and-vinegar chips, but opted for healthy. You should be proud you’re rubbing off on me.”
“I’d like to rub you off,” he said with a wolfish smile before taking a bite of his sandwich.
Amery laughed and relaxed at seeing the glimmer of the Ronin she hadn’t seen for a few days. “Maybe for dessert.” She filled two glasses of water and slid into the seat beside him.
Ronin must’ve been hungry; he finished his entire sandwich before she’d eaten half of hers. Sheepishly, he said, “I forgot to eat lunch.”
“I can make you another one,” she offered.
“I’m full. But thank you. It was delicious.”
After several long moments of dead air, Amery’s sandwich seemed to be lodged in her throat. Or maybe it was the awkward silence between them that was choking her. She asked, “So what did you do today?” and inwardly cringed at her lack of subtlety.
“I was out most of the day, and then I hung around the dojo. Why?”
So suspicious. Instead of zeroing in on the vagueness of his response, she said, “I’m surprised you didn’t eat. Doesn’t Shiori bring you lunch most days?”
“There was a to-go box in the fridge when I returned from running errands, but it was late afternoon and I didn’t have time to eat. Why?”
It was hard not to bristle at his accusatory tone. “I just find it weird that she brings you food but the two of you don’t eat it together.”
“We don’t eat together because she uses it as an opportunity to harangue me, and that gives me indigestion.”
Now she was getting somewhere. “Haranguing you about what?”
“To stop ignoring our mother’s calls. Jesus. Every time she nags me, it makes me feel like a delinquent teenager again.”
Amery poked his arm. “Don’t deny you’ve acted like a surly teen the last couple of days.” She sipped her water. “So are you telling me that by-the-book Sensei participated in wild teenage behavior in his younger years and lied to his mom about it? Or did you just not tell her?”
He faced her, his gaze suspicious. “Where’d that come from?”
“You don’t talk much about your formative years, so I’m curious. Did you sneak out of the house to meet a girl? Or did you sneak a girl into your room? Did you swipe candy from the corner market on a dare? Did you and your buddies rip off a bottle of booze and get barfing drunk?”
“I didn’t have a typical upbringing, by Japanese or American standards. The focus of my school from the age of twelve on was jujitsu.”
She frowned. “You didn’t study Japanese history, or government, or language, or literature, or take computer classes while you studied martial arts?”
“Of course I did. My mother insisted on a private tutor. He taught through pop culture, so Shiori and I became fluent in switching back and forth between English and Japanese fairly young. At age sixteen, when I started training with a jujitsu master, he taught me more about Japanese history and culture in two years than I learned in all the time I spent in a traditional classroom. Also during that time, my grandfather insisted I take business classes.”
“Did you enjoy them?”
He shrugged. “More than I was willing to admit. That knowledge helped when I started my own business.”
“And yet you still sidestepped the question, Master Black. Any getting-a-girl-drunk, copping-a-feel, pulling-pranks-with-your-buddies stories?”
Ronin’s puzzled look said, Why are you pressing me on this?
Because this is what a man and a woman in a serious relationship do—share pieces of their lives. Open up to me, Ronin, like you promised you would. You can trust me.
When he realized she wasn’t backing down, he sighed. “I didn’t have a group of buddies, just boys I went to school with. We were so disciplined that if one of us would’ve admitted to breaking a rule, or even asked another student to help break a rule, even in fun, most likely that infraction would’ve been reported to the headmaster.”
She whistled. “Harsh. No wonder the Japanese educational system is superior to ours.”
“But it’s hell on maintaining individuality.”
“Even with the way you look?” she cooed. “Sweetheart, I’d bet you broke hearts being such an exotic-looking hottie with all those muscles from hours of practicing jujitsu.”
“Exotic-looking might be a benefit for a woman, but not for a boy.” He traced the edge of his water glass, lost in thought. With the way his cheeks flushed, she wondered if the memories caused embarrassment. “The reason I didn’t have a gang of friends growing up was because I didn’t fit in, not just because I was the only mixed race kid. My mother further alienated me by keeping our family affiliation from everyone in the school even when she knew it’d provide me with more acceptance from my peers.”
Was that the genesis of him hiding who he was from everyone? Because that’s how he was taught to act? No wonder he had identity issues. “Maybe she worried that people would want to be your friend only because your family was filthy rich.”
“My grandfather was filthy rich, not us. We lived modestly. And during my surly teen phase”—he offered a slight smile—“I didn’t understand why my grandfather wouldn’t pay for my jujitsu studies after I finished regular school. It wasn’t like he couldn’t afford it. But now I’m grateful because I’ve had to make it on my own.”