It was barely disturbed by a current of air sucked in when the front door opened. Ash Harmon—Ashley to only his momma—looked up from the counter where he'd been jotting inventory notes for his next order to the Louisiana purveyor who kept him supplied with trinkets to sell. The visitor was a woman of middle years, smartly dressed in a burgundy blazer over an oyster shell, minimal gold jewelry, and dark gray slacks. Her black hair was twisted back in a low chignon. Like ninety-nine percent of the people who stopped by Ash's Shinjuku storefront, she was Japanese—he rarely got international tourists. "You're my three o'clock," Ash said, exaggerating the drawl of his Southern accent only a touch. In Japanese, it came across as peculiarly American, he'd been told. There was no point disguising it. The woman nodded, brown eyes shuttered and face impassive. "Asami-san." Ash straightened from his sprawl over the counter and walked around it, stopping a measured few strides from Asami and giving her a bow at the same time she hesitantly began to extend the tips of her fingers, ducking her head.
