The Kiss Quotient (The Kiss Quotient 1)

“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?”