23

Michael raked a hand through his hair as he stared at the suits hanging in Stella’s closet, trying to pick out the one he’d wear to the benefit tonight. He was going to meet her parents. Every nerve in his body told him it was going to go terribly, but he would still drag himself there.

Stella had asked him to come.

She peeked into the doorway, grinning. “Can’t decide which one?”

“You pick.”

Shyly, she stepped into the closet. She was holding the dress he’d made to her chest. “Zip me first?”

Because he couldn’t resist, he kissed her neck, sucking on the sweet skin as he searched underneath the loose bodice and palmed her tits. When he pinched her nipples, her breath hitched in the sexiest way.

“We’re going to be late if you keep that up.”

“Everyone’s late to these kinds of things.” He bit her nape as he stroked a hand over her belly and prepared to slip into her panties. He loved touching her there, loved the way she responded.

“My parents are never late. They want to meet you.”

His hand froze in mid-descent. Because he couldn’t bring himself to say he wanted to meet them—why would he want to meet people who were bound to disapprove of him?—he said, “It should be interesting.”

“Thank you for coming with me. I know you’d rather do other things.”

He’d rather do prom fittings, but he didn’t say that. “You know how I like to wear suits.” That, at least, was true. He withdrew his hand from her dress and pulled the zipper up.

“A three-piece. I love you in three-piece suits.”

“The black one, then. It’ll look good with your dress.”

She grinned as she turned to face him. “Everything looks good with my dress. People are going to ask where I got it. Can I tell them it’s a Michael Larsen original?”

He hesitated as he heard his full name on her lips. “You know my real name.”

Her eyelashes swept downward. “It was on your electric bill and the uniform in your picture. Are you mad?”

“Are you?” Had she Googled him or his family? There were articles in the local papers that outlined in detail all the shit his dad had done. Had she read them? No, she couldn’t have. She wasn’t looking at him with veiled suspicion. It was only a matter of time though.

His heart crashed, and his skin went hot. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. But the clock wasn’t ticking down to the time when he exploded and hurt everyone. Now, it was ticking down to the time when she learned everything and it was over between them.

She lifted a shoulder, but she didn’t look at him, and she didn’t speak.

“You are mad,” he said in realization.

“Mad isn’t the right word.”

“What is the right word?”

“I don’t know. I felt like you didn’t trust me.” She hugged her arms around her middle. “Like you were making sure I won’t be able to find you when things end between us.”

“No, I trust you. I was just . . .” Afraid of losing her. “I hate my last name.” That, too.

“Why?”

“It’s my dad’s.”

She searched his face with her eyebrows drawn together. “Why do you hate your dad? Because he left your mom?”

He swallowed hard. If he answered that question truthfully, he’d lose her today, right now.

The badness in his heart advised him to lie. It would be so easy just to lie. That was what his dad always did.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a rush. Blinking rapidly, she adjusted her glasses and rubbed at an elbow. “It’s too personal, isn’t it? Forget I asked.”

“Stella, you can ask me things,” he said, feeling an ache start in his chest and spread outward. It wasn’t a relationship if they couldn’t talk to each other. “I hate him because of the way he left, because he’s a cheater and a bad person. I haven’t seen him in years, but I’m certain he’s out there cheating on other women, hurting other people, leaving them in the worst way. It’s what he does.”

“He left you, too?” she asked with sad eyes.

“Yeah, and all of my sisters.”

His mom had told Michael not to hold what his dad did to her against him, to forgive him, but how did you forgive someone who wasn’t even there? As fathers went, as long as they weren’t abusing you, a shitty one was still better than none. Michael had none. And trying to hold the family together by himself was breaking him apart.

She threw herself into his arms and hugged him tight, saying nothing, and Michael kissed her forehead. With each breath, her sweet Stella scent reached into him and soothed him. He needed this. He needed her. When people heard about his dad, they cursed him, and they empathized with his mom. None of them thought about what it meant to Michael. No one but Stella.

He knew he should tell her the other half of the story about his dad, but he couldn’t. He hadn’t loved her enough yet.

Setting her away from his body, he said, “We should get ready.”

---

The benefit was at an exclusive club a ways down Page Mill Road, amid lighted tennis courts, putting greens, and glowing blue swimming pools. Michael parked Stella’s Tesla in front of a large building with modern lines and the ugly brown façade typical of Palo Alto architecture.

After he helped Stella out of the car, she stared at the windows of the club. Her nervousness was obvious, but the golden light spilling from the windows made her look dreamily beautiful. Her hair was pulled up in a loose side knot, pinned in place with a white silk rosette. She hadn’t needed to bring a purse—Michael had her phone and cards in his pocket—and her empty hands arabesqued on her thighs.

“If I start talking about work, will you stop me, please?”

He took her hand in his and squeezed, feeling the cold sweat on her palm. “Why? Your work is interesting.”

“I get carried away, and I take over the conversation. It bothers people.”

“I like it when you get carried away.” That was when she was at her most captivating, when her eyes twinkled. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles.

Her mouth wobbled into an uncertain smile as she looked up at him. “That’s part of why you’re so wonderful to me.”

“I’m glad you know it.”

She laughed as he led her to the front doors. Once inside, the din of hundreds of casual conversations enveloped them. The banquet room was filled wall to wall with round tables of Silicon Valley’s finest, and a live band played low-key jazz from a stage at the back of the room. A wall composed almost entirely of windows showcased the lap pool and lighted golf course outside.

“How are you dealing with all this noise?”

She turned to face him with a startled look. “Is it bothering you, too?”

“I’m fine. You’re the one I’m worried about.” He didn’t want her to end up hyperventilating outside again.

“The noise isn’t terrible. I’m more nervous about the seating arrangements. My mom likes to surround me with new people. I’ve gotten better at the talking, but it’s still a lot of work.”

He tilted his head as he absorbed that. For him, talking was . . . talking. There wasn’t a work part. “You overthink it.”

“I have to think really hard when I talk. Otherwise I blurt out rude things, and I alienate everyone.”

“It’s because you’re so honest.”

“People don’t like honest. Except for when you’re saying good things. Figuring out what people think is good is tricky, especially when I don’t know them. It makes conversation a minefield.”

A woman who had to be Stella’s mother sailed forward in ropes of pearls and a loose, off-white dress that fell over slender curves to midcalf. Her dark hair was gathered in a bun identical to the one Stella usually wore, accentuating a facial structure Michael was very familiar with. This elegant midfifties woman was Stella in another twentysome years. Stella’s future husband was a lucky fucking bastard.

She hugged Stella and pulled back to admire her with maternal pride. “Stella dear, you look lovely.” Her attention switched to Michael, and she smiled. “And there he is. So good to see you, Michael. I’m Stella’s mother, Ann.”

She held her hand out, knuckles up, and he lifted it to his mouth to brush a quick kiss over the back. He knew he was in upper-crust territory when hand kissing was an expected greeting.

“Good to see you, Ann.”

“And his voice is beautiful, too. I just can’t get over this dress, Stella. Wherever did your personal shopper find it? You look like a flower.”

Stella beamed at him. “Michael is a designer. This is one of his creations.”

And didn’t that sound perfect coming from her lips? The only problem was he hadn’t designed much in the past three years, and he didn’t see himself getting back to it anytime soon. His mom said she didn’t need him at the shop, but with her sickness, he needed to keep an eye on her. He’d run across her unconscious body in the bathroom twice. If he hadn’t, who knew what would have happened.

Ambition could wait. He only had one mom.

If he felt stifled and suffocated in the prison of his life, that was his problem. This wasn’t going to last forever. He didn’t want her to die. He loved her. But it was an unavoidable truth that her passing would set him free.

Love, he found, was a jail. It trapped, and it clipped wings. It dragged you down, forced you to places you didn’t want to go—like this club he didn’t belong in.

Ann clasped her pearls. “Oh, isn’t that perfect for you, Stella. Did he make this himself?” She fluttered around Stella, checking the zipper, peeking inside at the construction of the dress. “Concealed seams. No tags. And it’s so soft.”

Ann looked up at Michael with glassy eyes before she whispered in Stella’s ear and kissed her cheek, making Stella blush.

“Well, come on and let me introduce you to her father.” Ann looped her arm around his and steered them toward a half-occupied table far from the band.

A middle-aged man with a bit of a potbelly, gray hair, and wire-rimmed glasses sat next to four empty seats. He was carrying on an animated conversation with the goodish-looking blond guy at his side.

“Edward, this is Michael. Michael, this is Edward, Stella’s father.”

Stella’s dad stood up and shook hands. It was a civil handshake, firm without fighting for dominance, but the light brown eyes behind his lenses examined Michael like a laboratory specimen of unknown origin. Michael felt like he had on prom night meeting his date’s dad for the first time, like he should have brought his résumé and latest STD screening results. He stifled the impulse to shake out his hands and feet like he did before he sparred in competition.

“Nice to meet you,” Michael said.

“A pleasure,” Stella’s dad said with a stiff smile that reminded Michael a lot of his own dad—well, if his dad had been remotely normal.

“This is Philip James,” Ann said, indicating the blond guy. “Philip, this is Michael, Stella’s boyfriend.”

Philip stood up and straightened a black suitcoat that fit his athletic frame in a way that would make any tailor proud. “Pleased to meet you.” The guy held his hand out politely. When Michael shook it, however, his fingers were tightened in a painful vise. What the hell? Philip’s hazel gaze was flinty as he sized Michael up. “Stella told me about you at work.”

At work? Michael glanced at Stella, and she looked away uncomfortably. The kiss. This was Dexter Stewart Mortimer Niles.

Michael released Philip’s hand before he gave in to the urge to slam him onto the table. “Philip,” he said with a terse nod.

This piece of shit had put his tongue in Stella’s mouth. He was not at all what Michael had expected. He should have been thinner, with bad posture and less muscle. He definitely should have had glasses, nice thick ones that looked like binoculars.

Seemingly oblivious to the tension thickening the air, Ann continued introducing the well-dressed people seated around the table: a single nerdy guy who fit Michael’s original perception of Philip to a T and happened to own a well-known tech company, a highly educated Indian couple, and a white-haired older woman in a lavender skirt suit whose neck, ears, and fingers dripped with enormous diamonds.

He unbuttoned his jacket and sat down between Stella and the table’s last empty seat with a composure that three years of escorting had taught him.

“So, Michael, tell me about yourself,” Stella’s dad said, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair on a calculating gaze. Yep, this was prom night all over again.

Michael knew exactly how this was going to go.

“What would you like to hear?” Michael asked.

“For starters, what do you do?”

Philip watched him with sullen interest.

Michael’s dad had wanted him to be an astrophysicist or an engineer. Near the end, his dad had settled on architect. That was still respectable. “I’m a designer.”

“Oh, how interesting. What do you design? Or does your security clearance not allow you to say?”

When he unraveled that, he almost laughed. “No, I’m not a defense contractor. I design clothes.”

“He designed Stella’s dress, honey,” Stella’s mom said with a gentle smile. “He’s remarkably talented.”

Edward’s face wrinkled in distaste, but he rallied, giving Michael the benefit of the doubt. “That must be a difficult business to get successful in. Are you working under one of those New York designers?”

“Not currently.”

“You must be creating your own line. That’s exciting,” Ann said.

“I’ve taken some time off, to be honest.”

Stella began to speak, but he grabbed her hand and shook his head slightly. He really didn’t need these people to know he did dry cleaning and alterations all day. It was bad enough it was the truth.

No, it wasn’t bad. He wasn’t ashamed of it. It was good, honest work—fuck it. What sense was there in lying to himself? Sitting next to all these people with their fancy educations and exorbitant wealth, yes, he was ashamed. He wasn’t the kind of man anyone would pair with someone like Stella.

“So . . . you do nothing?” Philip asked with a look of disbelief.

Michael schooled his features into nonchalance and shrugged. “More or less.” His mom’s illness was none of their fucking business, and he didn’t want the whole table looking at him with pity.

Matching grimaces crossed Edward’s and Philip’s faces, and Michael clenched his jaw. They probably thought he wanted to marry Stella for her money. Didn’t they know Stella was too smart for that kind of shit? When she fell in love, it would be with someone who was her match.

“I’d go crazy with boredom.” Philip’s expression turned thoughtful as he looked at Stella. “You can’t stand inactivity, can you, Stella? You’re driven, and you like knowing your work has an impact on the world. It’s why we get along so well.”

“It’s true I like working,” Stella allowed, but she cast a worried look at Michael.

“Ed, you should have seen what she did with the last project we worked on together,” Philip said. “She came at the problem in a way I’d never seen before and is single-handedly revolutionizing the way online vendors market to their customers.”

“I’m sure she couldn’t have done it without your help, Phil.” Stella’s dad grasped Philip’s shoulder fondly. So these two already knew one another? Were they golf partners or some shit? Fifteen different ways to chuck a man flitted through Michael’s mind. And what was this about her needing Philip? Stella didn’t need anyone. Not even Michael, not anymore. He wasn’t sure if she ever had.

A genuine smile curved over Stella’s lips. “That’s actually true. We work well together.”

Really. He hated the idea of her working with Philip and liking any part of it. The bastard should have irritated her as much as he did Michael. He was hit by the juvenile desire to kiss her publicly and stake his claim on her, and he removed his hand from hers before he could act. She didn’t notice. She was still smiling at Philip—her real smile, the one he usually got to himself. Fuck if that didn’t hurt like getting one of his balls torn off.

“She’s one of the few who can tolerate me. I know I’m an asshole. I have standards, and I can’t stand laziness and ineptitude.” Philip sent a telling glance Michael’s way.

Michael took a deep breath and released it slowly. He searched the walls of the room for a clock. How much more of this did he have to withstand?

The conversation at the table veered down the path of economic theory and advanced statistics, and he watched with a sinking sensation as Stella opened up and began talking. She had said to stop her if she started talking about work, but she was loving it. It was so clearly her passion in life. Michael didn’t want to deny her. Philip, for all his supposed assholishness, kept up with her in a way Michael never could.

He was reminded of that kiss. She’d said she hadn’t liked it and that Philip was annoying, but she certainly wasn’t minding interacting with him now.

Michael couldn’t help observing that Stella and Philip made a good-looking couple. With their similar interests and backgrounds, they were nauseatingly perfect for one another. He remembered that it was Philip who had inspired Stella to hire an escort in the first place. She’d wanted to make Philip hers. Maybe—fuck, he hated thinking this—maybe she should.

At the end of the day, what Michael and Stella had was physical. They didn’t connect in this cerebral manner, and he knew how important it was that Stella’s mind was stimulated.

It sucked admitting it, but he wasn’t enough for her. On several different levels. She could never love him. Michael really was nothing but practice. As the economics conversation continued, a heartsick, organ-shredding feeling gripped him. Everything felt wrong. Even his skin felt off-size.

“Oh, I’m so glad Philip’s mother was able to make it,” Ann said.

A red-nailed hand rested on the back of the chair next to Michael, and a familiar combination of scents assailed his nose. Cinnamon and cigarettes. Ice cubes clinked before a lowball glass half-filled with whiskey was set on the table.

“Hello, darlings. Sorry I’m late.” A petite woman with long bleached blond hair and a tight black cocktail dress lowered herself into the empty seat. Her profile was turned to him, but Michael recognized her. He’d kissed that jaw. “I had to make a quick stop before—” She faced him, and her expression went as surprised as the Botox allowed. “Well, well, well, hello, Michael.”

“Hello, Aliza.” What an excellent time to bump into his least-favorite former client.