22

Stella had filled out half of the necessary forms to open up an internship position in her department—of which she was the sole employee—when her phone buzzed. She dug it out of her desk and smiled at the message from Michael.

What is my Stella doing?

She texted him back. Paperwork.

Can you take a long lunch?

She hugged her phone and spun her desk chair in a circle before replying. Yes.

Never mind the untouched lunch sitting next to her keyboard that she’d had delivered. She could put it in the fridge for tomorrow.

His response had her smile widening.

Head over to my mom’s shop when you can.

She gathered the internship papers into a neat pile and prepared to leave. It was lunchtime on Friday, and everyone had left for the various restaurants downtown. She walked through the hallways and entered the elevator, expecting to make a clean getaway.

Philip stepped between the doors as they started to close.

“Are you actually heading out for lunch today? Care if I join you?” he asked.

“I’m meeting someone.”

“The same guy?”

She nodded.

“Lucky guy.”

She stared at the floor level indicator, wishing it would go from three to one much, much quicker.

“I heard you’re planning on taking an intern.”

“That’s right.”

“My cousin is a good fit.”

Her eyes jumped from the numbers to Philip’s face. “I already have someone in mind.”

He put his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “All right.”

“Wait . . .” She sighed. “Send me your cousin’s résumé.” As much as she wanted to hire Janie, she had to be fair about this. There was such a thing as professional integrity. The spot needed to go to the most qualified candidate.

Michael would understand. He didn’t let his sister win when wrestling just because she was younger and smaller and weaker. Stella had to go through the proper vetting process. She had a feeling, however, Janie was her girl. When you loved something—like she and Janie did—you were good at it. If you weren’t good right away, you got good at it.

Philip released an amused huff of breath. “All right, then.”

The elevator dinged, and she strode through the lobby. Frustratingly, Philip followed her to her car.

“Are you going to that charity benefit tomorrow?” he asked.

“How do you know about it?”

“My mom and yours are on the planning committee. I know, small world, right? Anyway, I was wondering if you have a date. My mom is going to find me one if I don’t get one on my own.” He smiled and hunched his shoulders in a way that made him seem far more approachable than normal.

Their situations were so similar, Stella couldn’t help sympathizing. “Mine threatened the same thing.”

“Look, Stella, I know you’re seeing someone, but . . . Before, you said you hoped it was serious, kind of like you weren’t sure. Is he your boyfriend or not?”

She looked down at the blacktop in the parking lot. “It’s complicated.”

“What does that mean?”

“I need to go. I don’t want to be late.” She gripped the door handle to her car.

He lowered a hand toward hers but stopped before making contact. Did he sense she needed her space? Maybe he really did understand her.

“Does it mean you’re just having sex? Because you’re better than that. I hope you know that. All that stuff I told you before about needing practice—it was crap. You intimidate the hell out of me, and I was trying to make myself seem more worldly. It’s stupid. All that matters is connecting with the right person. I think you can be that person for me, Stella. I’ve liked you for a long time.”

“Why are you telling me this now? We’ve worked together for years.” She could hardly believe her ears. He’d liked her all this time? Her?

“Because I have issues, and my tongue ties up when I’m with you and all that comes out is asshole garbage. I was waiting for you to ask me out because I’m insecure, but I’m asking you now. The idea that you’re seeing some guy who doesn’t appreciate you makes me crazy. You’re a ten for me, Stella.”

He thought she was a ten? Someone thought she was a ten. Her chest caved in, and her eyes stung. “I’m not a ten. I have . . . issues, too.”

“I know. Your mom told my mom. She told me. I have a whole slew of problems that change names every time I switch therapists. We’re perfect for each other. You’re still a ten for me.”

But he wasn’t her perfect ten. He might have been, though, if things had been different. There was a time when she would have been interested in exploring whether there was a nice guy inside him somewhere. She couldn’t fault him for sounding condescending when she often came across the same way. Besides, she wanted him to be good underneath it all. The idea gave her hope for herself.

“I’m sorry, Philip. I already asked him to go to the benefit with me. I can’t uninvite him. More than that, I don’t want to. I’m obsessed with him.”

A stubborn look crossed Philip’s face. “Obsessions pass.”

“Not for me, they don’t.”

“I assure you he’s just a phase. You’re not in love,” he said with certainty.

Her lips parted. Love? Was that what this feeling was?

Was she in love with Michael?

“How can you be so sure it’s not love?” she asked.

“I know because I’m the one you’re going to fall in love with. Me,” he insisted.

“Philip, don’t do this, whatever this is.”

“You need to give us a try.”

With that, he stepped forward and bent toward her.

She tried to back away, but her car was right behind her, preventing escape. She turned her face to the side. He didn’t wear overpowering cologne, but his smell was wrong. She pushed her hands against his chest. The feel of him was wrong. He wasn’t Michael.

He touched his lips to hers. Dry skin on dry skin. A wet tongue slimed into her mouth, and her heart skittered. Her body went into lockdown. It was like her first three encounters all over again.

Wrong wrong wrong.

She twisted away and dragged her sleeve over her mouth. Dirty, black feelings grated over her skin, inside and out.

Philip grimaced and set his jaw, fisted his hands. “You just have to get used to me, Stella. You acclimated to that bastard.”

She shoved at his chest, pushing him away. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Heart pounding and hands shaking, she got in her car. By the time she reached the shop, she’d mostly calmed down, but that unclean feeling persisted. She wanted to brush her teeth.

Inside, she located Michael kneeling in the fitting area at an older gentleman’s feet, pinning the hem of his pants. Michael wore jeans and a black T-shirt. Measuring tape, pincushion, and chalk pencil were in place. She loved him in work clothes. He must have dressed similarly when he designed in New York City, sketching patterns over lighted architect tables and draping cloth over ungrateful mannequins.

As if sensing her, he glanced up, caught sight of her, and smiled.

She started to return his smile, but the bad taste in her mouth reminded her of what had happened in the parking lot. What if Michael kissed her now? She’d get Philip all over him. Disgusting. “Bathroom. I need the bathroom.”

He stood up with a troubled frown. “Back there.”

She ran into the back, spotted the door to the bathroom, and rushed to the sink. After turning on the water, she soaped her hands and scrubbed at her lips and her tongue. She splashed water into her mouth, swished, spit, repeated over and over.

---

Michael opened the bathroom door and watched as Stella rinsed out her mouth like she’d eaten something nasty. Was she sick? His insides twisted as his mind automatically jumped to the worst-case scenarios he was far too familiar with.

The door swung shut behind him as he closed the distance between them and swept his hands down her tense back. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Please, be okay.

For several long moments, the room was silent but for the rush of the water in the sink. A deep frown creased her brow as she watched the water swirl around the drain. Meeting his eyes in the mirror, she cranked the water off and said, “A coworker kissed me.”

Everything inside Michael stilled, and a cold rage spread outward. With the training he did, he wasn’t the kind of person who could pick fights. But he could sure as fuck end them. He would enjoy ending this one. His knuckles cracked as he fisted his hands.

“What’s his name? What does he look like? Where can I find him?” The questions came out in a hard monotone. The motherfucker was going to enjoy himself a trip to the hospital.

She whipped around to face him, her eyes wide. “Why?”

“No one forces you, Stella.”

“Are you planning to do something to him? I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

“You just washed your mouth out for a whole minute. Now I’m going to wash his out.” With blood.

She wrung her hands as she searched for words. “I’m okay. As you can see.”

“If you weren’t okay, he’d be a dead man,” he growled.

“Can you drop this? Please?”

He shook his head in disbelief. Someone had touched her, kissed her, stuck his fucking tongue in her mouth. “How can you be so calm about this? Did you want him to kiss you?”

“No, but . . .” She looked away from him. “Maybe there was a time when I did.”

A horrible thought entered his head. “Is he the reason you hired me? You wanted to practice for this guy?”

Her cheeks flushed with color. “M-maybe? He seemed like a good candidate at the time. But I don’t want him anymore, which is ironic because—” She stopped talking with a grimace.

“Because what?”

“He told me today he’s liked me for a long time, that—surprise—I’m a ten for him.” She sent him a searching gaze as she said, “He told me he doesn’t care about how different I am.”

He couldn’t stop himself from dragging her against his chest then. He hadn’t said those things, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel them. “That’s because you are a ten. All the things that make you different make you perfect.”

“I’m not perfect, Michael. I’m really not,” she said in a pained voice.

“Did you kiss him back?” At this point, that was the only thing that could make her imperfect for him. Maybe not even that.

She shook her head. “No.”

“Did you like it? When he kissed you?” Because he had to know.

“Not at all,” she whispered.

“Why? Did he do it wrong? Was he a bad kisser?”

“It felt wrong.”

“Why?”

“Because he wasn’t you.” The soft look in her eyes killed him. He would do anything for that look. Anything.

He angled her head back with a hand against her jaw, trying to be gentle despite the violence raging in his veins. “Going to kiss you.” He had to. If he didn’t, he would go crazy.

“Don’t. He’s in my mouth. I can still taste him. I can’t get him out.”

He released a fierce growl. “I need this, Stella.”

At her small nod, he crushed their mouths together and kissed her deeply. He needed to erase every last trace of that piece of shit, needed to mark her as his. She went weak and sank into him, and he closed his arms around her, stroking her roughly.

“Can you still taste him?” he rasped against her lips.

“No,” she said on a gasp.

He worked her skirt open and slipped his hand into her panties, almost groaning from the liquid heat that met his fingers. Who was that for? Him or her coworker?

“Michael.”

His name on her lips soothed a place deep inside him, and the urgent need to hear it again and again claimed him. He pushed her skirt until it pooled around her ankles and ripped the fly of his jeans open, freeing his cock. Then, he dug a foil from his pocket, tore it open, and rolled the condom on.

When she began to lower her panties, he shook his head. He looped one of her legs around his hip as he lifted and pressed her against the tile wall.

She made an impatient sound. “Don’t tease me, Michael. I need you.”

He pulled the crotch of her panties to the side and thrust hard and fast, burying himself inside her. Her breath broke, and she moaned his name. So fucking hot. He stroked his tongue over every inch of her mouth, claiming it as he angled his hips to hit her clit.

The tight grip of her body, her sweet mouth, her legs around him, her breaths on his neck—perfection. He reveled in every part of Stella. His heart thundered, and his blood rushed. His need grew desperate, but he held back, determined to wait for her. When she shattered and convulsed around him uncontrollably, he pumped into her harder.

He grasped at her hips, her thighs, pressed their foreheads together so he could see into her beautiful, dazed eyes and drove into her one last time, letting everything that he was pour into her, losing himself. As the breaths sawed in and out of his chest, he held her tight. He never wanted to let her go.

When he finally found the strength to pull away, he settled her on her feet and went to toss the condom in the toilet. He wiped himself off, aware of the appreciative way she watched him and loving it. She didn’t look at anyone else like this. Just him.

After living with her for the better part of a month, he could say that with certainty. There were parts of her—many parts, the best parts—she only shared with Michael, and it had helped him forget their relationship wasn’t real.

But he needed to remember. She hadn’t wanted her coworker’s kiss, but if she had, there was no reason why she shouldn’t have done it. They weren’t monogamous. He wasn’t her boyfriend or her fiancé or her husband. She was his client, and he was her . . . vendor. That sounded awful as fuck, but it was true. He had no right to defend her and no right to be possessive. She was paying him to help her—at least she thought she was—and he needed to stay detached and professional.

Too bad he’d gone and fallen for her, instead. When they eventually separated, it would break him. But she’d be better off. She’d know how to be herself with another person and what to expect out of a relationship, what it felt like to be loved. He hoped she never settled for less.

Drawing on years of escorting experience, he slipped on a smile and said, “I’ll have to buy you a new pair of those.”

When a confused expression crossed her face, he nodded toward the torn side seam of her panties that she’d been absently fingering all this time.

She smiled and flattened her palm over her hip. “That’s okay. I can do it.”

“I don’t mind. Though for most couples, women buy all the underwear.”

She tilted her head to the side. “Why?”

He shrugged. “I think it’s because they do a lot of shopping and like to take care of the people they love.”

As he said the words, Stella drew in a surprised breath. A discovering look lit her face before she stared off into space, focusing on things inside her head.

“Where did you go?” He waved a hand in front of her until she refocused on him. It was such a Stella thing to do, he grinned despite the emptiness in his chest. He loved how brilliant she was. Everything about her did it for him. Every single thing. “You’re thinking about work, aren’t you? Here I am talking about replacing the underwear I tore having hot bathroom sex with you, and you’re zoning out to think about econometrics.”

She straightened her glasses with a wrinkle of her nose. “I-I’m sorry. I can’t help it all the time. I try to be present, but—”

“I’m teasing you. I love your genius brain,” he admitted. Because he couldn’t help it, even when he was sad, he kissed her soft lips once, twice, and one last time again. “Come on, Ngoại will probably have to use the bathroom soon, and I want to show you something.”

---

Stella covered a gasp when Michael pulled a hanger from a hook on the wall, revealing a little white dress of creamy fabric. “Is that for me?”

“I had to guess at your dimensions, so the fit might be all over the place. Try it on for me?”

She stared at the garment in wonder. Her own Michael Larsen dress.

After closing herself in the mirrorless dressing room, she undressed in a hurry. Of course the dress was strapless so she couldn’t wear a bra, but the inside was lined in soft silk. There wasn’t a single exposed seam to bother her skin. She was dying to see what it looked like on.

Holding the bodice to her chest, she walked out and turned around. “Can you zip the back for me, please?”

His lips brushed against her nape as the zipper closed with an intimate zzzzzip, sending a shiver down her spine. It felt like it fit her perfectly. It hugged her body better than her yoga clothes, and she loved her yoga clothes. When she turned around, Michael assessed her with a critical eye, his sexy arms crossed over his chest.

“Can I look?” she whispered.

A small smile formed on his lips, and he nodded toward the raised area in front of the mirrors where he did fittings.

She stepped onto the dais and felt her heart stutter, reboot, and resume. The dress was a smooth ivory sheath that followed the lines of her body from her knees to her chest. The fabric of the bodice fluted just off center in such a way that it gave the impression she was a curvaceous calla lily. Her nipples were not visible.

It was perfect. Simple. Modest but daring. Her.

She ran her hands over her hips, turned around, and gasped at what the expert construction of the dress did to her behind. Her butt had never looked so pert and voluptuous. She settled a hand over the ripe curve of one cheek, and Michael cleared his throat.

He stepped onto the dais and trailed his fingers down her sides. “I’m happy with the fit. My hands knew the size of you.”

“I love it. Thank you, Michael.”

“My gift to you. For all the birthdays when I didn’t know you. When is your birthday?”

Warmth effervesced inside her like champagne. A gift. From Michael. That he’d made with his own hands. Each seam, each thread, each piece of fabric had been chosen just for her. “The summer solstice, June twenty-first. You?”

“June twentieth. But I’m two years younger than you.”

“Do you mind that I’m older?” She knew men often liked younger women.

He grinned. “Not at all. I crushed on older women when I was growing up. I can still see Ms. Rockaway bending over in her tweed skirt to pick up the chalkboard eraser.”

“Who was she?” Unpleasant emotion speared through Stella.

“Chemistry teacher sophomore year. I hope you’re jealous, so you know how I feel about Dexter kissing you,” he said, his face thoughtful as he ran his fingertips down her arm.

“Dexter?”

“Maybe Stewart. That’s a good name for the kind of guy I’m picturing.”

“Don’t picture him.”

“Mortimer.”

She laughed. “No.”

“Niles.”

“Michael.”

“Don’t tell me his name is Michael.”

“It’s not. You’re my only Michael. Do you really want to know his name?”

He was quiet for a moment before he released a heavy breath and said, “It’s better if I don’t. Since you don’t want me to beat the shit out of him.” When she stiffened at his language, a hard smile touched his lips.

She caught her breath, unsure what to say. It wasn’t Philip she cared about. It was Michael. If he went after Philip, there could be awful consequences. Lawsuits, jail, HR claims. Even though she would have liked to see Michael in action, one nasty kiss wasn’t worth all that.

“I’m glad you like the dress,” Michael said with a softening expression. “I’m looking forward to seeing you wear it tomorrow.”

---

After a lunch of catfish soup with pineapple and celery over rice, Stella rushed back to the office. She wanted to look at the data again.

Philip lifted a hand at her when she passed by, but she didn’t have time to deal with him. She strode past his office, tossed her purse in her desk drawer, and sat down, clicking through screens on her monitors until she came to the function she’d formulated to model men’s purchasing behavior with regard to high-end boxer shorts. It was an elegant equation with five key variables that included things like age and income bracket and several minor variables.

She’d boiled the termination of male purchasing of boxers down to a single binary variable, β, and had found markers that led to its activation, things like increased spending on fine dining and luxury gifts. It seemed counterintuitive to Stella that in a time of decreased price sensitivity, men suddenly quit buying their underwear. Even luxury boxers weren’t that expensive.

Now, as she looked at the math and the numbers, Michael’s words trickled through her brain. Women like to take care of the people they love. Somehow, some way, Stella had used market data, math, and statistics, to quantify love into a single variable.

β was love.

β was a zero or a one. A yes or a no.

And it was overwhelmingly linked to the time when men quit purchasing their own underwear. It wasn’t an absolute, of course. People were people, and they hated to be entirely predictable. But it was a visible trend. You could gamble with this data and win more than you lost.

If a woman purchased underclothes for a man, it meant she loved him.

Stella was fully capable of purchasing underclothes.

She left work early that day to go shopping. When she returned home with her find, she wrapped it in a red bow and hid it at the bottom of the drawer Michael had appropriated for his underclothes. If he stopped buying boxers now, it meant he loved her back.

If he loved her, her labels wouldn’t matter. She’d tell him everything.