by Helen Hoang
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.
{ CHAP+ER }
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.