Even as he told himself otherwise, Inoue couldn't exactly refuse when the motel owner stepped into his room with that paper bag. Funnier still—his body seemed a little too eager to welcome her.
Seriously? You don't get tired? he thought, startled by his own reaction.
A ridiculous idea crossed his mind. George Bradley's spirit had said he'd passed on his "talent." What if it wasn't just a director's instincts, but the man's reckless appetite and womanizing, too?
"To hell with it," he decided.
First things first—he ate.
"Thank you for the food," he said with a small bow.
He tore into the bread from the bag, barely chewing, washing it down with milk and juice. Sitting on the edge of the bed, the motel owner watched him with a teasing smile.
"Slow down," she said. "What's the rush? There's milk and juice—take your time, hmm?"
Maybe his mind was already too far gone, but everything sounded suggestive. He nodded quickly. "Right. Got it."
With hunger dulled, another appetite started to rise. He swallowed.
Then came her opener: "So… what's your name?"
"Inoue. And you, ma'am?"
"Izuna Sato."
"What a captivating name," he said, grinning. "Suits you."
She burst into bright laughter and shot him a sly look. "You don't have to keep calling me 'ma'am.' We've introduced ourselves. Let's just use names, Mr. Inoue."
"In that case… Izuna," he said.
They both laughed—too long, too easily—but neither stopped sizing the other up. Inoue's gaze kept drifting toward the curve of her blouse; Izuna's eyes kept flicking down toward his center.
"So, what do you do?" she asked.
"Aspiring film director. I wrote scripts, tried to break in. It… didn't work out."
"I see…" She arranged her face into sympathy.
Inoue, meanwhile, hoped she managed more than just facial upkeep.
At her age there might be a little droop, but… she still looks good. I bet— He cut the thought short.
"And what brings you to the States?" she asked.
"When nothing was working, my confidence shattered. I came to Hollywood to recharge, to start over."
"That's positive thinking. People like that are the ones who succeed."
"I will succeed," he said—and meant it. His voice firmed; his face grew serious.
Izuna gave a curious smile. "When I was younger, my dream was to be an actress."
"When you were younger?" he echoed.
"What?" she teased.
"It's just… that's something older people usually say, not you, Izuna."
"Oh my, oh my," she laughed, delighted.
Still serious, he asked, "You're not… older than me, are you?"
"How old are you, Mr. Inoue?"
"Thirty-three."
She only smiled, wiggling a finger. "No asking a lady her age. Not allowed."
"So… younger than me?"
"I'd like to say that," she said, chuckling, "but I won't lie to you. I'm the older one."
"For real?"
"For real."
He stared, unabashed, until she lifted both palms to block his gaze.
"What are you looking at so closely?"
"I'm an aspiring director," he said. "I have a habit of doing camera tests with my eyes."
"Don't stare like that. You'll spot the fine lines."
"What are you talking about? I don't see any. Honestly… you have range. Like several faces at once."
"What faces?"
"Elegant, alluring, innocent—and quietly sensual," he said.
It wasn't flattery without basis. He really did see different shades in her expressions, matching them in his mind to scenes from films he knew.
Huh. Since when was I this smooth? he wondered, impressed (and a little suspicious) of himself.
"Wow," Izuna said, amused. "Maybe you are a director. Your descriptions are no joke."
"Ha—maybe."
They laughed again, and when the laughter faded, the heat in Izuna's eyes deepened. Inoue took the cue.
"When I make a film, I'd love to cast you," he said.
"Really? I'd love that."
"But I'm not the type to make prudish movies," he added lightly. "My goal is to capture everyday life—start to finish. What a character does by day… and even what their nights are like."
"What do you mean, exactly?"
"From their hobbies to… their intimate life," he said, letting it hang.
Most women would blush, change the subject, or step back. Izuna only sighed.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"It's not that I'm shy," she said. "It's that there's nothing to portray. My intimate life? Cobwebs."
"What? With your looks, you don't even have a boyfriend?"
He should've asked about a husband, but the honeyed line slipped out on its own—and worked.
"I don't… raise those," she said, evasive.
So none? Probably none, he decided. And if there is someone… so what?
Forbidden fruit had its charm—he'd learned that with Kate—and part of him craved that guilty sweetness again.
"Oh dear," he said.
"Right? My luck," she replied, half-laughing.
"People say don't ask a woman's age—or her past," Inoue went on. "I won't ask about yours. I'll just say: maybe enjoy the present."
"The present doesn't have many pleasures."
"If by pleasures you mean the nightly kind… I'd say you're more than capable of enjoying them. With your looks? If a decent guy walks by, grab him and have your fun," he joked.
"Should I?" she laughed.
He kept calling her beautiful for a reason—Izuna really was easy on the eyes.
No—she was more than that. A woman who radiated a well-kept, mature allure, the kind that made the entire neighborhood turn their heads.
Inoue swallowed hard. Something about her stirred a deep hunger inside him.
Desire. Heat. The urge to take her into his arms right then and there.
Maybe it was that gaze of his—bold, unashamed—that made Izuna look away for a moment before asking softly, "Why are you giving me that camera-test look again?"
She said it playfully, half-embarrassed, half-provocative. Inoue knew exactly what she was doing, but played along anyway.
"Forget what I said earlier," he murmured.
"What do you mean?"
"When I told you to grab a guy you like and throw him on the bed… I was wrong." He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping low. "You're the kind of woman who makes men want to be the one doing the throwing."
The air between them thickened. Their eyes locked, and the teasing smile on Izuna's lips turned into something warmer, darker.
"So… you think I'm that irresistible?"
Inoue nodded slowly.
"Enough to make you lose control?"
Another nod. There was no hesitation in his eyes.
"You said you'd repay your debt to me," Izuna whispered. "I did."
"Then… what are you going to do?"
"Starting now."
Before she could react, Inoue's lips found hers. It was sudden—but not unwelcome.
At first she stiffened, but then melted into him, parting her lips slightly to meet his. The kiss deepened, slow and hungry, until the air seemed to hum with heat.
When they finally pulled apart, Izuna's breath trembled against his cheek. She looked at him for a long moment—then smiled faintly, the kind of smile that said don't stop now.
Inoue could tell. She was a woman who had gone too long without warmth. And now that she'd tasted it again, she wasn't about to let it go.
He touched her lightly, tracing the line of her shoulder, the curve of her neck—gentle at first, but deliberate. She shivered, her breath catching in her throat.
"Inoue…" she whispered.
He leaned closer. "You really don't know what you do to me."
Her laughter was soft, shaky. "Maybe I do."
The room grew quiet again—only their breathing filled the space. Somewhere between hesitation and inevitability, she reached for him.
Their closeness was no longer accidental. It was mutual, drawn by something magnetic and undeniable.
And when she whispered his name again, it wasn't in protest. It was invitation.