A few minutes later, she comes down from my bedroom. “Hey, wanna see something?” I ask.
“What?” She takes a stool next to me and leans close. Every cell in my body comes to attention.
“Something that’s going to make you squeal with joy,” I say smoothly. Damn, I’m a good actor. I should get an Oscar for the proper, not-turned-on boss I’m playing here.
I click on the email and scroll past the Japanese text. Sure enough, there are tons of pictures of golden retrievers. They’re all old now, but the doggy smiles are still cute. Their dark eyes are sparkling in the photos, and it’s obvious they’re happy and cared for.
It makes my heart warm that my money’s doing something good for dogs who deserve love and comfort in their golden years.
“Wow. They’re adorable!” Yuna says, leaning closer until her hair is tickling my bare arm. Testosterone is pumping through me with a vengeance. “Are they yours?”
“Not really. I’m sponsoring a retirement center for seeing eye dogs in Japan.”
She turns to me. “You speak Japanese?”
“Other than a few words to order sushi and sake, no.”
She pats my hand, like she’s trying to communicate, It’s fine.
My skin burns, but with a good tingle. I clear my throat. “I went over with a translator to set it up.”
“That’s unusual, going all the way to another country to do something like this. Most people donate closer to home.”
“Yes, but I had an unusual experience.” Then I tell her how it all started—with the documentary I saw on a flight.
Thankfully, she moves back slightly as I speak, but it doesn’t help much. She’s still too close. My heart is pounding too hard and I feel like I’m overheating. Or maybe the A/C is malfunctioning. But I don’t move to check it, because one hundred percent of her attention is on me, and I’m loath to give that up.
Her gaze softens with something I can’t put my finger on. She glances at the email. “Want me to translate?”
“I thought you were Korean?”
“Yes, but I speak several languages. Don’t you remember my résumé?” she teases.
“It probably escaped my notice.” Mainly because I’ve never needed to hire a translator, except that one time I went to Japan. When a foreign company wants me to film commercials for them, they usually provide someone.
“Let me see.” She scrolls back up. “Okay, so the first two paragraphs are just greetings…”
“Really?” The opening paragraphs are at least three lines long each. “That’s a lot of greeting.”
“Welcome to Japan. Although we often do something similar in Korea, too. Anyway, um… They’re saying that the dogs are doing well… They have a new pooch in the center… His name is Sam-kun.”
“Samkun, huh?” I realize I must’ve missed a lot of information about each dog in those updates. Knowing more about the new dog makes him feel that muc
h more special, and the cause seems even worthier. “Nice. Is that a common Japanese name?”
She pauses, then smiles. “If you don’t already know, kun is what Japanese people add to a boy’s name or a pet’s name.” She thinks for a moment. “Well, a male pet, anyway. It’s like a show of affection. But in English, you’d just call the dog Sam, which is obviously not a Japanese name.”
“I had no idea.”
She winks. “I’m good at expanding people’s horizons. Stick around and you’ll learn a lot more.”
The odd sensation starts in my heart again, one I never felt until I met Yuna. The one that makes my heart beat funny…and makes me want to rub a hand over it like there’s something ticklish underneath the ribcage.
She stares at me, like she can sense what’s happening. Is she aware of how much I want her, the crazy connection I’ve been feeling since the moment I heard her play at the airport? And…does she feel anything like it for me? She shifts a little, and her gaze seems to darken as her long lashes lower briefly. Her throat moves.
The scent of her seems to be growing stronger. It’s driving me crazy. My brain says there are a billion reasons why it’s a bad idea to act impulsively. My instinct says there are a billion reasons why my brain’s wrong regarding Yuna.
I lean forward until we’re close enough that our breath mingles. Yuna closes the last of the distance.