The Kiss Quotient (The Kiss Quotient 1)

When he opened the door and prepared to enter, she stiffened and dug in her feet. “I forgot to bring something. Google says I’m supposed to bring something. Let me go and—”

“It’s fine, Stella.” He wrapped an arm around her waist and propelled her into the house.

Inside the entryway, she shut her eyes and took a breath. He could see her absorbing the silence, feel her body relaxing against his arm.

“You know you can always tell me when things bother you, right? Like the TV last night . . . or the club last week.”

Her eyelids fluttered open, but instead of looking at him, she stared off to the side, suddenly tense all over again. “Did Quan say something to you?”

Michael hesitated to answer. Something told him it was extremely important to her that he didn’t know, so he did what he’d learned from his dad even though he hated it. He lied. “Only that the noise and crowd were too much for you. Why didn’t you tell me? I wish you had.”

“I already told you I don’t like it when people have to act differently for me.”

“We could have done something else,” he said in exasperation. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her or make her uncomfortable.

“Why are there oranges here?” she asked, indicating the plate of oranges next to the urn of incense and bronze Buddha statue on the table in the entryway.

“Don’t change the subject.”

She sighed. “Fine. It embarrasses me. A lot.”

All that self-torture . . . because it embarrassed her to admit she was different? His insides melted down, and he grabbed her hand and squeezed.

“Can you tell me about the oranges now?”

He smiled at her single-mindedness. “It’s an offering for the dead. Supposedly, they get hungry in the afterlife,” he said with an uncomfortable shrug. As a scientist type, she had to think this was silly. He did, too, but it was something Ngo?i and his mom liked to do.

A small smile played over her lips. “Do you give them other kinds of food, too? I’d get tired of fruit all the time, myself. How about candy?”

He laughed. “You’ve had enough candy today.”

“What do you do with the fruit now that it’s been offered? I assume the dead don’t actually rise and consume it . . .”

“We eat it. I’m not entirely clear on how long you’re supposed to wait, but at least a day or so, I think.”

“Hm.” She inspected the Buddha statue, angled her head so she could see behind it. Judging by her expression, she was fascinated, and he recalled that she loved martial arts films and DramaFever. She did not look condescending or bored or imposed upon. She did not look like his dad.

“Do you feel like you’ve entered the set of an Asian drama? Is that what’s going on here?” he asked.

“This is better. This is real life.” She pointed to the box of incense hidden away behind the statue. “Can I light one? Will you show me how to do it? I’ve always wanted to.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t actually know how. I mean, I don’t remember the order of the lighting and the bowing and all that. When I was little, I refused to do it, and Ngo?i stopped requesting it.”

“Does it take very long?” she asked with a frown.

The corner of his mouth tipped up sheepishly. “I don’t think so, no. Let’s go say hi to my mom and grandma, and then I’ll feed you. Okay?”

“Okay.”

She followed him through the dining room and into the kitchen where Sophie and Evie were dishing rice noodles, shredded mint and lettuce, and barbecued beef into large bowls. They looked to be back on speaking terms. Considering their track record of enemies one day, best friends the next, that was about right. Ngo?i and his mom were slicing up heaps of mangoes at the informal seating area where they did all their eating—the formal dining table was for presentation only. Ngo?i was dressed in her favorite black knit cardigan, and his mom wore a Christmas sweater even though it wasn’t holiday season.

“Hi Ngo?i, M?,” Michael said.

His mom nodded at him before considering Stella. “Welcome back. Dinner’s ready soon. Sit and eat, ah?”

Stella smiled, but her grip on his hand was fierce. “Sure, thank you. It looks good.”

“These two are Sophie and Evie. They’re not twins,” he said, bringing her to the kitchen island that was covered with food stored in brand-new Pyrex containers. “Sophie—the one with that red stripe in her hair, God, when did you get that?—is an interior decorator, and Evie is a physical therapist.”