Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 66977 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66977 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
A slew of shaky, pale peach lettering in an unfamiliar formation spews from the frightened person’s mouth prompting my boyfriend to not only lower his gun but the window too. “Tamura why the hell have you been followin’ me for the past four and a half minutes?”
Additional unusual arrangements occur.
Except these are louder.
And much brighter in color.
Wow.
I honestly don’t remember the last time I heard someone speak actual Japanese.
Slater’s skull hits the headrest in pure exasperation. “Why didn’t you jus’ follow the directions on your phone?”
“Seemed easier to follow you when I realized it was you. I thought for sure you’d know how to get to where we were going.” The dark eyed male swings his stare to me. “Does he always point guns at people?”
“Often,” I innocently answer on a giggle.
“Horrible. Manners.” Tamura states to me and then repeats it in what I am assuming is his native language to my boyfriend. “Hidoi manā.”
“This,” Slater airily laughs as he shifts the safety back into place, “is my plan for food. Arley meet Monroe Tamura. He’s a shokunin.” My boyfriend’s gaze gravitates to me. “A sushi chef. When Oka – the chef I asked Seventeen to introduce me to – couldn’t make time in his busy schedule for such an appearance – regardless of the price – I reached out to an old friend of Kolby’s from high school.”
“Oh, I was your second choice?” Tamura overdramatically gasps.
“He’s jus’ startin’ out with his caterin’ business, so I thought workin’ an engagement event would be a great fit to add to his resume as well as an elegant choice Hilda would approve of.”
Melting into the seat can’t be helped.
Protective and thoughtful.
How the hell did I get this lucky again?
“Why don’t you put away your gun-”
“She has a gun too?!”
“-and get the door for us? I’m gonna help him bring his shit inside.” Slater shoots his guest a mirth-filled smirk. “Assumin’ he’s done freakin’ out about this little misunderstandin’.”
“Misunderstanding?!” Tamura shrieks in tandem with stepping back to give my bodyguard space to exit the vehicle. “Is that what you call going John Wayne on an innocent chef?”
More bursts of Japanese flood the air prompting me to tuck the weapon back out of sight and hustle to the house like requested.
The process of getting the event properly set doesn’t take nearly as long as I deduced it would. Thanks to the helping hands of my burly boyfriend, Nik, my sister-in-law aka Monte’s wife, and my mom – who evidently enjoy decorating more when mimosas are involved – getting the house arranged is done in half the time while organizing the non-sushi related food – including the desserts I finished and dropped off relatively late last night – is completed with about twenty minutes to spare for contemplation regarding the party breakdown I swear is going to be a disaster.
Everything – gratefully – kicks off without the slightest hitch.
Guests love walking up the fancy white carpet into the house where they have their choice of grabbing something bubbly or a cold brew. They adore dropping off gifts near the bubble prizes for the games being played later which they then admire. They even get excited playing with the free-floating balloons and taking selfies under the “bubbly” balloon arch.
I mostly keep a polite distance not wanting to invade a moment or interrupt or – if I’m being brutally honest with myself – inject myself into a conversation I can’t contribute adequately to. Beautiful, brightly colored lettering swirls around the room and the happy couple as they shake hands, give hugs, and accept praise for their decision to tie the knot. It’s mostly a manageable sensory situation; however, the instant anything gets a little overwhelming, Slater sweetly wraps an arm around my waist and insists I check on things in the kitchen, the one area guests are being directed away from to allow the sushi chef the space him and his assistants need to keep food properly flowing, but that I’m able to sneak away to in order to compose myself.
Ring Hunt is the first game we play in which guests search the downstairs areas and patio for Ring Pops. Since mom, Nik, and myself hid the gems, we opt out of playing, yet that doesn’t stop their partners from joining the pursuit due to their ridiculous competitive nature. To say they’re disappointed when they don’t even come in second or third would be an understatement that becomes easy to forget when T playfully wraps his arms around their necks and insists on consolation beer chugging together.
Fun, lighthearted conversations flow around two more games, lots of cupcakes, and the best sushi I’ve ever had in my life, sushi so good in fact that I find myself seriously running the risk analysis for investing in his catering company.
The math says keep crunching.