by Helen Hoang
“I can stay the night here?” In his apartment, in his bed where clients weren’t allowed? Was she rubbing off on him, then? Maybe there was hope. Maybe he really could be hers.
“If you want to. None of your things are here, though. You’d have to use my toothbrush, and you don’t have any pajamas. You might have to sleep naked,” he said with a suggestive arch of an eyebrow.
Those things bothered her, true. She’d probably sleep terribly and feel off all day tomorrow. But it would be worth it to be with him. And to put her mark on his apartment like wild animals did—probably even the pugnacious honey badger.
“I want to stay.”
His smile alone made her decision worth it.
{ CHAP+ER }
20
Over the next week, Michael learned Stella’s rhythms.
In bed, she responded best when he went slowly and whispered dirty things in her ear, but if he wanted something more intense—anything—she was game and eager to please. He couldn’t have asked for a better lover. The irony of the situation was not lost on him.
Out of bed, she thrived on routine. She got up at the same time every day, showered away evidence of their morning sex—he loved starting the day off right—had yogurt for breakfast, and stayed at the office until six o’clock. Her evenings belonged to Michael. When they weren’t messing around like hormonal teenagers, they filled the time with long dinners, meandering conversation, and companionable silences that Michael had never experienced with a real girlfriend.
Saturday night, after spending the day perusing one of the San Francisco museums and taking turns making outlandish comments about the art, they watched another episode of Laughing in the Wind in bed. Well, she was watching it. He was watching her as he combed his fingers through her long hair.
She rested her head against his shoulder, eyes on the large screen mounted on her bedroom wall. From time to time, she gasped or stiffened in reaction to the film, and her bare legs shifted beneath the hem of the oversized white T-shirt she wore—his T-shirt from the very first night they’d spent together.
He didn’t know how to describe the way he felt seeing her in his clothes, knowing she’d kept his shirt and had been wearing it to sleep all this time, but it was really good. He’d been feeling like this a lot lately—basically, anytime Stella smiled, demanded a kiss, or crossed the room to be near him, but also when they weren’t together. He’d spent the entire past week in a euphoric high, grinning for no other reason than he was thinking of her.
No doubt about it.
Michael was stupid in love.
He knew this was temporary, knew it wasn’t real, knew it couldn’t possibly end well, but he’d done what no escort should do anyway. He’d fallen for his client.
“So she saved his life, but now she’s hiding behind that curtain pretending to be a grandma. Is he ever going to see her face?” Stella asked, drawing his attention back to the screen. “Is she the one he falls for?”
“Do you really want me to tell you?”
She thought about it for several seconds before nodding. “Yes. Tell me.”
He laughed as he pulled her closer and kissed her temple. So thoughtful and serious but so quirky, too. He loved that about her. “Too bad. You’ll have to watch it to find out.” Because he couldn’t help it, he kissed her jaw and nipped at her ear. God, it felt good having her near. He’d been made to love her.
She crossed her arms. “Why won’t she let him see her? It’s clear she likes him.”
“It’s because she knows they can never be together.”
“Why not?”
“Her dad is a villain.” Which reminded Michael of himself and his own fuckhead of a dad and shredded his insides to pieces.
“She isn’t bad, though,” she said stubbornly. “They can work it out.”
He said nothing. The heroine in the movie wasn’t a bad person, but the jury was still out on Michael. He tried to be good, but when things got hard and he felt like his life was strangling him, awful, seductive thoughts ran through his head. Shortcuts, easy ways to freedom, clever sneaky things. He knew people. It would be so easy to take advantage of them. There was very little preventing him from doing exactly that, nothing but a shaky code of ethics and the desire not to follow in his dad’s footsteps.
If he were a better person, he’d tell Stella about his past and let her take the necessary precautions, let her leave. But he couldn’t bring himself to end this. He wanted more of her, not less. And their relationship was helping her. He could tell. Day by day, her confidence grew, and she smiled, laughed, and even joked. Soon, she’d decide she was ready to move on.
Until then, Michael was determined to enjoy every moment with her. Nuzzling her sensitive neck, he swept a hand up her silk-smooth thigh and underneath his shirt. Then he groaned as his body hardened.
“No underwear? Trying to tell me something, Stella?” he whispered in her ear, loving the way she shivered and parted her legs to allow him access. She never turned him down, was just as starved for him as he was for her.
“You always throw them somewhere, and it takes me forever to find them. I figured I’d just—” She gasped when he massaged her clit, and her head fell back against his shoulder.
“Watch the show. You might miss something.” Fuck, she was wet already. Hot moisture licked over his fingertips as he traced her folds, and his cock strained against his jeans like it had been weeks since he’d last had sex, not hours. He wanted her again, that closeness, that connection, that unbelievable, mind-exploding pleasure. No amount was enough.
She tried to follow directions—she always did—but it wasn’t long before she gave in and pulled him down for a wild kiss, which led to another, and another, and another . . .
The next time he noticed the TV, it had returned to the main menu. The entire DVD had played while they were busy with other things. After washing up and turning off the TV and lights, he climbed into bed. Stella murmured as he gathered her against his chest, but she pressed a drowsy kiss to his throat.
Possessiveness mixed with tenderness, and he brushed the hair away from her face and trailed his fingertips over a smooth shoulder illuminated by moonlight.
His Stella.
For now.
Until she decided she’d had enough practice. Or she found out about his dad.
* * *
• • •
When Stella got home from work midway through the next week, an empty house greeted her. Michael had texted her that he was running late, so she’d been expecting this. What she hadn’t expected was this gaping sadness, this cold aloneness.
They’d only been in this practice relationship for a week and a half, but she’d already grown accustomed to him. Michael was part of her routine now, part of her life, and his absence sparked unrest in her being. When things ended, she’d have nothing but this emptiness.
If things ended.
If she failed at seducing him. There was nothing left on her original lesson plans. Not a single thing. She’d checked. It was time to move into full seduction mode.
She wished Michael could teach her how to do that, too, because she had no idea what she was supposed to do. Google searches provided conflicting advice, and very little of it was useful in a situation like hers where they were already in a monogamous relationship of sorts. One particularly obnoxious article had advised women to focus all their time and effort on improving their looks and then lower their standards.
Well, Stella’s standards were locked at eleven on the one-to-ten scale. Only Michael would do. As for her looks, she couldn’t bring herself to wear contacts or makeup except for special occasions. If his insatiability in bed was any indication, Michael didn’t mind her the way she was.
Her inner muscles clenched as she recalled what he’d done that morning—the way he’d kissed her, caressed her, the things he’d said
. She swept a hand from her chest down to her thigh, wishing he was touching her right now. But even if he never slept with her again, she still wanted him. The nonbedroom side of Michael appealed to her just as much as the lover side, if not more. He made her laugh, and he listened to her, even when she wasn’t saying anything particularly interesting. He was comfortable around her, and that made her comfortable around him. Sometimes she convinced herself that her labels didn’t matter. They were just words. They didn’t change who she was. If he learned about them, he wouldn’t care.
Maybe.
Out of habit, she walked to her piano. She sat on the bench and lifted the fallboard, and the cool smoothness of the keys beneath her fingers calmed her. For years, music had been her main method of coping with emotions—good ones, bad ones, and those in between. Rich chords sang from the strings, called forth by muscle memory alone, and she gave herself up to the music, let everything she was feeling pour into her fingertips. When the song ended, she kept her hands on the keys, listening as the notes faded.
“I knew you played, but I didn’t know you could play like that,” Michael said from directly behind her.
She couldn’t help grinning as she looked at him over her shoulder. “You made it back.”
His smile was tired, but it reached his eyes. In a mere fraction of a second, everything was right again. The coldness vanished. Missing pieces settled back into place.
“What song was that? I feel like I’ve heard it before,” he said.
“‘Clair de Lune’ by Debussy. It’s my favorite song.”
He rested his hands on her shoulders and brushed a kiss over her nape. “It’s beautiful, but so sad. Do you know anything happier?”
Sad. Her lips wrinkled on something that didn’t feel like a smile. That was a common theme for the pieces in her repertoire. “Well . . . maybe this.”
She bit her lip and picked the familiar melody from the piano, wondering if this was what he meant by happy.
He surprised her by sitting down on the bench next to her and saying, “I thought ‘Heart and Soul’ was a duet.”
She shrugged. “I’ve only ever played it solo.”
He captured her right hand and put it in his lap. A smile curved over his lips as he nodded his head toward the keyboard.
“You play?” she asked.
“Only a little, but I know this one.”
Breathlessness overtook her. Her fingers stumbled on the first notes, but she got into the swing of it pretty quickly. The bass half of the song was a simple repetition, a pattern, and second nature for her. When Michael wove the melody seamlessly with her accompaniment, startling warmth cascaded up her spine, and her body flushed with pleasure. She’d never played a duet with someone other than her piano instructor, and those occasions had been technical exercises, nothing special.
“You’re good at this,” she commented, glancing up at him as she continued to play.
His smile widened, but he kept his attention on his fingers. “With six of us wanting the piano at once, we had to learn to share. Also, none of us could ever figure out how to play your half with only one hand. You’re really good.”
“It’s just practice.” And necessity.
The sight of their hands side by side on the keys mesmerized Stella. The contrast was stark and beautiful: large to small, tan to pale, masculine to feminine. So different, but in perfect rhythm. They were making music. Together.
The song ended, and she let her fingers slip away from the keyboard and averted her eyes. That naked feeling was back.
He kissed her neck and smoothed his fingers along her jaw before gently urging her to meet his gaze. She thought he would speak, but he didn’t. He only smiled.
She wanted to ask if he liked being with her, if he liked this, but she struggled to muster the courage. What if he said no?
“Are you hungry? Let’s eat,” he said, and the moment disappeared.
She’d ask him later. After she’d had the opportunity to appropriately seduce him.
{ CHAP+ER }
21
A week later, Stella still had no idea what she was doing in terms of seducing Michael. He seemed happy—she knew she was—but the end of their first month was coming up, and she had no confidence that he’d want to sign on for more.
That night, his mom was having her over for dinner again. Stella racked her brain for clever ways she might ask his family for advice regarding Michael. If anyone knew him, it would be them. But how could she ask without them suspecting something was strange about her relationship with Michael? They thought she and Michael were dating for real.
As he’d instructed her to do, Stella let herself into his mom’s house and set her shoes against the wall next to Michael’s. Her black heels looked tiny next to his leather loafers, but she liked seeing them sitting next to each other. It pleased her on a fundamental level.
She placed a box of pears on the front table next to the bronze Buddha, and grunts and heavy breathing drew her attention to the sitting room to the right. She padded over and stared at a pretzel formation of limbs on the carpet by the upright piano. It seemed to contain Michael and another girl. Stella would have been jealous, but the whole ordeal looked really uncomfortable.
“Just give up and say it,” Michael gritted out.
“No, I had that armbar. You only got out because of your steroid abuse.”
“I do not use steroids, and you only got the armbar because I didn’t want to crush your boobs.”
“Going for your balls next time.”
Looking closer, Stella saw they both had their arms locked around each other’s throats. Like anacondas in a death match, neither was willing to let go.
“Maybe call it a draw?” Stella suggested.
“Hi, Stella,” a voice chirped. His sister’s face was covered in a curtain of dark hair, and Stella had no idea which one it was. There were so many of them. “Your girlfriend is here, Michael. Give up.”
“Dinner is ready in ten minutes.” The red hue to Michael’s face was rather concerning but completely self-inflicted, as far as Stella could tell. “I’ll be with you in a second.”
“Only if you’re giving up. Who’s your daddy?” his sister said as she flexed the impressive arm wrapped around his neck.
“Not some little brat.”
The two rolled on the carpet, kicking and flailing their legs.
“I’m going to say hi to your mom and grandma, then,” Stella said. She would have preferred Michael’s company when she greeted them, but this thing between Michael and his sister looked like it was going to take a while.
Neither of them responded. They probably couldn’t spare the oxygen for talking.
She meandered through the house, which was actually quite enormous—you wouldn’t guess from the outside. His mom and grandma were seated in the family room, peeling grapefruit meat from their individual segments as they spoke in musical Vietnamese. Two men in a monkey suit and a pig suit flew across the screen of the muted TV.
“Hi . . . Wai?” She bowed her head awkwardly. She could not wrap her tongue around the pronunciation of the word for grandma, ngoại.
Michael’s grandma smiled and waved her to the empty space on the aged leather sofa. As usual, she had a scarf wrapped around her head and tied under her chin. Adorable grandma. Was she staying away from the lawn shears lately?
Nodding at his mom, she said, “Hi, Mẹ,” and sat in the indicated spot, feeling her stomach knot and her muscles tense. Even though she’d seen his mom a handful of times by now, she was still horribly nervous around the woman. Every word had to be measured before Stella could let it out of her mouth, every action considered. She didn’t want to mess up again. This was Michael’s mom—the most important woman in his life since he didn’t have a real girlfriend. All thoughts of asking for advice with Michael evaporated in the face of he
r anxiety.
His mom held out a bowl of perfect, skinless yellow-green grapefruit slices. Stella had never seen grapefruit peeled quite like this, and she took a slice out of a mixture of curiosity and fear of insulting her. Once she bit into the fruit, sweetness exploded on her tongue, untarnished by the usual bitterness of the skin.
She covered her mouth in surprise. “It’s really good.”
“Have more.” His mom smiled and set the bowl down in Stella’s lap. Today she was wearing a striped pink button-down and floral print jeans. Her glasses perched on the top of her head at a distracted angle. “Get salt if you want. E likes it with salt.”
“No, thank you.” Stella ate one more, two more before she made herself stop. It looked like a lot of work peeling them this way. In an effort to keep her hands busy, she picked up half of a grapefruit and tried to copy his mom’s technique, all too aware of the stilted silence in the room.
His mom watched her peel the fruit with a tiny nod. “Michael is making bún riêu tonight. It’s really good. Has he made it for you yet?”
Stella shook her head as she trained her eyes on the grapefruit. “No, he hasn’t.” Did his mom know Michael had been spending nights at her place? Did she disapprove?
“Mommy, when is the bún riêu ready?” Janie trounced into the room and paused, smiling at her. “Hi, Stella.”
Stella returned her smile. “Hi. Michael said ten more minutes.”
Janie flopped into a scuffed armchair, throwing a jean-clad leg over the arm. “Starving and all I had for lunch was some crackers. I’ve been doing homework since ten this morning.”
Stella silently held out the bowl of peeled grapefruit while Mẹ glowered at her daughter. “You’re getting too pale.” Turning to Stella, she asked, “Can you see how pale she is?”
Janie snatched the bowl and inhaled piece after piece. Stella’s jaw almost dropped. Did she know how much time it took to peel the things?
