Tokyo Ever After: A Novel (Tokyo Ever After #1)(39)

He shuffles his feet, rubs his chin. “I’m not sure.”

“Please. Just one dance.” A little more time in this room where it’s safe and warm and there aren’t any prying eyes. “For the prom I’m missing. That’s all.” Truth: I’d probably slow dance with Noora. We’ve done this before. Then Hansani and Glory would cut in. Because it is understood: we are each other’s one true loves.

“We don’t have any music.”

“Oh, I can fix that.” I take out my phone, scroll through the options, hit play, and turn the volume all the way up. Setting the clutch and phone on coffee table, I fold my hands in front of myself. It’s Akio’s move. I won’t make him dance with me if he truly doesn’t want to.

But then, he’s in front of me, placing his hands on my hips. There’s a slight tremble right before he tightens his grip. I place my hands on his shoulders. We rock back and forth stiffly. It’s very middle school. “I’ve never heard this music before,” he murmurs.

“Not many people have. It’s the Mount Shasta Gay Men’s Chorus.”

“Doesn’t sound like a whole choir.”

I scrunch my nose. “It’s actually just two people, Glen and his partner, Adrian. They’re both lumberjacks and believe Bette Midler is a national treasure. They’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.” Their entire album is covers of her greatest hits. Right now, we’re listening to “The Rose.”

“It’s nice. I like their voices, especially the deeper one.”

“Yeah, that’s Adrian. He pretty much carries the ensemble.” Akio reminds me a bit of Glen, a rough-around-the-edges type.

We go quiet. Listen to the music. Scoot closer. Somehow, my head finds itself on his chest, and his hands find themselves interlocked on the small of my back. I lick my lips, enjoying this soft glow of happiness. “Have you figured anything else about me yet?”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Well. Let’s see … you have this habit of talking with your hands. Your fingers are very demonstrative. You also hum when you eat, it’s like you can’t control how happy food makes you. I like that you take joy in such simple things.”

I want to tell him I’ve figured him out, too. He’s stoic, but not cold—far from it. He loves deeply. I saw the way he bent toward his mother, the tender way he touched her brow, how he offered her a glass of water.

“Akio?” The song starts again. I put it on a loop. Clever me. “Since we’re getting along so well, there is something I’ve been meaning to speak with you about.” We do a half-turn. I wait a beat. “It’s my code name, Radish.”

“You don’t like it?”

“No. I don’t. I kind of hate it, actually.” Especially since the root is known for irritating the digestive tract.

“A radish is a very formidable vegetable,” he says, then adds quietly, “They’re my favorite, in fact.”

I’m glad he can’t see my smile. “Is that true?”

“Didn’t used to be. But I find they’ve grown on me. Often overlooked, the radish is hearty and packed with vitamin C.” My pulse races, gallops away. His heart hammers, too. I can feel it. “But we can change it if you wish.”

“No. I guess it’s okay.” I look up. Rest my chin on his chest. Curl my fingers into the starch of his shirt. “When we met, I thought you didn’t like me.”

We stop dancing. Our toes, our chests touch. His gaze is soft, a little wary. “I probably like you too much.”

I’m frozen. His eyes are half-lidded and hazy. I could kiss him. I should kiss him. I rise to stand on my tippy-toes. His head bends. So close.

But then, he pulls away. Shakes his head, clears his throat. “We should go. I don’t want to make you late.”

I swallow. “Right. Of course.” What just happened? My head is spinning. “Thanks for the dance.”

“Of course,” he says.

I smile a bit, unsure. “I’m much less nervous now.”

“You shouldn’t be nervous. Anyone would be lucky to speak to you.” His stance is rigid, but his words are soft.

My smile grows genuine. He moves and opens the door. I slip through, just a princess off to the ball.





16


Outside the New Otani Hotel is a parade of shiny luxury vehicles. Men dressed in coattails and women draped in furs alight from Jaguars, Bentleys, and Maybachs. Approximately 250 of the who’s who of Japanese society has been invited. Royal watchers have turned out in droves. Behind a barricade, they wave tiny Hinomaru flags and snap pictures of the guests.

The Imperial Rolls-Royce glides along the curb and stops. Akio steps out from the front seat, his earpiece and frown back in place. The door opens, and he extends a hand to me. I place my gloved fingers in his and let him pull me from the car. It feels like I’m in an old-world drama. It’s all so very Great Gatsby.

Cameras rise. Click. Flash. Snap.

“I don’t like how crowded it is out here,” says Akio. Imperial guards surround me. We blaze a path. No more photos for me. I am a tiny piece of silk caught in a gust of wind. We slip through glass double doors. More flashes. The doors swing shut. The crowd dims, redirecting their focus on the Tesla pulling up with a well-known movie actress inside. Outside the ballroom, a harpist plucks the wrong string, eyes wide and frightened at Akio’s I-eat-tiny-villagers approach.