The Kiss Quotient

by Helen Hoang

  She coughed to clear her throat of the sound of hot dream sex. “Hello?”

  “Ms. Lane, I can’t make it today. My daughter is sick, and the daycare won’t take her.”

  “Oh, that’s fine. Thanks for calling. I hope she gets better soon.”

  “Can I make it up next week?”

  “Sure, no problem.” She glanced at the clock, and her heart almost stopped. It was just short of eight o’clock. She was usually sitting at her desk by now.

  She’d almost hit the end button when she heard her housekeeper say, “Oh, Ms. Lane, you’ll want to take your clothes to the dry cleaners since I can’t do it.”

  “Oh, all right. Thanks for reminding me.”

  “No problem. Good-bye.”

  Stella considered skipping the dry cleaners. Not only did she not know which one she used, she didn’t like the idea of ruining her morning routine by adding an extra step. It was . . . irritating and anxiety-causing. New place. New people. And after the disaster at the club, her tolerance for new things was at an all-time low.

  In the end, it was the idea of having the wrong number of skirts and shirts hanging in her closet that had her perusing Yelp for nearby dry cleaners. She settled on an establishment that was ranked above all the others even though it was a little out of the way.

  Off routine and harried for time—her boss would probably call the police when he didn’t see her in the office first thing—she drove east down El Camino Real, leaving Palo Alto and entering Mountain View. After about five minutes, she turned into the parking lot of a small strip mall with well-maintained wooden shingle siding and oak trees along the front sidewalk. Old-fashioned signs labeled a coffee shop, a martial arts studio, a sandwich place, and Paris Dry Cleaning and Tailors.

  She looped her purse and bag of clothes over her shoulder and clicked over the asphalt toward the dry cleaners. A tiny old lady with a hunched back, chipmunk cheeks, and sunken lips stood before the doors. A paisley scarf had been folded along the diagonal, wrapped around her head, and tied beneath her chin. She was quite possibly the cutest grown human Stella had ever seen.

  She held a massive pair of lawn shears in her gnarled hands, brandishing them ineffectually at the oak tree in front of the store.

  When Stella halted, bewildered and amazed by the sight, the old lady flipped the shears around with a dangerous swinging motion, nearly slicing her own leg off in the process, and offered the handles to her. She pointed at Stella and then the tree.

  Stella looked over her shoulder, but, as she’d suspected, the old lady truly meant her. “I don’t think I should . . .”

  The old lady pointed at a low branch on the tree. “Cut.”

  Stella searched about the parking lot, but there wasn’t anyone else here. She stepped onto the sidewalk and took the giant and very heavy shears from the lady. These things were a lawsuit waiting to happen. “Maybe we should call the landscaping company. They’d probably be happy to send someone . . .”

  The old lady shook her head. Once again, she pointed at Stella’s chest and then the tree. “Cut.”

  “Cut this?” She indicated the low branch with the tip of the shears.

  “Mmmmm.” The old lady nodded enthusiastically, her black eyes shining within her wrinkled face.

  It appeared Stella had no choice. If she didn’t do it, she feared the old lady would try doing it herself and mortally wound herself in the process. How she managed to hold the shears without slipping all the discs in her spine was a mystery.

  Moving awkwardly in her high heels with her bags over her shoulder and enormous shears in her hands, she prepared to step into the landscaping at the base of the tree so she could get near enough to cut the branch down.

  “No no no no no.”

  Stella froze with one foot in the air, her heart hopping around her chest like a Mexican jumping bean.

  The old lady pointed at the landscaping, which, now that she looked more closely, was not landscaping at all. It looked like . . . an herb garden.

  Teetering, Stella dropped her foot in the dirt between plants.

  “Mmmmm,” the old lady murmured before pointing at the branch again. “You cut.”

  Through a miracle or adrenaline-induced superhuman strength, Stella lifted the shears above her head, wedged them around the base of the small branch, and snipped it free. The branch fell onto the cement sidewalk like a felled bird. When the old lady set a hand on her knee and prepared to bend over to retrieve it, Stella hurried away from the tree and grabbed it for her.

  The old lady smiled as she took the branch and patted Stella’s shoulder. Then she eyed Stella’s laundry bag, pulled the lip open so she could peer inside, and placed her hand on the strap, steering Stella toward the front doors of the dry cleaners. The old lady pushed the glass door open with surprising strength. After Stella entered, the old lady snatched the shears, hid them behind her back like no one would notice them there, and disappeared through a door behind the vacant front counter.

  Stella gazed about, taking in the two headless mannequins in the window display who modeled a precisely constructed black tux and a form-fitting lace wedding gown. The interior of the store was calming blue-gray walls, soft white draping curtains, and lots of natural light.

  A fitting was going on in an adjacent room. A respectable-looking matron in a sleeveless white jumpsuit stood on a raised platform before a trifold of mirrors.

  Stella went numb with astonishment.

  At the woman’s feet kneeled Michael.

  He wore loose jeans and a plain white T-shirt that stretched around his biceps, looking wholesome and beautiful and completely at home. A measuring tape looped behind his neck and dangled down his chest, and his sculpted wrist sported a small pincushion, replete with dozens of protruding pins. Balanced over his right ear was a blue chalk pencil.

  “What kind of heels are you planning to wear with this?” he asked.

  “I was planning on these, actually.” The lady pulled her pant leg up to reveal regular white pumps.

  “You should go open toe, Margie. And one inch higher.”

  Margie’s lips thinned, and she angled her foot, turned it side to side. After a moment, she nodded. “You’re right. I have just the pair.”

  “I’m going to add another inch to the hem, then. How does the waist feel?”

  “It’s too comfortable.”

  “I figured you planned to eat in this.”

  “My tailor thinks of everything.” She pivoted and stared at the profile of her pinned-up waistline in the mirrors.

  Michael rolled his eyes, but he smiled. “Remember the lipstick.”

  “Yes, yes, how could I forget? Fire-engine red. You’ll have this ready by next Friday?”

  “Yeah, it’ll be ready.”

  “Excellent.”

  She slinked off to a changing room in the jumpsuit, and Michael picked up a floral print garment that had been draped over the back of a chair. He adjusted the pins and snatched the chalk pencil from above his ear to mark the fabric, his eyes focused and his hands competent.

  Inside Stella’s mind, missing pieces clicked into place. This was Michael in his natural state. This was what he did when he wasn’t escorting. Michael was a tailor.

  He shook the garment out and draped it over his arm before turning to retrieve yet another pin-strewn piece.

  Catching sight of her from his peripheral vision, he said, “I’ll be with you in a sec—” His eyes locked on hers, and his face went slack.

  He froze.

  She froze.

  “How did you . . . ?” He glanced out the front windows like maybe he’d find the answer to his unfinished question outside.

  Her heart pitter-pattered. This had to look really bad—stalker bad. Not fair, not fair. She’d only just realized she was obsessed with him today. She hadn’t had time to
stalk him like a fanatic. Now, she’d cost herself whatever slim chance she’d had at a full-time arrangement.

  She backed up a step. “I’ll go.”

  He strode quickly across the room and caught her hand before she could leave. “Stella . . .”

  Her whole arm jumped in response to his touch, and she wanted to cry. “I just needed my clothes dry-cleaned. I didn’t know you worked here. I-I’m not stalking. I know it looks bad.”

  His expression softened. “It actually looks like you have clothes in need of dry cleaning.” He lifted the bag of clothes from her shoulder. “Let me ring you up.”

  He took her things to the front counter and began counting shirts with professional efficiency. His cheeks, however, were unusually pink.

  “Is this awkward?” she asked, hating that she was making him uncomfortable.

  “A little. Believe it or not, this is the first time I’ve run into a client here. Seven shirts. I’m assuming seven skirts, too.” He counted them out into a separate pile and searched her face. “Do you work every day?”

  She nodded jerkily. “I prefer the office on the weekends.”

  His mouth tilted up at the corner. “You would.” There was no judgment from him, no criticism, no advice that it was bad for her health and her social life. He didn’t think there was something wrong with her. Stella wanted to leap over the counter and throw herself into his arms.

  He began to set the laundry bag aside when he noticed there was still something inside. As he upended it, the blue dress tumbled out.

  His eyes lifted to hers and smoldered.

  Stella gripped the counter as ice cream memories flickered through her head. Chilled silken lips, mint chocolate chip, and the taste of his mouth. Unhurried kisses in a room full of people.

  “Do you have any special directions for your clothes?” he asked in a rough voice.

  Blinking away her memories, she forced her mind into the present. “No starch. I don’t like the feel of it on—”

  “Your skin,” he finished, running his thumb over the back of her hand.

  She nodded and searched for something to say. Her gaze landed on the blue cocktail dress. “I bought this dress because I liked the color and the fabric.” With its crisp silk texture and structure, it must have complemented Michael’s gorgeous suit nicely . . . “The suit,” she whispered. “Did you make it?”

  His eyelashes swept downward, and a boyish grin covered his face. “Yeah.”

  Her mouth fell open. If he could do that, then why in the world was he escorting?

  “My grandfather was a tailor. Apparently, it runs in my blood. I like making clothes.”

  “Would you make clothes for me?”

  “You’d have to stand still for a long time. It’s not sexy. Would you really want that?” His tone was matter-of-fact, but the look in his eyes was not. It took Stella a moment before she realized it was vulnerability.

  Was it possible Michael didn’t think someone could be interested in him for more than his body?

  “I’ve had clothes made for me before, remember? I know what it’s like. It’s worth it to me. You’re talented. I want your designs.”

  “That’s right. I forgot.” That boyish grin flashed again, looking almost shy, and she wanted to wrap herself around him and hold him forever.

  “I’ve been expecting news from you,” she whispered.

  His smile faded as his expression went serious. “I needed to think about it.”

  “Are you accepting my proposal?” Please don’t say no.

  “Are you sure you still want to issue it?”

  “Of course.” She couldn’t think of a single reason why she would have changed her mind.

  “No sex?”

  She took a breath and nodded. “That’s right.”

  Leaning forward, he asked in a low voice, “So you can be sure the next man to kiss you or touch you only does it because he wants to?”

  “Y-yes.” She leaned toward him as she anticipated his answer, almost afraid to exhale.

  “I accept.”

  She smiled in dizzying relief. “Thank—”

  He tipped her face upward with a hand on her jaw and kissed her. Electric sensation crackled through her. If it weren’t for the counter, she would have fallen. At her murmur, he deepened the kiss, taking her mouth with his tongue in the same way she wanted him to—

  The door behind the counter opened, and someone marched out.

  They tore apart like guilty teenagers. Michael cleared his throat and busied himself with the clothes on the counter. Stella pursed her lips, tasted Michael on her skin, and wiped the moisture away with the back of her hand.

  From the look on the older woman’s face, she’d seen everything . . . and was curious. Round-lensed glasses perched on the top of her head at a gravity-defying angle, and her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, though several strands stood out in busy disarray. She wore a hound’s-tooth sweater and green plaid pants. Like Michael, she wore a measuring tape around her neck.

  The woman held out a deconstructed garment and pointed to a section of a seam. The two of them proceeded to speak in a rapid, tonal language that had to be Vietnamese.

  As he bent over the garment with that sexy thinking look on his face, the woman aimed a distracted smile at Stella and patted Michael’s arm. “I taught him when he was little, and now he teaches me back.”

  Stella eked out a smile. Had his mother just caught them kissing? She tried to find similarities between them, but nothing stuck out. Michael’s facial features were a striking balance of eastern edges and western angles. Broad shouldered, thick, and vital, he towered over the petite woman.

  Stella pushed her glasses up and smoothed her hands over her skirt, wishing she had a white lab coat and a stethoscope.

  On the other side of the open back door, racks of in-process clothes and various commercial sewing machines cluttered a large workspace. A mechanized circular rack carrying clothes in plastic wrap occupied the far left side of the room, and countless spools of thread in every shade imaginable lined the walls. The little old lady from earlier sat on a worn couch in the right corner, watching muted television on an ancient CRT. The lawn shears were nowhere in sight.

  “What do you do for a living? Are you a doctor?” the woman asked with ill-disguised hope.

  “No, I’m an econometrician.” Stella linked her fingers together and stared at the tips of her shoes, awaiting disappointment.

  “Is that economics?”

  Stella’s eyes darted back up in surprise. “Yes, it is, but with more math.”

  “Has your girlfriend met Janie yet?” she asked Michael.

  Michael looked up from his garment, his expression worried. “Mom, no, she hasn’t met Janie, and she isn’t my—” He stopped speaking, and his gaze jumped from his mom to Stella.

  His dilemma was perfectly clear. What did they call one another in public situations now?

  “She’s not what?” his mom asked in confusion.

  He cleared his throat as he focused on the garment in his hands. “She hasn’t met Janie.”

  Warmth splashed at Stella’s body in unexpected waves. He didn’t correct his mom. Did that mean they were going by boyfriend and girlfriend in public situations?

  A desperate yearning gripped Stella, surprising her in its intensity.

  “Who’s Janie?” Stella managed to ask. She remembered that name from before.

  “Janie is his sister.” There was a thinking slant to his mom’s eyes before she brightened and said, “You should come to our house for dinner tonight. Talk to Janie about economics, ah? She’s studying that at Stanford and is trying to get a job. His other sisters will want to meet you, too. We didn’t know he had a new girlfriend.”

  His mom’s words swamped whatever giddiness she’d experienced from bei
ng called Michael’s girlfriend. House. Dinner. Sisters. The words rattled around in her head, refusing to make sense.

  “Just come, ah? Even if you two have plans, you still have to eat. Michael can make bún. His bún is very good . . . I forgot to ask. What is your name?”

  Dazed, she said, “Stella, Stella Lane.”

  “Call me Mẹ.” It sounded like meh, but with an unusual tonal dip in the middle.

  “Mẹ?” Stella repeated.

  His mother smiled her approval. “Don’t eat anything before you come, ah? We have lots of food.” With that, she brushed her hands together like business was settled, filled out the invoice slip for Stella’s clothes, and handed it to her. “This will be ready Tuesday morning.”

  In a state of panic, Stella stuffed the slip into her purse, murmured a quiet thank-you, and walked out to her car, passing by his grandmother’s herb garden—at least, she assumed the old lady was his grandmother. As she sat down in the driver’s seat, his mom’s words repeated in her head.

  House. Dinner. Sisters.

  The front door swung open and Michael jogged to her side. She opened the window, and he propped his hands on the side of the car. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.” A notch formed between his eyebrows as he hesitated. “But maybe . . .”

  “Maybe what?” she heard herself ask.

  “Maybe it’s the kind of practice you wanted.”

  “You’d let me practice with your family?” The fact that he trusted her with the important people in his life touched her in ways she didn’t understand, made her feel off-kilter. That yearning from earlier returned.

  “Would you be good to them?” he asked with a searching gaze.

  “Yes, of course.” She always strove to be good to people.

  “And keep our arrangement between us? They don’t know about . . . what I do.”

  She nodded. That went without saying.

  “Then I’m okay with it. If you want to. Do you?”

  “Yes, I do.” But not because she wanted practice.

  “Let’s do it, then.” His eyes fell to her lips. “Come closer.”