The Kiss Quotient(32)
Michael couldn’t stop the laughter from cracking out of his lungs. “No, I’m good on the sex advice. Thanks. But if you ever need some tips . . .”
Quan fingered the raised letters on the side of his beer bottle like he had something to say but was trying to figure out how. Pinning Michael with a weighted gaze, he finally asked, “Have you ever thought she’s kinda like Khai?”
Michael smiled slightly. “Yeah, just a little, though.” Stella was on the socially awkward side like Khai, but she was far more expressive and sensitive. “Why do you ask?”
Quan arched his eyebrows and drank his beer. “No reason.” After a moment of consideration, he pointed his bottle at Michael. “So have you two . . . you know?”
Michael took a long drag of beer. “Nope.”
“Really?” Quan grimaced. “Is she a virgin? Shit, is she saving it for marriage? Run like my mom is after you.”
Michael shrugged. “She needs me to go slow. I don’t mind. I kinda like it.” Every new response he earned from Stella felt special, just like in the old eBay commercials. It’s better when you win it. Maybe because it had always been so easy for him before.
“Fucking liar. You’re probably jacking off ten times a day.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t jacking off.”
Quan shot forward to the front of the couch. “Oh fuck, am I sitting on your come cushions?”
“Do you really wanna know?” Michael asked with a smirk.
“You’re disgusting. You know that?” Quan got up and sat on the coffee table, brushing at himself like he’d been contaminated.
Michael laughed, and the two of them spent a moment contemplating their beers.
When he couldn’t hold back any longer, Michael asked, “What did you think of Stella? Did you like her?” He braced himself for the answer, realizing he cared about his cousin’s opinion.
How stupid was that? Even if he did accept Stella’s proposal, he’d only be her practice boyfriend. Their practice relationship would end as soon as she gained the confidence to enter a real relationship with someone better.
“Yeah, she’s cute, a lot sweeter than the girls you used to go for. Your mom is going to go nuts over her.”
Michael downed the rest of his beer. Not fucking likely. They’d have to meet first, and he couldn’t see that happening.
“What’s her last name? Stella what?” Quan asked as he pulled out his phone.
“Why?”
“I wanna see if she has a LinkedIn profile. I do this with every guy my sister dates. Aren’t you curious?”
Yeah, he was curious. “Lane, Stella Lane.”
* * *
? ? ?
A persistent buzzing dragged Stella out of yet another heated Michael dream. For this entire past week, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him.
At work, she tried to focus on her data, but the words and numbers turned into body parts that fit together in fascinating ways. She fantasized about his hands, his mouth, his smile, his eyes, his words, his laugh, his presence.
When she slept, dreams of Michael plagued her, so intense the craving of her body woke her at odd hours of the night.
Last Friday had tipped her over the line. There was no doubt about it.
Stella was officially obsessed with Michael.
And they might never see each other again. It was Friday now, and he still hadn’t texted or called. Was this one of those situations where no news meant no? Her heart sank, and her limbs went heavy with sadness.
The infernal buzzing continued, distracting her. She groped at the nightstand until she located her phone. Squinting at the screen, she saw it was her housekeeper.
She coughed to clear her throat of the sound of hot dream sex. “Hello?”
“Ms. Lane, I can’t make it today. My daughter is sick, and the daycare won’t take her.”
“Oh, that’s fine. Thanks for calling. I hope she gets better soon.”
“Can I make it up next week?”
“Sure, no problem.” She glanced at the clock, and her heart almost stopped. It was just short of eight o’clock. She was usually sitting at her desk by now.
She’d almost hit the end button when she heard her housekeeper say, “Oh, Ms. Lane, you’ll want to take your clothes to the dry cleaners since I can’t do it.”
“Oh, all right. Thanks for reminding me.”
“No problem. Good-bye.”
Stella considered skipping the dry cleaners. Not only did she not know which one she used, she didn’t like the idea of ruining her morning routine by adding an extra step. It was . . . irritating and anxiety-causing. New place. New people. And after the disaster at the club, her tolerance for new things was at an all-time low.
In the end, it was the idea of having the wrong number of skirts and shirts hanging in her closet that had her perusing Yelp for nearby dry cleaners. She settled on an establishment that was ranked above all the others even though it was a little out of the way.
Off routine and harried for time—her boss would probably call the police when he didn’t see her in the office first thing—she drove east down El Camino Real, leaving Palo Alto and entering Mountain View. After about five minutes, she turned into the parking lot of a small strip mall with well-maintained wooden shingle siding and oak trees along the front sidewalk. Old-fashioned signs labeled a coffee shop, a martial arts studio, a sandwich place, and Paris Dry Cleaning and Tailors.