The Kiss Quotient (The Kiss Quotient 1)

His mom sighed, keeping her eyes on her mango. “I don’t know.”

The answer tripped Stella up, and she frowned as she asked, “Are you divorced, then?”

“I can’t divorce him if I can’t find him.”

Stella stared at Michael’s mom in complete bafflement. “What do you mean, you can’t find him? Was he in an accident or—”

A large hand gripped her shoulder and squeezed with firm pressure. Michael. “The noodles are almost done. Do you eat peanuts?”

She blinked at the interruption. “Sure, I’m not allergic.” When he nodded and went to the kitchen island, she refocused on his mom. “How long has he been gone? Have you filed a missing-person re—”

“Stella.” Michael’s voice split through the air, a startling reprimand.

His sisters stopped arguing, and all eyes locked on her. Her heart pounded louder than the TV and the piano. What had she done?

“We don’t talk about my dad,” he said.

That didn’t make any sense. “But what if he’s hurt or—”

“You can’t hurt someone when they don’t have a heart,” his mom interrupted. “He left us all to be with another woman. I want to divorce him, but I don’t know where to send the papers. He changed his phone number.” His mom pushed her chair back and stood. “M?’s tired. You kids eat, ah? Maybe go buy something for Michael’s girlfriend if she doesn’t like what we have.”

His mom left, and the piano music ended abruptly. His grandma turned off the opera, leaving the room quiet but for the crackling of the TV’s static discharge. The sudden quietness was a relief, but it felt ominous somehow. Her blood rushed, her head throbbed, and her breaths came in short gasps like she’d been running. Or maybe she was preparing to run.

Janie hurried into the kitchen. “What just happened? Why is Mom crying?”

No one answered, but seven sets of eyes accused her. It was worse than all the noise from before, far, far worse.

She’d made Michael’s mom cry.

Stella’s face flamed with embarrassment and guilt, and she jumped to her feet. “I’m so sorry. I need to go.”

Ducking her head, she gathered her purse and fled.

* * *

• • •

Michael stared at the doorway Stella had rushed through, feeling like he’d watched a car accident in slow motion. A mix of unholy emotion coursed through his veins. Anger, horror, shame, disbelief, shock. What the fuck had just happened? What did he do now? His instincts urged him to chase after her.

“You better go check on Mom,” Janie said.

That was right. His practice girlfriend had just put his mom in tears. What a great son he was. He went to look for her without a word. With heavy feet and a heavier chest, he climbed the stairs, walked down the carpeted hall, and paused outside his mom’s bedroom. The door was ajar, and he peered around the edge, finding his mom sitting on her bed. He didn’t need to see her face to know she was crying. It was written in her slumped posture and the way her head hung.

The sight destroyed him. No one got to hurt his mom. Not his dad and not his past girlfriends. Not even Stella. “M??”

She didn’t acknowledge him as he entered the room and padded to her bedside.

“I’m sorry about all the things she said.” He tried to keep his voice low, but it came out unnaturally loud. “The piano, the food, Dad . . .”

He didn’t know how Stella had managed it, but in just a few minutes, she’d found every sensitive spot his family possessed—their tight financial situation, his mom’s lack of education, and his fucked-up dad—and poked right at them. Accidentally. That was clear as day.

Holy shit, she was bad with people. He’d had no idea how bad until tonight. When it was just the two of them, it wasn’t like this.

His mom grabbed his hand. “Do you think your dad is okay?”

“I’m sure he’s fine.” His lips twisted as he imagined his old man lounging on a yacht in the Caribbean next to his latest wife.

“Can you email him for M??”