14
Stella completed her bedtime routine in a numb haze. It wasn’t until she laid her head down on her pillow that she started crying.
It was over now. He’d asked her to be good to his family, and she’d made his mom cry. You couldn’t undo something like that.
Her gut demanded she tell Michael the truth. Though he wasn’t aware of the true extent of them, he already knew about her issues: sensitivities to smell, sound, and touch; her obsession with her work; her need for routine; and her awkwardness with people. What he didn’t know was there were labels for that, a diagnosis.
But was pity any better than hatred? Right now, he thought she was insensitive and rude, but he still viewed her as a regular person who happened to have some eccentricities. With the labels, he might be more understanding, but he’d quit viewing her as Stella Lane, awkward econometrician who loved his kisses. In his eyes, she’d become the girl with autism. She’d be . . . less.
With other people, she didn’t care what they thought.
With Michael, she desperately needed to be accepted. She had a disorder, but it didn’t define her. She was Stella. She was a unique person.
There was no way to salvage this situation. No way to keep him.
She still had to apologize to his mom. She’d never made someone cry before, and it filled her with self-loathing. His mom’s evasiveness made sense now that she knew about his dad. Stella wished she could have understood earlier, before she hurt the woman and ruined everything, but all she could control were her future actions, not the past.
As the night dragged on, she constructed and reconstructed her apology, recited it over and over in her head. When the sun rose, she dragged herself out of bed and got ready to tackle the day.
She drove to the same strip mall she’d gone to yesterday and parked in front of Paris Dry Cleaning and Tailors. As soon as they flipped the sign, she’d apologize and leave.
A night of sleeplessness had left her head clouded, and her heart ached from the relentless pressure of her anxiety. Her fingers had been clenched around the wheel so long the joints were locked. She was drained and wanted to get this over with so she could go to the office and lose herself in work.
Five minutes before nine, the sign flipped from Closed to Open. Taking a deep breath, Stella picked up a second box of chocolates and a bouquet of peach roses and exited her car. Inside, Janie sat behind the front counter.
She lifted her attention from the textbook on her lap and blinked in surprise at Stella. From the tense set of her mouth, it was not a good kind of surprise. “Hi, Stella . . . Michael doesn’t work on Saturdays.”
“I wasn’t looking for him.” What was the point? They were done. She held up the roses and chocolates. “I brought these for your mom. Is she here?”
Janie’s expression softened. “Yeah, she’s here.”
“May I speak to her, please?”
“She’s working in back. I’ll take you there.”
She followed Janie into the backroom and stopped in front of a green commercial sewing machine, where Michael’s mom was busy feeding fabric beneath the sewing foot with quick efficiency, her glasses perched on the tip of her nose.
Stella’s muscles tensed, and her heart thundered. It was time to do this. She hoped she didn’t screw it up. She hoped she said the right thing.
Janie murmured something in Vietnamese, and Michael’s mom looked up. Her gaze jumped from Janie to Stella.
Stella swallowed and forged ahead. “I came to apologize for last night. I know I was rude. I’m not . . . good with people. I wanted to thank you for inviting me over to your house.” She held out the flowers and chocolates. “I got these for you. I hope you like chocolate.”
Janie snatched the truffles before her mother could touch the box. “I do.”
Michael’s mom accepted the flowers and sighed. “We still have a lot of food left over from last night. You should try to come again.”
Stella looked down at her feet. Michael would be horrified if he saw her at his mom’s tonight. “I need to go. I’m truly sorry about last night. Thank you again.”
She turned around to leave but caught sight of Michael’s tiny grandma at the couch. The old woman nodded at her, and Stella fumbled on something that was half curtsy, half bow before she left.
Michael walked into the studio and tossed his duffel bag on the blue matted floor next to the other two bags.
The fighters in the middle of the room broke apart, took five steps back, switched their swords to their left hands, and bowed.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” said the fighter on the right. It was Quan. A helmet obscured his cousin’s face, but Michael knew it was him by his voice and the name embroidered in white on his black sparring gear. Also, Quan was an inch shorter than his baby brother.
Khai waved a gloved hand at him and seamlessly switched from sparring to strike drills using his reflection in the mirror. Ten whip-fast head strikes, ten wrist strikes, ten rib strikes. Then back to the beginning. Ten more head strikes . . . When Khai worked out, he worked out. There wasn’t downtime. His single-minded focus was impressive. And reminded Michael of Stella. He released a heavy sigh.
“Don’t usually see you Saturdays. What’s up?” Quan asked.
“I wanted to get some sparring in,” Michael said as he scratched an ear. He usually spent Saturdays running and lifting weights—things he could do alone since he was tired of people after what he did on Friday nights. Today, however, he didn’t want to be by himself. He knew he’d just think about Stella the whole time. After deliberating through the night and most of today, he still didn’t know how to break things off without hurting her. It had to happen, though. And soon. He should call her after he finished sparring and arrange a meeting. Face to face was best.
“Suit up, then,” Quan said. “Class starts in an hour. Teacher took the day off, so loser leads class—little kids’ class.”
That was the perfect incentive to win. Children brandishing sticks were horrifying. You’d think smaller kids were less dangerous, but they were actually the worst. They spun around the studio like tornadoes, hitting beneath your armor or stabbing you in the balls, all by accident. They didn’t know any better. Kind of like Stella in social situations.
And Khai.
As Michael put his gear on, his eyes kept gravitating toward Khai as he methodically worked through all his strikes ten at a time. Always the same number and always the same order. If Stella ever took up kendo, Michael could see her doing the exact same thing. After last night, there were a lot more similarities between her and Khai than he’d originally thought. Khai never noticed when he tripped upon sensitive conversation topics, either. He was also horribly honest, creative in strange ways, and . . .
His gaze jumped to Quan as an unexpected suspicion rose. “You asked if I thought Stella was like Khai.”
Quan undid the laces behind his head and pulled his helmet off. Dark eyes regarded him steadily. “Yeah, I did.”
“Did she tell you something I should know?” He remembered that night, how it had felt like he’d interrupted something when he’d found them outside the club together.
“After she finished hyperventilating from overstimulation, yeah. She told me something,” Quan said.
“She was hyperventilating?” he heard himself ask. His stomach dropped, and coldness prickled over him. What kind of ass was he that he hadn’t known and hadn’t been there for her? He should have been the one. Not Quan.
“Too many people, Michael. Too much noise, too many flashing lights. You shouldn’t have taken her there.”
Everything clicked together then. “She’s autistic.”
“You disappointed?” Quan asked with a tilt of his head.
“No.” The word came out hoarse, and he cleared his throat before he continued. “But I wish she’d told me.” Why hadn’t she told him? And why had she let him pressure her into going to the club? She must have known what it would do to her.
And last night. Shit, it must have been awful. The TV blasting, the piano, his sisters shouting, everything new . . .
“She just wants you to like her.”
The words punched Michael in the stomach. He did like her, and knowing this didn’t impact that at all. She was still the same person. Except he understood her better now. At least, on a conscious level, he did.
Subconsciously, he felt like he’d always known. Because he’d grown up with Khai, he knew how to interact with her. He didn’t even have to think about it. That had to be why she could relax with him when she couldn’t with others . . .
A strange charged sensation buzzed through him, tensing his muscles and putting his hairs on end. Maybe he didn’t have to end their arrangement.
Maybe accepting her proposal wasn’t taking advantage of her. Because she was autistic, maybe she really could use a practice relationship before she entered a real one. Maybe he was the perfect one for her to practice with. Maybe he could help her for real.
He didn’t have to take the entire fifty grand. Come to think of it, he didn’t have to take any of it. He had credit cards. He could make up the difference next month. By helping her without financial motivation, he’d finally prove he wasn’t his dad.
He yanked his gear off and tossed it on the floor in a careless heap. “Put that away for me, will you? I have to go.”
Stella’s phone beeped, dragging her out from the world of her data. Her office materialized, her desk, the computer screens with the command prompt and all the clever code she’d written, her windows, the darkness beyond them.
The alert on her phone said, “Dinnertime.”
She opened a desk drawer and pulled out a protein bar. Her mother would be angry if she saw Stella eating one of these for dinner, but she didn’t care. She just wanted to work.
Absently chewing on the cardboard-y chocolate mixture, she made small adjustments and refinements in her algorithm. It was good. Maybe some of her best work.
Her phone buzzed, and the screen lit with a text message from Michael.
Is that your office on the 3rd floor with the lights on at 6PM on a Saturday?
She dropped her protein bar and stood up to look out the window. A familiar form leaned against a lamppost in the parking lot. She immediately dodged out of view, too humiliated to be seen.
Her phone buzzed with another message. Come down. We need to talk.
She sank back into her chair. This was it. He’d come to end it. Her thumbs shook as she composed a short response. Just tell me via text message.
I want to talk to you in person.
She threw her phone onto her desk and crossed her arms. She was tired and embarrassed. She didn’t need to witness the dissolution of their arrangement in person. Or were there additional things he wanted to talk to her about? More things she’d done wrong?
Maybe she shouldn’t have apologized to his mom? Had that been creepy and intrusive? Why couldn’t she get anything right?
She ran her hands over her hair and attempted to slow her breathing. Did she have to apologize for apologizing?
The phone buzzed yet again, and she flipped it over with the tip of a trembling finger so she could read it.
I’m going to stay out here until you come down.
She rubbed at her temple. Her head throbbed, and sweat glued her clothes to her body. She needed to go home and shower.
Might as well get this over with.
She tossed her once-bitten protein bar into the trash, saved her work, and powered down her computer. Tossing her purse over her shoulder, she shut the lights off and left the room.
The empty halls and low-lit cubicles usually comforted her. Tonight, they made her lonely and sad. As she strode to the elevator, she wondered how long it would be before this feeling went away. A week? A month? She wished everything could go back to normal—like before she’d met Michael. These highs and lows in emotion were exhausting.
The click of her heels on marble echoed through the reception area, and she made herself push the front doors open and walk outside.
Michael shoved away from the lamppost and dug his hands into his pockets, looking like his usual gorgeous self in the glow of the streetlights. “Hi, Stella.”
“Hi, Michael.” Her chest tightened and began aching. She drummed her fingers against her thighs until she caught him watching and fisted her hands.
“My mom told me you stopped by the shop.”
That was it. She’d really done the wrong thing. Her heart plummeted, and her face threatened to crumple. She schooled her features into place. “I’m sorry if I shouldn’t have done that. I couldn’t bear knowing I’d hurt her. I never mean to hurt people, but I do it all the time. I’m working on fixing this, but it’s so complicated, and I just—I just—I just . . .”
He stepped toward her until they were separated by an arm’s length. “What are you talking about?”
She stared down at her shoes. She was so tired. When would this be over so she could go home and sleep? “You’re angry. Because I went to see your mom. That’s intrusive.”
“I’m not, actually.”
She lifted her gaze and found him watching her with sad eyes. “Then . . . I don’t understand.”
“As your practice boyfriend, shouldn’t I be here? It’s getting late.”
She took a surprised breath. “After everything I said at your mom’s, you still want to have a practice relationship with me?”
“Yeah. Things are complicated with my family, and I should have prepped you ahead of time. I’m sorry I didn’t think to do that.”
When he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close, she was too stunned to speak. He was apologizing to her?
“Are you okay? You look like you’re going to pass out.”
She tensed at his nearness, unsure what to do. “I’m fine. Don’t worry.”
“When was the last time you ate?”
“I don’t remem—oh, I ate something right before you texted.”
“What was it?”
She was not telling him. He’d probably act like her mother and chastise her. That was the last thing she needed right now.
He brushed his fingers along her jaw before clasping her face in his palm and tipping her head back. A butterfly-light kiss teased her lips. “You smell like chocolate. Did you have candy for dinner, Stella?”
“Not candy. A protein bar. There are vitamins and stuff in it.”
“You’re coming with me. Don’t argue. I’m going to feed you.” He walked her to her car, which was parked not far away, and by that time, she was simply too tired to protest.
The doors unlocked when they sensed the key fob in her purse, and she sat in the passenger seat. She fumbled for the seat belt, but he caught it and buckled her in with sure movements. He got in on the other side and pulled out of the parking lot.
The motion of the car lulled Stella into a drowsy half slumber, and it was several minutes before she realized he’d left downtown and headed across the freeway. “Where are we going?”
“Back to my mom’s.”
A surge of adrenaline burned the sleepiness out of Stella’s head, and she sat up in her seat, wide awake. “What? Why?”
“There’s a lot of food there. My mom had me cook for like a hundred people last night.”
She adjusted her glasses as her heart started ramping up for takeoff. “I’d really like to go home.”
“Do you have anything to eat at your place?”
“I have yogurt. I’ll eat it. I promise.”
He shook his head as he released a tight huff of breath. “I’ll feed you quick and then take you home.”
Before she could think up a suitable response, he pulled into the driveway of the little gray house. When he opened the door, she could hear the same music carrying faintly on the wind. She gripped her seat belt like a lifeline.
“I can’t handle the TV tonight,” she confessed in a pained whisper. After last night, her usual tolerance was gone. She’d fall apart and scare everyone. Michael would change his mind about the arrangement—she still couldn’t believe he didn’t want to cancel. Or he’d start walking on eggshells around her, which was worse.
“Hold on a minute.” He dug his phone out of his pocket and typed in something on the screen.
Within moments, the music stopped.
“You made them turn it off? Won’t your mom and grandma be unhappy they can’t watch their shows?” Her entire body flamed with embarrassment. She despised it when people had to make changes for her.
He gave her a funny look. “It’s just TV.”
“I don’t like it when people have to act differently for me.”
“We don’t mind.” He walked around to her side, opened the door, and held his hand out. “Will you come in?”
When Stella’s small hand landed in his palm, the hard knot of tension in Michael’s gut loosened, but an awful brew of guilt and sadness continued to eat at him.
She looked terrible. Her bun was off-center, and messy strands framed her drawn face. Her normally bright, expressive eyes were dim, swollen, and shadowed. His heart dipped when he realized she must have cried a lot to make them that way. He’d made her cry.
This was not his Stella.
Well, the sweatiness of her hand was all Stella. He squeezed gently and led her to the front porch.
When he opened the door and prepared to enter, she stiffened and dug in her feet. “I forgot to bring something. Google says I’m supposed to bring something. Let me go and—”
“It’s fine, Stella.” He wrapped an arm around her waist and propelled her into the house.
Inside the entryway, she shut her eyes and took a breath. He could see her absorbing the silence, feel her body relaxing against his arm.
“You know you can always tell me when things bother you, right? Like the TV last night . . . or the club last week.”
Her eyelids fluttered open, but instead of looking at him, she stared off to the side, suddenly tense all over again. “Did Quan say something to you?”
Michael hesitated to answer. Something told him it was extremely important to her that he didn’t know, so he did what he’d learned from his dad even though he hated it. He lied. “Only that the noise and crowd were too much for you. Why didn’t you tell me? I wish you had.”
“I already told you I don’t like it when people have to act differently for me.”
“We could have done something else,” he said in exasperation. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her or make her uncomfortable.
“Why are there oranges here?” she asked, indicating the plate of oranges next to the urn of incense and bronze Buddha statue on the table in the entryway.
“Don’t change the subject.”
She sighed. “Fine. It embarrasses me. A lot.”
All that self-torture . . . because it embarrassed her to admit she was different? His insides melted down, and he grabbed her hand and squeezed.
“Can you tell me about the oranges now?”
He smiled at her single-mindedness. “It’s an offering for the dead. Supposedly, they get hungry in the afterlife,” he said with an uncomfortable shrug. As a scientist type, she had to think this was silly. He did, too, but it was something Ngoại and his mom liked to do.
A small smile played over her lips. “Do you give them other kinds of food, too? I’d get tired of fruit all the time, myself. How about candy?”
He laughed. “You’ve had enough candy today.”
“What do you do with the fruit now that it’s been offered? I assume the dead don’t actually rise and consume it . . .”
“We eat it. I’m not entirely clear on how long you’re supposed to wait, but at least a day or so, I think.”
“Hm.” She inspected the Buddha statue, angled her head so she could see behind it. Judging by her expression, she was fascinated, and he recalled that she loved martial arts films and DramaFever. She did not look condescending or bored or imposed upon. She did not look like his dad.
“Do you feel like you’ve entered the set of an Asian drama? Is that what’s going on here?” he asked.
“This is better. This is real life.” She pointed to the box of incense hidden away behind the statue. “Can I light one? Will you show me how to do it? I’ve always wanted to.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t actually know how. I mean, I don’t remember the order of the lighting and the bowing and all that. When I was little, I refused to do it, and Ngoại stopped requesting it.”
“Does it take very long?” she asked with a frown.
The corner of his mouth tipped up sheepishly. “I don’t think so, no. Let’s go say hi to my mom and grandma, and then I’ll feed you. Okay?”
“Okay.”
She followed him through the dining room and into the kitchen where Sophie and Evie were dishing rice noodles, shredded mint and lettuce, and barbecued beef into large bowls. They looked to be back on speaking terms. Considering their track record of enemies one day, best friends the next, that was about right. Ngoại and his mom were slicing up heaps of mangoes at the informal seating area where they did all their eating—the formal dining table was for presentation only. Ngoại was dressed in her favorite black knit cardigan, and his mom wore a Christmas sweater even though it wasn’t holiday season.
“Hi Ngoại, Mẹ,” Michael said.
His mom nodded at him before considering Stella. “Welcome back. Dinner’s ready soon. Sit and eat, ah?”
Stella smiled, but her grip on his hand was fierce. “Sure, thank you. It looks good.”
“These two are Sophie and Evie. They’re not twins,” he said, bringing her to the kitchen island that was covered with food stored in brand-new Pyrex containers. “Sophie—the one with that red stripe in her hair, God, when did you get that?—is an interior decorator, and Evie is a physical therapist.”
“Hi, Stella,” they said at the same time. Mom must have told them about Stella’s apology because it looked like they wanted to make a fresh start.
Stella gave a tiny wave. “Hi.”
“Is Angie here?” he asked.
“Nope. More work stuff,” Evie said.
“On a Saturday,” Sophie added with a sneer.
“Because people work—”
“On Saturdays—”
“All the time.”
The sisters faced one another and traded knowing glances.
Michael whispered in Stella’s ear, “They’ve been finishing each other’s sentences since they were little. I think they’re aliens.”
Stella’s lips trembled into another smile, and she leaned into him. Poor shy girl. His family had to be overwhelming for her, and this wasn’t even all of them. He tightened his hand around hers and fought the desire to kiss her. Something about the way she turned to him like he was her safe place satisfied caveman needs Michael hadn’t known he possessed.
He cleared his throat and asked, “Where are Janie and Maddie?”
“Upstairs doing homework. They’ll come down when they’re hungry. They both have tests soon.”
“They’re the two youngest,” he explained to Stella. “Maddie is the baby. She’s a sophomore at San Jose State.”
“I’m going to forget everyone’s names.” She looked so worried—Michael melted a little. Why did she care? These people couldn’t be special to her. They were just his family.
“That’s okay. I wish I could.”
“Very funny, Michael,” Evie said with a roll of her eyes. “You only have to remember me. I’m a PT, so if you get carpal tunnel or something, you know who to look for. Posture is everything.”
“Why couldn’t you be a doctor, then, E?” his mom asked as she peeled her tenth mango. “All I wanted was a doctor in the family, and not one of you could do that for me.”
“Stella’s a doctor,” Michael said with a grin.
Her eyes rounded into giant buttons. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. You have a PhD. That makes you a doctor. And you went to the University of Chicago, the best school for economics in the U.S., probably the world. You graduated magna cum laude.”
As he’d known would happen, his mom perked up with interest. “That’s fantastic.”
Stella blushed, bringing much needed color to her cheeks. “How did you . . .”
“Google stalking.”
Her eyes searched his, and a surprised smile hinted at the corners of her mouth. “You stalked me?”
He shrugged. It was his turn to feel awkward now.
“Okay, lovebirds, dinner’s ready. Come eat,” Sophie said. She set down a bowl filled with noodles that had been cut short with scissors and ultra-thin sliced meat in front of Ngoại and kissed her temple like she would a baby.
Once they’d seated themselves at the table, Michael watched as Stella carefully mimicked Sophie’s food preparation ritual, adding chili sauce, pickled daikon and carrots, bean sprouts, and fish sauce to her bowl of noodles, greens, and beef.
“Have you ever had this before?” he asked.
She shook her head absently as she mixed everything together and took a bite. Her eyes opened wide, and she grinned as she covered her mouth. “You’re a good cook.”
“Michael is very good with his hands,” his mom said with a proud nod.
Sophie rolled her eyes before she smirked suggestively and asked Stella, “Do you agree? Is he ‘good with his hands’?”
His mom scowled at Sophie, but Stella merely smiled and nodded. “I think so.”
Sophie arched her eyebrows and sent Michael an is she for real? look.
As dinner progressed, Michael watched Stella through a new lens provided by his recent discovery. He didn’t notice so much when it was just the two of them, but she had trouble with eye contact. She rarely spoke unless someone asked her a direct question, and then her answers were short and to the point. When she listened, however, her focus was the kind of stuff she probably used on complex economic problems. She frowned, hanging on every word like it was of utmost importance.
These people mattered to her because they mattered to him.
“Where did you grow up, Stella?” his mom asked after they’d moved from bún to mangoes.
“Atherton. My parents still live there,” Stella provided.
His mom’s eyebrows climbed at the mention of the wealthiest zip code in California. “Do you like babies?”
Michael almost dropped his fruit, and his voice was gruff with horror when he said, “Mẹ.”
She shrugged innocently.
“You don’t have to answer that,” he said to Stella.
She met his eyes like she hadn’t with everyone else. Her facial muscles relaxed, but the intensity of her concentration didn’t. Her beautiful mind focused on him. Michael admitted to himself he loved it.
Stella lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know if I like babies. I haven’t been around that many. My parents want grandchildren, though. My mother, mostly.”
“That has to be why she keeps setting up blind dates for you,” Michael said.
Stella nodded. “I think so.”
“Meddling mothers.”
At his comment, Stella’s lips curved into a smile, and her eyes shined. He forgot what they’d been talking about. If he couldn’t kiss her soon, he would go mad.
“When you get to my age,” his mom said, crossing her arms over her chest, “you want to play with babies. It’s natural.”
Sophie jumped to her feet. “Help me with the dishes, Stella?”
“Sure, I’d love to help,” Stella said. “Is there a particular way you do it?”
“Just whatever way gets them clean.”
Evie cleared the table as Sophie and Stella piled things into the sink. His mom and Ngoại stared at him with serious expressions. He braced himself for something bad.
“She won me at the shop today. It’s important to know how to admit when you’re wrong. You should keep her,” Mẹ said in Vietnamese.
He shook his head and thinned his lips. “It’s not that easy.”
“Why?”
“We’re too different. She’s really smart and makes loads of money.”
“You’re smart,” his mom insisted.
He rolled his eyes.
“You’re not like your dad wanted, but that doesn’t mean you’re not smart. And you don’t make as much because you’re busy helping me at the shop. I told you I don’t need you anymore. You let so many opportunities pass because of me. I don’t want that for you, Michael, and I don’t want you to lose this girl, either. She’s a good one. Keep her.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is. She likes you. You like her.”
If he had less control, he would have pointed out his mom’s relationship with his dad, but that was hitting below the belt. His dad loved his mom—in his own way. But he also loved cheating. Michael would never understand why his mom took his dad back every single time.
“Just promise to try, all right? I like this one,” his mom said.
Michael could have laughed. Of all the girls he’d ever brought home, she liked the one he couldn’t have. His client. His rich, highly educated, beautiful client, who was paying him to help her learn how to get someone better.
“You’re just saying that because she’s doing dishes.”
Michael knew the way to his mom’s heart, and it wasn’t food. It was cleaning, doing dishes. He didn’t have to do dishes because he cooked. For whatever reason, none of the women in this house cooked. He’d had to learn in order to survive.
“She doesn’t mind working,” his mom said. “That’s important.”
“Mmmmm,” Ngoại agreed.
For a moment, the three of them watched as Stella washed bowls, rinsed them, and handed them to Sophie to dry. She’d rolled her sleeves up and worked with great attention, listening and smiling distractedly as Sophie chatted with her.
“Take her home,” Ngoại said. “She looks tired.”
His mom nodded. “Take her home.”
He pushed away from the table and went to wrap his arms around Stella’s waist. Because he couldn’t resist, he ran his lips down her neck so she shivered. The soapy sponge paused in midscrub, and her expression was confused as she gazed at him over her shoulder. He slid a hand down her delicate forearm and hijacked the sponge from her. He finished washing the frying pan and the rest of the dishes with her in front of him, occasionally pausing to kiss her ear, her neck, or her jaw.
Sophie slanted him a go get a room look as he handed her the last colander—one of many that he’d made his mom promise never to stick in the microwave again—and he could tell she was dying to say something dry and caustic but was holding back because she didn’t want to embarrass Stella.
Stella’s eyelids had gone heavy, and her nails dug into the tile counter as she tried unsuccessfully not to respond to him.
“Ready to go home?” he whispered.
She nodded.
They said their good-byes and piled into Stella’s car, and he pressed the Tesla’s on button.
Before Stella could buckle her seat belt, he asked, “What are you seeing in terms of living arrangements and frequency of visits?”
“What do most couples do when they’re in committed relationships?”
“They live together, and they see each other every day. Is that what you want?” It was strange hearing himself say the words out loud. These were things he’d spent his entire adult life avoiding, but with Stella, he might be ready for them. If she wanted them, too.
She rubbed her cheek on her shoulder. “I want that, then. I have a guest bedroom you can use. But if you’re uncomfortable staying with me, I understand. Not all couples live in the same house.”
“What if I want to share your bed, Stella?” he asked in a low tone.
Despite how much he wanted to help her and prove he wasn’t his dad, he wasn’t sure he could do this if sex was off the table. He wanted her too much. Besides, most of her problems stemmed from lack of confidence. Bed was a great place to work on that.
“You don’t have to do that,” she said.
“That wasn’t the question. I know I don’t have to.”
Staring out the passenger window, she said, “My bed is open to you if you want it, but you know where my skill levels are at. That hasn’t changed since our last time together.”
He smiled at that. She sounded worried about pleasing him. Something his clients almost never cared about.
“Let’s seal the deal.”
“Oh, all right.” She pulled a hand out from under her thigh and held it out toward him.
“We’re going into a practice relationship. I think we should kiss on it.”
She locked eyes with him as her lips parted in surprise, and that was all the invitation he needed. Leaning across the center divide, he kissed her. He meant for it to be a seductive, slowly enflaming kind of kiss, but the sighing sound she made drove him straight out of his mind. He took her mouth with hungry strokes of his tongue. She wound her fingers through his hair, scraped them down his chest and abdomen, and tucked them into his jeans. Yes. Finally, they could get back to checking boxes—
Knuckles rapped against the driver’s-side window. A muffled voice spoke incoherent words.
He launched himself back into his seat before powering the window down.
Sophie crossed her arms and tapped her bare foot on the pavement before she bent down, narrowed her eyes, and clearly mouthed the word pervert at him. “Mom wanted me to remind you your headlights are lighting up Ngoại’s room so she can’t sleep.”
“Sorry, forgot. We’ll head home now.”
Peering into the car, she said, “Good night, Stella. Hope we see you again soon.”
Stella swiped at the loose hairs falling over her face and cleared her throat with a cough. “Good night, Sophie.”
Sophie sent him one last reproving look and sauntered back into the house. Seconds later, his phone lit up with rapid text messages from Sophie.
Geez Michael, go easy on her.
You’ll scare her away, and we all really like her.
Honestly, in the DRIVEWAY? What are you, 13?
He choked on a laugh and handed the phone to Stella so she could read the messages.
She bit down on the tip of a fingernail as she grinned. “I’m not scared.”
He ran a hand through his hair, took a deep breath, and adjusted the painfully stiff flesh rising against his fly. “Let’s get you home.”
He drove with gratuitous disregard of the law through the empty residential streets, envisioning himself peeling her librarian clothes off and pinning her against the wall, the floor—he didn’t care where.
It was going to be so good with Stella, spectacular even. He was going to—he glanced at Stella, trying to decide what to do first, and his hopes plummeted. He was going to carry her into her house and put her to bed.
In the scant minutes since they’d left his mom’s, she’d fallen fast asleep. Her head lolled to the side, and her glasses sat on her nose at a crooked angle. She didn’t so much as flinch when her garage cranked open and her tires squeaked over the epoxy floor.
He tried to shake her awake, but she didn’t react. Her breathing remained deep and even, her body relaxed. With a sigh, he lifted her out of the car and headed toward her bedroom—their bedroom as of tonight.