The Kiss Quotient (The Kiss Quotient 1)
“You’d have to stand still for a long time. It’s not sexy. Would you really want that?” His tone was matter-of-fact, but the look in his eyes was not. It took Stella a moment before she realized it was vulnerability.
Was it possible Michael didn’t think someone could be interested in him for more than his body?
“I’ve had clothes made for me before, remember? I know what it’s like. It’s worth it to me. You’re talented. I want your designs.”
“That’s right. I forgot.” That boyish grin flashed again, looking almost shy, and she wanted to wrap herself around him and hold him forever.
“I’ve been expecting news from you,” she whispered.
His smile faded as his expression went serious. “I needed to think about it.”
“Are you accepting my proposal?” Please don’t say no.
“Are you sure you still want to issue it?”
“Of course.” She couldn’t think of a single reason why she would have changed her mind.
“No sex?”
She took a breath and nodded. “That’s right.”
Leaning forward, he asked in a low voice, “So you can be sure the next man to kiss you or touch you only does it because he wants to?”
“Y-yes.” She leaned toward him as she anticipated his answer, almost afraid to exhale.
“I accept.”
She smiled in dizzying relief. “Thank—”
He tipped her face upward with a hand on her jaw and kissed her. Electric sensation crackled through her. If it weren’t for the counter, she would have fallen. At her murmur, he deepened the kiss, taking her mouth with his tongue in the same way she wanted him to—
The door behind the counter opened, and someone marched out.
They tore apart like guilty teenagers. Michael cleared his throat and busied himself with the clothes on the counter. Stella pursed her lips, tasted Michael on her skin, and wiped the moisture away with the back of her hand.
From the look on the older woman’s face, she’d seen everything . . . and was curious. Round-lensed glasses perched on the top of her head at a gravity-defying angle, and her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, though several strands stood out in busy disarray. She wore a hound’s-tooth sweater and green plaid pants. Like Michael, she wore a measuring tape around her neck.
The woman held out a deconstructed garment and pointed to a section of a seam. The two of them proceeded to speak in a rapid, tonal language that had to be Vietnamese.
As he bent over the garment with that sexy thinking look on his face, the woman aimed a distracted smile at Stella and patted Michael’s arm. “I taught him when he was little, and now he teaches me back.”
Stella eked out a smile. Had his mother just caught them kissing? She tried to find similarities between them, but nothing stuck out. Michael’s facial features were a striking balance of eastern edges and western angles. Broad shouldered, thick, and vital, he towered over the petite woman.
Stella pushed her glasses up and smoothed her hands over her skirt, wishing she had a white lab coat and a stethoscope.
On the other side of the open back door, racks of in-process clothes and various commercial sewing machines cluttered a large workspace. A mechanized circular rack carrying clothes in plastic wrap occupied the far left side of the room, and countless spools of thread in every shade imaginable lined the walls. The little old lady from earlier sat on a worn couch in the right corner, watching muted television on an ancient CRT. The lawn shears were nowhere in sight.
“What do you do for a living? Are you a doctor?” the woman asked with ill-disguised hope.
“No, I’m an econometrician.” Stella linked her fingers together and stared at the tips of her shoes, awaiting disappointment.
“Is that economics?”
Stella’s eyes darted back up in surprise. “Yes, it is, but with more math.”
“Has your girlfriend met Janie yet?” she asked Michael.
Michael looked up from his garment, his expression worried. “Mom, no, she hasn’t met Janie, and she isn’t my—” He stopped speaking, and his gaze jumped from his mom to Stella.