The Kiss Quotient (The Kiss Quotient 1)

A wide smile stretched over Michael’s mom’s face, and she set her peeler and the plate she’d used to gather mango peels in front of the empty chair to her left. When Stella unbuttoned her cuffs, Michael flashed her a grin and turned on the gas range.

As she washed her hands in the kitchen sink, she watched him heat a large wok, pour oil in, and add ingredients in the careless, yet somehow intentional manner of someone who knew how to cook. By the time she sat down next to his mom, the air was heavy with the scents of barbecuing beef, garlic, lemongrass, and fish sauce. He’d rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and she couldn’t help admiring his sculpted forearms as he stirred the contents of the wok.

It took effort to redirect her attention to the mango, and she’d just begun to peel the large fruit his mom had handed her when the tinkling of a piano in another room caught her attention. The opening notes of “Für Elise” clashed with the vibrato trilling from the TV, and Stella blinked as the sounds tore her head in multiple directions, making it difficult to think.

“That’s Janie playing,” his mom said. “She’s good, ah?”

Stella nodded distractedly. “She is. The piano’s out of tune, though. Especially the bass A.” Every time that flat note rang, she winced inside. “You should get it tuned. It’s bad for the piano to leave it untuned too long.”

His mom’s brows rose in interest. “Do you know how to tune pianos?”

“No.” She laughed. The idea of trying to tune her Steinway herself was ludicrous. She’d probably destroy the instrument with her bungling. “You should never tune your piano yourself.”

“Michael’s dad used to tune ours,” his mom said with a frown as she focused on cutting the giant seed from her peeled mango. “He did a good job. He said it was a waste of money when he knew how.”

“Where is he? When can he fix it?”

His mom pushed away from the table with a tight smile. “I have something for you to try. Let me heat it up.”

While Michael’s mom dug in the fridge, his grandma pointed to the bowl of already sliced mango. Stella dutifully plucked a small slice from the bowl and ate it, enjoying the sweet tang of the fruit. His grandma mmmmed and returned to peeling her mango.

Stella released a small breath as her stomach relaxed. She liked sitting with Grandma most of all. The language barrier made conversation next to impossible, and that was perfectly fine with Stella. “Für Elise” ended, and the tension in her head eased as the sources of sound dropped from two to one.

A youngish sister in jeans, a T-shirt, and a messy ponytail flopped into the kitchen, picked a bean sprout from a colander on the center island, and popped it in her mouth. When she noticed Stella, she waved. “Stella, right? I’m Janie.” She plucked another bean sprout from the colander, but her mom slapped the back of her hand, and she yanked her hand back with a yelp. Her mom stuck a container in the microwave and shooed her toward the table with a fast torrent of Vietnamese.

Janie sat across from her with an easy grin that was higher on one side—Michael’s grin. “So how do you like the Vietnamese opera?”

Stella lifted her shoulder in a noncommittal way.

Janie laughed and ate a large mango slice. “That good, huh?”

Before Stella could think up a response, Michael’s mom set a plastic container on the table and opened the lid. Steam rose from a light green spongy cake. “Eat, ah? Bánh bò. It’s very good.”

Stella set her peeler and fruit down and stretched a hand toward the container when she noticed it was cheap plastic, like the kind takeout came in. “You shouldn’t microwave these kinds of containers. The food probably has BPA in it now.” It was basically poison as far as Stella was concerned.

His mom pulled the container close and smelled the cake. “No, it’s fine. No BPA.”

“Glass or Pyrex are more expensive, but they’re safe,” Stella said. How had no one told Michael’s mom this? Did they want her to get sick?

“I use these all the time, and no problem.” Blinking rapidly, his mom held the lid of the container to her chest.

“You wouldn’t notice right away. It’s repeated exposure over time. You should really invest—”

Janie snatched the plastic container from her mom and stuffed a piece of green poison cake into her mouth. “These are my favorite. I love them.” Sending Stella a pointed look, Janie had a second one.

Michael marched to the table and took the container from his sister before she could eat a third piece. “It’s true, M?. These containers really are bad. I never thought about it. You shouldn’t use them.”

When he tossed it in the garbage, his mom protested in Vietnamese. Was the lady upset because Stella didn’t want anyone to eat poison?

Janie pushed away from the table and left the kitchen as two girls stormed inside. They were both twenty-something with long dark brown hair, pale olive-toned skin, and lean, leggy builds. If Stella hadn’t already learned the hard way that questions like this irritated people, she would have asked if they were twins.

“You fat cow, why didn’t you ask before you took it and spilled wine on it? While you were making out with my boyfriend?” one girl shouted.

Stella flinched, and her already anxious heart squeezed. Fighting was her absolute least favorite thing. When people fought, it always felt like a personal attack for her. It didn’t matter if she was just a bystander.

“You said you two were through, and I was curious. Also, I wouldn’t have spilled all over it if it fit right. Who’s the fat cow now?” the second girl shouted back.

Grandma picked up a black remote and squinted at the buttons. As vertical green lines crawled across the screen and the volume climbed, the music went from distracting to unpleasant.