17

She was supposed be working. The online underclothes project was interesting. Normally, she’d have finished by now. But she simply could not look at underwear, even the word underwear, and not think of Michael.

The desk drawer where she kept her phone beckoned to her. She wanted to text him. Was that . . . allowed? Aside from that night at her office, they’d only texted for logistical purposes.

She tapped her fingers on the surface of her desk before she fisted her hand. How was she supposed to seduce him if she couldn’t get up the nerve to send him a simple text message? She dug her phone out.

Hi.

She deleted the message before sending it.

I miss you.

Just the sight of those words made her palms sweat. Too direct. Delete.

I wanted to confirm our plans for tonight.

She hit send and placed the phone on her desk as she stared at her computer monitors without seeing a single thing. The screen on her phone went black from inactivity. He was probably busy.

Her phone vibrated, but instead of buzzing once to indicate she’d gotten a text message, it kept buzzing. A phone call.

She peeked at the screen, and her heart jumped when she saw it was Michael. She hugged the phone to her chest before answering it. “Hello?”

“Hi, Stella.” In the background, his mom gabbed in Vietnamese and a sewing machine whirred. “I need both hands so I decided to call you back instead of texting. We’re still on for tonight. That Thai place in Mountain View.”

“Okay, I’ll meet you there.”

“Perfect.”

The sewing machine paused, and silence hung in the virtual space between them. She willed him to speak. She wanted to hear his voice again.

“Remember clothes. For my place. Unless you don’t want to stay there. You don’t have to,” she said in a rush.

“No, I’m fine with that. I just forgot. Thanks for reminding me.” He chuckled, and Stella’s hands tightened on the phone. She really, really missed him, and it had only been a day since she’d seen him last.

His mom said something, and he sighed. “I have to go. Looking forward to tonight. Miss you. Bye.”

Her breath caught before she murmured, “Miss you, too.” The line had already disconnected, however, and she said the words to herself.

How did other people get through their day when they missed someone like this? She wanted to see him.

She tapped on her phone’s photo bank, and found it, as she’d known it would be, empty. Feeling impulsive, she texted Michael again.

I want a picture of you for my phone.

Please.

She waited.

When she lost hope that he’d respond and set her phone on her desk, it vibrated.

It was a quick selfie, a close-up of his face with his eyebrow raised. He looked goofy but still utterly delectable. She sighed and ran her thumb over his cheek.

Her phone buzzed again with text messages from him.

Where’s mine?

I want your hair down.

She released a disbelieving laugh. Are you serious?

Hair down. Selfie. Now.

Undo your top two buttons, too.

Feeling silly, she gripped the rubber band holding her hair back and tried to pull it free. It caught, and when she pulled harder, it snapped, unraveled from her hair, and landed on the floor. She worked the strands apart with her fingers and then loosened the top buttons of her shirt. Her face peered at her from the phone screen, but she looked . . . different. She didn’t look like regular Stella. She looked like Secret Stella, the girl who was going to see her lover tonight.

Her finger accidentally hit the camera button, capturing her face as understanding hit. That was what they were. They were lovers. She liked the sound of that, quite a lot.

She sent the picture to Michael.

Almost instantly, her phone vibrated.

Damn, Stella.

Sexy. As. Hell.

A laugh bubbled free, and she was half tempted to send him something really sexy. Except she had no clue how to go about it. There was probably an art to the camera angle and body positioning, and her office was surrounded by windows. Either her colleagues would get an eyeful or she’d have to figure out some way to stuff her phone inside her fitted clothes.

She set her phone down in defeat and made herself focus on her work, which she still loved. As she waded through the data, she ran across an interesting finding: The vast majority of married men didn’t buy underclothes—not even for themselves. Their wives did. Screening and filtering the data, looking back through the many years of numbers provided, she discovered they quit purchasing underclothes even before public records announced their marriages.

What was going on there? What kind of anthropological phenomenon was this?

The thrill of a new puzzle simmered through her veins, captivating her. She plotted the data against several different variables, analyzed the curves and seemingly random scatter graphs, looked at the statistics. She could not figure it out. She loved when she couldn’t figure it out.

Her phone buzzed, and the screen read, Dinner with Michael.

She sent a longing glance at her computer monitors, but she didn’t let her hands touch her keyboard again. There was no such thing as five more minutes for her. If she went back to work, the next time she surfaced from the data would be well after midnight. That was why she set the alarms.

Also, Michael was just as interesting as the data, and he made her laugh. He smelled good and felt good and tasted good and . . . She hugged herself as her feet danced over the carpet. This was almost too much perfectness. Exciting work during the day. Exciting Michael at night. She wanted this every day, forever.

She saved her work, powered down her computer, and gathered up her things. Walking down the hallway while people were still in the office was something she did rarely, but her coworkers didn’t usually think much about it. Tonight, however, the unusual attention she got as she passed by confused her. The top econometricians in their offices paused in the middle of writing formulas on their whiteboards. The younger analysts in their cubicles gave her startled looks.

As she strode past Philip’s office, he looked up from the papers on his desk and did a double take. She waved at him and went to the elevator banks. Just as the doors began to close, Philip jumped inside.

“You’re heading out early today,” he said.

In the process of adjusting her glasses, she realized her hair was down. This was why everyone was acting so funny. She rolled her eyes. It was just hair. “Dinner plans.”

Philip’s light eyes tracked over her in a thorough sweep. “Meeting someone?”

She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Yes.”

“Took my advice, huh?” he said with his usual smirk.

“I did, actually. Thanks.”

He blinked, and his eyebrows climbed. “You’re surprising, Stella, and you look good with your hair down.”

The appraising nature of his gaze made her thoroughly uncomfortable, and she itched to refasten her top two buttons. “Thanks.”

“So who is he? Do I know him? Is it serious?”

She tapped her fingers on her thighs. “I don’t think you know him. I hope it’s serious. It’s serious to me.”

“Don’t ask him to marry you too soon, okay? That scares the crap out of guys.”

She scowled at him.

He cleared his throat. “Sorry, that came out wrong. Just go slow. That’s what I meant to say.”

When the elevator dinged and the doors slid open, he pressed a hand to the door sensor to keep it open. “Ladies first.”

She marched out, hoping a fast gait would help her leave him behind, but he speed-walked to her side.

“Where are you two going?”

“A Thai place.” She spotted her car in the parking lot and wished she could teleport herself directly inside. She was never wearing her hair down at work again.

“So you like spicy food?”

“I do. I’ll tell you if this place is any good, and you can take Heidi there.”

“Not dating Heidi anymore. She really is too young for me. No common ground. She said I have to work on how I communicate with people. Apparently, I come across condescending. It’s frustrating. I can’t help it if I know things.” He coughed. “Forget that last part.”

That gave her pause. She knew what it was like to have trouble communicating. Did that mean Heidi had broken things off? Underneath his obnoxious exterior, was Philip sad? Was he capable of being sad? “I see.”

“You and I have common ground.” By the look in his eyes, he meant it. He was actually interested in her now.

Stella stopped at her car. “We do.”

Her mother thought they were perfect for one another. If he hadn’t inspired her toward out-of-the-box thinking with his asshole advice, she might actually be interested back. At the very least, she might have let him be her fourth disastrous sexual encounter.

Not any longer. The only one she wanted now was Michael.

“I have to go, or I’ll be late.”

He stepped back. “Have a good night, Stella. Not too good, though. See you tomorrow.”

After she got inside her car and buckled up, she caught sight of him getting into his own vehicle. A brand-new, bright red Lamborghini. Not her style at all. She would have hated it on sight if it weren’t for the fact that Michael liked them.

Sighing, she headed to meet him. The drive was quick, and it wasn’t long before she walked into the humid interior of the restaurant. He was waiting for her at a table for two by the window, looking edible himself in black slacks, a striped button-down, and a black silk vest that fit his trim waist to perfection.

His eyes twinkled, and he tapped his lips with an index finger as he watched her walk between rows of tables toward him. When she reached the table, he stood up and wrapped her in a tight embrace, pressing his lips against her neck as he wove his fingers into her loose locks. “All this hair. My Stella looks gorgeous tonight.”

She breathed him in and molded herself against him. A sense of rightness locked into place, and her resolve hardened. She was going to seduce him. If she could just figure out how. “My rubber band broke when I took it out earlier. Now everyone at work thinks I’ve taken up stripping.”

His shoulders shook as he laughed.

The waiter approached, and they reluctantly broke apart to sit.

“You could, you know. You’ve got the body,” he said with a teasing grin.

“With my coordination, I’d concuss myself on the pole.”

He stayed wisely silent on the topic of her coordination.

“Is this another Michael original?” she asked, indicating his vest, which she loved to distraction.

“Of course. By the look in your eyes, you want to touch it. My work is complete.”

That was when she noticed she was reaching across the table toward him. She pulled her hands back and sat on them, adjusting her glasses with a wrinkle of her nose.

“You can look at it more closely later.” He held a palm out on the table and cocked his head to the side, waiting, and she realized he wanted to hold her hand.

How was she supposed to seduce him when he seduced her so well?

She withdrew her hand from underneath herself and settled it in his. He closed his fingers around hers and stroked his thumb over the back of her hand.

“H-how was your day?” As the words left her mouth, she recognized it was the first time she’d asked him that. It wasn’t the first time she’d wanted to know. Was it too personal? Could she ask him things like that?

His lips twisted with something between a smile and a grimace. “It’s prom season. Not my favorite time of year.”

“Lots of alterations?”

“And squealing teenaged girls.”

“They must all crush on you instantly.” That had to get pretty exhausting.

“I have my mom do most of those fittings, so it’s not so bad. But I am going cross-eyed from all the spaghetti-strapped gowns. Your picture was the highlight of my day.”

That sounded terrible. Her picture hadn’t even been that good. “Do you wish you could work with more menswear, then?”

The thought that he wasn’t doing what he loved felt like a sharp bur in her side. She would need therapy if she had to do work she detested all day, every day, every week.

He shrugged, but his expression was thoughtful. “I prefer the creative side of the work, making something new. I don’t mind the actual constructing and altering, but it’s not very challenging.”

“Have you thought of starting your own line?” She covered her mouth as the idea occurred to her. “You could go on one of those reality TV fashion contests. You would win.”

He smiled down at their joined hands, but it wasn’t a happy smile. “Three years ago, I got selected for a spot on one of those. I think they liked my face better than my portfolio, but whatever. An opportunity is an opportunity. Stuff happened, though, and my mom got sick. I had to turn it down.”

The blood drained from Stella’s face as her chest broke open. Of course, he would do that for his mom.

He glanced up at her, and his expression went tender. “Don’t look so sad. She’s doing really well lately.”

“It’s . . . cancer?” She vaguely recalled hearing his sisters mention chemo while they were fighting, but she’d been so overwhelmed she hadn’t fully absorbed the information. How had that gotten past her? What kind of person was she?

“Stage four, incurable, inoperable, lung cancer. No, she’s never smoked. She just has bad luck. The latest treatments are working for her, though. Things have been good,” he said with an encouraging smile.

She squeezed his hand tight as she gazed at him. Did he have any idea how indescribably wonderful he was?

The waiter arrived, and Michael asked her, “Want me to order?” When she nodded, he rattled off the names of a few dishes without looking at the menu.

“How was your day?” he asked.

“Fine.”

He grinned and pinched her chin. “Details, Stella.”

“Oh. Well . . . I’ve encountered an interesting puzzle with my work. There is this fascinating phenomenon I can’t expl—why are you looking at me like that?”

His head was tilted to the side, his smile particularly fond. “You are adorably sexy when you talk about your work.”

“Those things don’t go together.”

He laughed. “They do with you. Continue, puzzle fascinating phenomenon.”

“I’ll tell you when I figure it out. Which I will. Let’s see here. What else happened? Oh, my boss is pressuring me to hire an intern. And I took my first selfie today.” She left out everything relating to Philip. There was no need to mention that uncomfortable encounter.

“Does your boss think you’re working too much?”

She shrugged. “Who doesn’t think that?”

“It’s not too much if you love it. Like you do.”

“Precisely. Please tell my mother that.”

“If I see her, I will,” he said. But judging from the tone of his voice, he thought the likelihood of his seeing her mother was low.

“That would be in about a month at the benefit dinner she’s throwing. If you want to come with me, that is. You don’t have to,” she added quickly.

The muscles in his jaw worked as he considered her. “Do you want me to come?”

She nodded. “She’s threatened to matchmake if I don’t have a date.” And she only wanted to be with Michael. No one else.

“Very dire, indeed. When is it?”

“A Saturday evening. Formal attire. That shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

The corner of his mouth kicked up, but the tension around his eyes remained. “All right, I’ll mark it on my calendar. I’d be happy to go.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

She bit her lip, hesitated, but decided to go ahead and say it. “Will you make my dress?”

He searched her eyes for a long moment. “Okay.”

“I’ll pay for it, of course—”

“Wait until you see it first,” he said, bringing her hand up to his mouth so he could kiss her knuckles.

“I’m going to love it.”

He shook with another laugh. “I think you will.”

Dinner arrived, and conversation—real conversation—continued at a steady pace as they ate food spiced with lemongrass, makrut lime leaves, basil, and red chili peppers that burned her lips. She asked Michael about his favorite designers—Jean Paul Gaultier, Issey Miyake, and Yves Saint Laurent—and learned he’d gone to fashion school in San Francisco. He asked when she’d discovered her love of economics—high school—and when she’d had her first boyfriend—never. He’d gone steady with a girl in fourth grade, spending time with her primarily on the school bus. Stella ate more than she normally would have. She wanted to drag this out.

When the bill came, she grabbed for it, but Michael handed the waiter his credit card with adept smoothness. She narrowed her eyes.

This wasn’t the first time he’d insisted on paying for things with her, and it made her intensely uncomfortable. Living expenses like these were inconsequential to her, and he clearly had money troubles. Why wouldn’t he let her pay? How could they work around this? She had no idea how to discuss monetary things without insulting him.

On their way out of the restaurant, Michael said, “I need to stop at my place to pick up my clothes. I forgot about it until you reminded me.”

“Does that mean I can see it?” Or was she making assumptions by thinking they were spending the night together?

“If you really want to. It’s nothing special.” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking charmingly ill at ease.

“It can’t be worse than my place.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“My place is empty and . . . sterile.” People called her that when they thought she wasn’t listening.

He ran his fingers across her cheek and down her hair. “It just needs furniture. Come on, then. It’s really close to here.”

By really close, he might have said he lived in the apartment complex right next door. It would have saved her from trying to find a place to park. After circling the packed parking lot unsuccessfully, he told her to take his assigned spot, and he parked a ways out on the street as she waited for him by the complex’s water garden.

Taking her hand, he led her up a set of outdoor stairs to his third-floor apartment. “I didn’t clean before I left, so expect the worst. Don’t have a heart attack, okay?”

She braced herself. “I promise.”