The Kiss Quotient (The Kiss Quotient 1)

“If I see her, I will,” he said. But judging from the tone of his voice, he thought the likelihood of his seeing her mother was low.

“That would be in about a month at the benefit dinner she’s throwing. If you want to come with me, that is. You don’t have to,” she added quickly.

The muscles in his jaw worked as he considered her. “Do you want me to come?”

She nodded. “She’s threatened to matchmake if I don’t have a date.” And she only wanted to be with Michael. No one else.

“Very dire, indeed. When is it?”

“A Saturday evening. Formal attire. That shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

The corner of his mouth kicked up, but the tension around his eyes remained. “All right, I’ll mark it on my calendar. I’d be happy to go.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

She bit her lip, hesitated, but decided to go ahead and say it. “Will you make my dress?”

He searched her eyes for a long moment. “Okay.”

“I’ll pay for it, of course—”

“Wait until you see it first,” he said, bringing her hand up to his mouth so he could kiss her knuckles.

“I’m going to love it.”

He shook with another laugh. “I think you will.”

Dinner arrived, and conversation—real conversation—continued at a steady pace as they ate food spiced with lemongrass, makrut lime leaves, basil, and red chili peppers that burned her lips. She asked Michael about his favorite designers—Jean Paul Gaultier, Issey Miyake, and Yves Saint Laurent—and learned he’d gone to fashion school in San Francisco. He asked when she’d discovered her love of economics—high school—and when she’d had her first boyfriend—never. He’d gone steady with a girl in fourth grade, spending time with her primarily on the school bus. Stella ate more than she normally would have. She wanted to drag this out.

When the bill came, she grabbed for it, but Michael handed the waiter his credit card with adept smoothness. She narrowed her eyes.

This wasn’t the first time he’d insisted on paying for things with her, and it made her intensely uncomfortable. Living expenses like these were inconsequential to her, and he clearly had money troubles. Why wouldn’t he let her pay? How could they work around this? She had no idea how to discuss monetary things without insulting him.

On their way out of the restaurant, Michael said, “I need to stop at my place to pick up my clothes. I forgot about it until you reminded me.”

“Does that mean I can see it?” Or was she making assumptions by thinking they were spending the night together?

“If you really want to. It’s nothing special.” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking charmingly ill at ease.

“It can’t be worse than my place.?

?

“What do you mean by that?”

“My place is empty and . . . sterile.” People called her that when they thought she wasn’t listening.

He ran his fingers across her cheek and down her hair. “It just needs furniture. Come on, then. It’s really close to here.”

By really close, he might have said he lived in the apartment complex right next door. It would have saved her from trying to find a place to park. After circling the packed parking lot unsuccessfully, he told her to take his assigned spot, and he parked a ways out on the street as she waited for him by the complex’s water garden.

Taking her hand, he led her up a set of outdoor stairs to his third-floor apartment. “I didn’t clean before I left, so expect the worst. Don’t have a heart attack, okay?”

She braced herself. “I promise.”

{ CHAP+ER }