“Holy shit!” I plant both hands on his chest but accidentally slam my elbow into the corner of a chair before I can lever myself off him. “Ow.” I collapse, and Jihoon’s warm arms wrap around me, no doubt to protect himself from further injury.
Alex’s concerned squawks sound from under the couch. “Ari, are you okay? Do I need to call the cops?”
I roll off Jihoon to paw for my phone. “Alex, I tripped over my new roommate. Give me a second.”
“Call me back.” Few things faze Alex after a decade in the music industry.
After I hang up, I turn back to Jihoon. “I’m sorry for falling on you, but what were you doing?” My entire arm has a nasty shivery numbness. Jihoon sits up, rubbing his ribs with a grimace, and my brain shorts out because he’s only wearing a pair of low-slung black pants. I don’t even know where to focus my gaze as it moves from the indent between his impressive pectoral muscles to the curve of his shoulders before dipping down to the many, many rows of abs leading to a molded V. I didn’t even think men had that outside of underwear ads, and I’m not ready to deal with this knowledge so early in the morning.
“I was meditating.”
“On the floor?”While shirtless, but that seems like a detail pertinent only to me, so I don’t say it out loud.
“I fell asleep.” He twists to examine the red mark where I kicked him. I try not to gawk and almost succeed until the stylized black tiger tattoo that wraps around his body comes into view, stretching down from his side to cross his lower back. I have no choice but to give it the aesthetic appreciation it deserves because the tiger ripples on Jihoon’s muscles as he moves. It’s art, really.
Then it’s back to business because I should be getting the details on Alex’s dipshit rock stars instead of ogling Hana’s cousin. I’m not even into tattoos.
I give my arm a test bend, and Jihoon turns to me in concern. “Are you hurt?” He reaches out to check my elbow as I suddenly realize my robe has fallen open to reveal my very skimpy tank top. I’m also sitting back on my heels, and my pajama shorts are…well, they’re short.
He freezes, and we sit there eyeing each other for what seems like forever until we jointly come to our senses.
“I’m sorry!” His voice is almost a squeak as he crosses his arms over his chest.
“My fault!” I snatch my robe closed and scramble to my feet. I’m now maximally alert and can skip the coffee, so I try not to let my shorts ride up my ass as I bend to grope around for my dropped clothes. Behind me is a flurry of activity as Jihoon takes off to his room.
Wondering if daily shirtless floor meditation is one of Jihoon’s breakup coping mechanisms—and how I feel about that—I head into the bathroom. I flip on the switch and survey the counter in disbelief. Overnight it’s been turned into a Sephora.
I need to look groomed for work, so I have a standard collection of cosmetics that sit in a drawer, tidily out of sight. Jihoon clearly likes to see all his options, because his skin-care assemblage overflows the counter. I don’t even recognize most of the products, which are presented in stark packaging that makes the serums and creams look like serious pharmaceuticals. Long cylinders of white and silver stand in a group next to sleek black tubs of various masks. Most have Korean labels, but the ones in English wouldn’t be out of place in a chemistry class. Hyaluronic acid. Peptides. Niacinamide.
No wonder he looks so good. I peer into the mirror, noting the bags under my eyes and the freckles dotting my face from years of sun exposure thanks to my parents’ 1990s disdain for any UV-blocking product. Am I growing a hair on my chin?
It’s only a cat hair. That’s one beauty crisis averted, although we don’t have a cat, so where it came from is another question. A cold shower helps settle me, and after I answer a few emails from Alex between fitting my hair into its usual bun and spackling on my work face, I’m ready to go.
Jihoon is in the kitchen. We both pull up short. Now that my adrenal glands are not pumping my body with fear hormones, I can take better stock of him.
Even like this, puffy from sleep and travel, hair a tousled bird’s nest, and wearing a huge green hoodie that reaches midthigh, he’s almost surreally attractive. He has monolid eyes like mine but much bigger, and as Hana had indicated, his eyebrows are a testament to meticulous grooming. His lower lip is almost pouty, it’s so full. I could only hope to achieve lips like that through cosmetic surgery or painstaking hours in front of a mirror with products designed to plump, sculpt, and highlight. His features look large on his smallish triangular face, which would look incredible in photographs, the same as Hana. Even in real life, I want to keep watching him.
He looks down at the sink, and I realize my open staring is rude as hell.
“Hi,” I say, trying to act casual and as if we haven’t already seen each other half naked. At least I’m in the armor of my work clothes. I can handle anything dressed like this, even though Hana sometimes calls it my corporate-android look.
“Good morning, Ariadne.” His voice is so low, I almost can’t hear him. Hana said he was quiet, and it hits me that he might be shy.
“You can call me Ari.” I summon up the power of the structured blazer to cover the fact that I don’t know what to say to him either. “Are you finding everything you need?” I sound like a flight attendant.
“Yes, thank you.” He sounds like a man talking to a flight attendant.
“Good.” I want to be polite, but he should know I won’t be around a lot. “I’m going to be late at work, but help yourself to anything in the kitchen. If you don’t feel like cooking, I can tell you a few good places to eat around here.”
“I’d like that.” He looks relieved to be left on his own, and I try not to take it personally, since it’s what I want as well.
The lure of being able to give a visitor tips to enjoy the neighborhood outweighs the threat of running late. After all, I was up at six to deal with Alex’s problem. I can get into the office at 7:45 instead of 7:39. I’ll still be the first in.
I grab a pad and sketch out a quick walking map, noting restaurants in the area, where the subway stop is, and my favorite local hangouts. I love doing travel itineraries for people. I even have a special notebook where I log interesting places. It’s silly because I’ve rarely left the province, but it’s the perfect escape from…I’m not sure from what. It’s a waste, since time is money when you work with billable hours, but sometimes dreaming about those urban spice markets or white-capped blue waters is what gets me through the day.
I snatch the thoughts of all those appealing places and roll them up into a tidy package before tucking them away. Those things exist for later, if later ever comes.
“Here’s my number.” I jot it down as an afterthought. “You should give me yours as well.”