The Kiss Quotient(80)

“Do you think, Momma, that you could shelve the husband-hunting and grandbaby discussions for a while? I want to make you happy, but I’m really tired right now.”

Her mother squeezed her tighter. “Of course, forget all about grandchildren. I didn’t mean to pressure you. I just want you happy.”

Stella sighed and shut her eyes. She didn’t care about being happy. All she wanted at the moment was to feel nothing.



* * *



? ? ?

The silence in Stella’s house was absolute. Funny how Michael had never noticed it before. When he was here, he was usually busy talking to Stella, listening to her quirky observations, cooking in her massive kitchen and feeding her, kissing her, making love to her . . .

He was going to miss this house. He was going to miss Stella. A lot. He already missed her. He was breaking into pieces from missing her. Ending their arrangement had been the right thing to do, though. She didn’t need his help anymore, and she deserved someone better than him. Someone smarter who didn’t have a criminal for a dad. Someone who could impress her parents and didn’t run into past clients when they went out to dinner.

That reminded him that he’d be back to regular escorting next Friday. The thought held absolutely no appeal. He wasn’t even sure if he could get a hard-on for someone else at this point. All he wanted was Stella smell and Stella taste and Stella skin. His body had tuned itself to fit her, and nothing else would do. The old fantasies that used to interest him were now dull and boring. He’d developed a new kink, and it involved a shy girl who daydreamed about economics.

He sat down on Stella’s bed and rested his face in his palms. This was his last time sitting here. Fuck it all, another man would be sleeping in this bed soon. Wretched ugly feelings rose. Stella was his to kiss, his to touch, his to love. He wanted to tear the blankets off the bed and shred everything to pieces. If he couldn’t have it, no one could. She could get a new fucking bed.

Fisting his hands, he made himself go to the closet before he could lay waste to her bedroom. He stuffed T-shirts and jeans into his sports bag before moving to the underwear drawer. He wanted to get this done so he could leave. Socks piled into the bag, followed by neatly folded boxers. At the bottom of the drawer, he encountered an unopened package. The exact brand and size of boxers he used, though he usually purchased navy blue and these were red. A bow was tied around it.

Stella had bought him underwear.

It was the first gift she’d given him. How funny. Had she thought his were getting worn out? Maybe they were. He tossed the package into his sports bag and zipped it up. They weren’t very expensive, and she certainly wasn’t going to use them herself. She’d bought them for him, and he was going to keep them.

On his way out of her room, he slipped his billfold from his pocket, fished out a folded slip of paper, and set it on her nightstand. There, proof that he wasn’t his dad.

But maybe that wasn’t why it felt so right to do this. Maybe it felt right because he was in love.

He strode through the empty house, turning off lights as he went. After he locked the front door, he tucked his key under the welcome mat, said a quiet good-bye, and left.





{ CHAP+ER }





25



When Stella reached for her glasses the next morning, her fingers encountered a piece of paper. Frowning, she picked it up and held it close to her bleary, tear-swollen eyes. A check. Her check. For fifty thousand dollars.

She sat up in bed and ran trembling fingers over the surface of the check. What did this mean? Why hadn’t he kept it and cashed it?

His words from last night whispered through her head.

I accepted your proposal because I wanted to help you.

Not because he wanted to be with her, not even for money, but because he pitied her.

Because she was autistic.

Awful emotion spread through her like poison, and she covered her mouth to muffle the sounds coming from her throat. She’d thought she was rubbing off on him. She’d thought she was special. She’d thought he could love her back. But every time they’d been together, it had been nothing but charity. All those kisses, all those moments, all charity. And now that he’d done his good deed, he was moving on.

The pain crushed and tore, destroying her from the inside. She wasn’t a good deed. She was a person. If she had known how he felt, she never would have issued that proposal. She was not a charity case. Her money was just as good as anyone else’s. Why couldn’t he have just taken it?

Swiping at her face angrily, she told herself she was tougher than this. She wasn’t going to fall apart over a man who didn’t want her.

She made the bed with angry jerks of her arms and stomped into the bathroom to floss her teeth. She worked the mint string so forcefully her gums bled. When she closed her hand around her toothbrush, something reckless made her let go and hop in the shower instead. Very deliberately, she reversed her shower routine, scrubbing herself from bottom to top. She wasn’t a robot or a disabled autistic girl. She was herself. She was enough. She could be anything. She could make herself into anything. She could prove everyone wrong.

By the time she left the shower, she was breathing heavily. She was going to do this and do it well. When she was done, she’d be new and fresh and fantastic. She deserved to be those things.

She dried herself off with brisk rubs of her towel, purposefully walked past her waiting toothbrush, and went into the closet, where she pulled on the black dress Michael loved. She didn’t bother with a cardigan. Let people look.