Page 42 of From Beijing, With Love

“Not even a little bit,” Yang said. “I’ll see you at seven.”

As the elevator doors slid closed behind him, Yang’s own reflection greeted him in the mirrored doors, smiling.

CHAPTER EIGHTEENDaniel

Clothes were strewn all across the bed with the chaotic energy of a Jackson Pollock painting. The very sight made Daniel’s eyes twitch. It hadn’t been this hard to pick an outfit yesterday. Apparently kissing a guy changed things. Who knew?

Yang hadn’t told him where they were going for dinner, and Daniel prided himself on not asking. He was turning over a new leaf and living his spontaneous era. He had done a good job of it yesterday when their plans were derailed by the storm, but only because Yang was there. It was easy to take the leap, knowing he had a parachute. Then Yang kissed him in that dark karaoke lounge and listened to him talk about his stupid OCD like he gave a damn. Daniel could not have planned that.

Daniel managed to lock down the outfit five minutes before seven—a black vintage T-shirt and the thrifted jeans that made his ass look good. Yang was probably already waiting in the lobby, but leaving the room in its current state made Daniel’s brain ache, so he did the only sensible thing and put away the clothes, made the bed, double-checked that the tap was turned off and the iron unplugged. The whole routine.

When he got to the lobby, more than a little past fashionably late, he found Yang sitting on the same moss-green lounge chair that he always sat on. Yang was scrolling through his phone with his brows scrunched.

He was making grumpy work. Or maybe that was just Daniel’s stupid brain too.

“Sorry that I’m late again,” Daniel said. He blamed his pounding heart on the fact that he’d jogged across the lobby and not on, say, how good Yang looked in yet another linen button-up.

“It’s to be expected,” Yang said, his dark brows softening as he met Daniel’s eyes. Was it the lobby lighting or was he blushing?

“How was the call with your adviser?” Daniel asked as they stepped into the balmy Beijing breeze.

“Good. Dr. Sun has a journal in mind with an expedited review process. It might even be published by the end of the year,” Yang said with a shrug.

“That’s great,” Daniel said. He wasn’t going to put his foot in his mouth again, even if he didn’t buy the lightness in Yang’s voice.

“The sooner the paper gets published, the better my chances are with getting the postdoc position. That’s all there is to it,” Yang said, looking straight ahead. Speeding up, his wide strides carried him down the smoldering concrete sidewalk. “Come on, I’m starving.”

“What are we having?” Daniel asked as they rounded another corner, trying to sound chipper, like someone who was up for anything.

“It’s a surprise,” Yang said with a grin that was both sexy and worrying.

“Awesome … love that,” Daniel said. Very much a lie, if there ever was one. The thing was, Daniel was capable of most things as long as he had the time to prepare for it. But you couldn’t prepare for surprises.

“Really.” Yang turned to him, the grin taking on a teasing edge. Leaning in closer like he was about to share a secret, he whispered, “You are a bad liar.”

“I’m a stellar liar,” Daniel said with indignance.

“Another lie. You are getting dangerously close to not getting dinner,” Yang said, before turning around and snapping a photo of Daniel before Daniel could protest (or at least pose). “Not bad for a before photo,” Yang said as he tilted the screen toward Daniel.

“You make it sound like this dinner is going to be some kind of life-changing experience,” Daniel said, grabbing Yang’s hand to bring the phone closer. At least Yang had gotten his good side.

“Maybe it will be,” Yang said with a laugh.

The setting sun left blush-colored clouds, like the Beijing sky was on fire. And standing in that striking frame was this beautiful Chinese man with a teasing smile.

At this moment, Daniel would believe anything.

“This is … fancy,” Daniel said as he took in the giant golden plaque bearing stylized Chinese characters hanging above the red wooden doors. The massive four-story building in front of them mirrored the halls of the Forbidden City, nothing like the quaint hidden gems on Hua Jie.

“Well, this was the best I could do on short notice. Do you think it’ll live up to your high standards?” Yang asked, one corner of his lips tilting upward.

“Maybe not. I regularly dine in palaces, so this is quite uninspired,” Daniel said haughtily, channeling his mother down to her Dutch accent, softened by the years she’d spent in Canada.

The entrance was flanked by two men wearing black silk shirts with mandarin collars. In unison, they pulled the double doors open, exposing the grand interior dominated by a mahogany staircase. The hostess, wearing a figure-hugging embroidered dress, led them upstairs, passing by wooden balustrades bearing intricate carvings. Their journey up the three flights of stairs was dotted with stolen glances from every server they passed.

“Do they not see a lot of foreigners?” Daniel whispered. His experience at Tiananmen Square had cemented his foreigner status in his mind. He had never been Chinese enough—what was one more day?

“I’d say they’ve seen their fair share of them.” Yang pointed at the framed photos that hung along the walls.