"So, you'd anticipated all along that Allen Iverson would stir up a storm?"
Monica twirled a small forkful of risotto and asked curiously.
"I merely gave those repressed souls an outlet."
Li Fei set down his wineglass and explained, "There are too many rules in this world, too many 'this is what you should do.' People worship Michael because he represents the pinnacle of success, the one standard answer that is always right. But not everyone can become Michael. Most people are Iversons, struggling and rebelling in their own worlds, yearning to be understood while refusing to compromise. What I sold them wasn't a pair of shoes, but permission to be themselves."
Monica gazed at him dreamily. The fireplace light danced across his handsome profile, making his deep eyes even more captivating.
This man was an unmatched tyrant on the court, a sage who understood human nature in business, yet before her, he was such a tender lover.
"Sometimes I really want to crack open your head and see what's inside," she murmured.
Li Fei smiled, set down his plate, and pulled her into his arms. Monica obediently leaned against his chest, feeling the strong, powerful beat of his heart, like the most soothing lullaby.
"It's filled with you." Li Fei lowered his head and kissed the crown of her hair, his nose catching the faint fragrance of her shampoo.
After dinner, Monica cleared the table. When she returned, she carried a chilled bottle of Prosecco and two champagne flutes.
She set the wine and glasses on the coffee table but did not pour them. Instead, barefoot on the soft wool carpet, she walked to the turntable in the corner of the room.
At the light tap of her fingertips, a languid, sensual jazz melody slowly flowed out—Chet Baker's My