The Kiss Quotient(75)

“Good to see you, Ann.”

“And his voice is beautiful, too. I just can’t get over this dress, Stella. Wherever did your personal shopper find it? You look like a flower.”

Stella beamed at him. “Michael is a designer. This is one of his creations.”

And didn’t that sound perfect coming from her lips? The only problem was he hadn’t designed much in the past three years, and he didn’t see himself getting back to it anytime soon. His mom said she didn’t need him at the shop, but with her sickness, he needed to keep an eye on her. He’d run across her unconscious body in the bathroom twice. If he hadn’t, who knew what would have happened.

Ambition could wait. He only had one mom.

If he felt stifled and suffocated in the prison of his life, that was his problem. This wasn’t going to last forever. He didn’t want her to die. He loved her. But it was an unavoidable truth that her passing would set him free.

Love, he found, was a jail. It trapped, and it clipped wings. It dragged you down, forced you to places you didn’t want to go—like this club he didn’t belong in.

Ann clasped her pearls. “Oh, isn’t that perfect for you, Stella. Did he make this himself?” She fluttered around Stella, checking the zipper, peeking inside at the construction of the dress. “Concealed seams. No tags. And it’s so soft.”

Ann looked up at Michael with glassy eyes before she whispered in Stella’s ear and kissed her cheek, making Stella blush.

“Well, come on and let me introduce you to her father.” Ann looped her arm around his and steered them toward a half-occupied table far from the band.

A middle-aged man with a bit of a potbelly, gray hair, and wire-rimmed glasses sat next to four empty seats. He was carrying on an animated conversation with the goodish-looking blond guy at his side.

“Edward, this is Michael. Michael, this is Edward, Stella’s father.”

Stella’s dad stood up and shook hands. It was a civil handshake, firm without fighting for dominance, but the light brown eyes behind his lenses examined Michael like a laboratory specimen of unknown origin. Michael felt like he had on prom night meeting his date’s dad for the first time, like he should have brought his résumé and latest STD screening results. He stifled the impulse to shake out his hands and feet like he did before he sparred in competition.

“Nice to meet you,” Michael said.

“A pleasure,” Stella’s dad said with a stiff smile that reminded Michael a lot of his own dad—well, if his dad had been remotely normal.

“This is Philip James,” Ann said, indicating the blond guy. “Philip, this is Michael, Stella’s boyfriend.”

Philip stood up and straightened a black suitcoat that fit his athletic frame in a way that would make any tailor proud. “Pleased to meet you.” The guy held his hand out politely. When Michael shook it, however, his fingers were tightened in a painful vise. What the hell? Philip’s hazel gaze was flinty as he sized Michael up. “Stella told me about you at work.”

At work? Michael glanced at Stella, and she looked away uncomfortably. The kiss. This was Dexter Stewart Mortimer Niles.

Michael released Philip’s hand before he gave in to the urge to slam him onto the table. “Philip,” he said with a terse nod.

This piece of shit had put his tongue in Stella’s mouth. He was not at all what Michael had expected. He should have been thinner, with bad posture and less muscle. He definitely should have had glasses, nice thick ones that looked like binoculars.

Seemingly oblivious to the tension thickening the air, Ann continued introducing the well-dressed people seated around the table: a single nerdy guy who fit Michael’s original perception of Philip to a T and happened to own a well-known tech company, a highly educated Indian couple, and a white-haired older woman in a lavender skirt suit whose neck, ears, and fingers dripped with enormous diamonds.

He unbuttoned his jacket and sat down between Stella and the table’s last empty seat with a composure that three years of escorting had taught him.

“So, Michael, tell me about yourself,” Stella’s dad said, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair on a calculating gaze. Yep, this was prom night all over again.

Michael knew exactly how this was going to go.

“What would you like to hear?” Michael asked.

“For starters, what do you do?”

Philip watched him with sullen interest.

Michael’s dad had wanted him to be an astrophysicist or an engineer. Near the end, his dad had settled on architect. That was still respectable. “I’m a designer.”

“Oh, how interesting. What do you design? Or does your security clearance not allow you to say?”

When he unraveled that, he almost laughed. “No, I’m not a defense contractor. I design clothes.”

“He designed Stella’s dress, honey,” Stella’s mom said with a gentle smile. “He’s remarkably talented.”

Edward’s face wrinkled in distaste, but he rallied, giving Michael the benefit of the doubt. “That must be a difficult business to get successful in. Are you working under one of those New York designers?”

“Not currently.”

“You must be creating your own line. That’s exciting,” Ann said.

“I’ve taken some time off, to be honest.”