The Kiss Quotient (The Kiss Quotient #1)(37)
Stella parked at the address Michael had texted her and worried the flowers and chocolates she’d brought were entirely the wrong thing to bring. A Google search of Vietnamese etiquette had told her she really needed to bring something, though the recommendations on actual gifts had been mixed and confusing, ranging from fruit to tea to alcohol. The overall consensus appeared to be that edible was best. Thus, the Godiva chocolates in her passenger seat.
But what if they didn’t like chocolate?
She’d been tempted to ask Michael, but he didn’t need to know how neurotic she was or how big of a deal meeting new people was for her. And these weren’t just any people. These were Michael’s family, important people, and she wanted to give a good impression.
Toward that end, she’d spent the day devising conversation trees in her head so she could minimize the need for social improvising, which often ended badly for her. If she was asked what she did, she had a quick explanation and follow-up questions ready. If they asked about her hobbies and interests, she was prepared. If they asked how she’d met Michael, she’d make him explain. She was a terrible liar.
For several stomach-twisting moments, she ran through her list of presocialization reminders: think before you talk (anything and everything can be an insult to someone; when in doubt, say nothing), be nice, sitting on your hands prevents fidgeting and feels good, make eye contact, smile (no teeth, that’s scary), don’t start thinking about work, don’t let yourself talk about work (no one wants to hear about it), please and thank you, apologize with feeling.
Grabbing the bouquet of gerbera daisies and dark chocolate truffles, she got out of her car and stared at the two-story East Palo Alto house. When she’d first moved here five years ago, this area had been the ghetto. With Silicon Valley’s continued expansion and success, East Palo Alto land values had skyrocketed. All of the homes nearby were now million-dollar real estate—even this modest little gray house with its cracked cement driveway and scraggly landscaping that, upon closer inspection, consisted of thriving, knee-high herbs.
As she walked toward the front door where flies and moths buzzed around the bright porchlight, she ran a palm over the scratchy tops of the plants, appreciating the fresh smell. She loved that Grandma liked to keep busy.
She pressed on the doorbell button and waited. No one came. Her gut knotted.
She knocked.
Nothing.
She knocked louder.
Still nothing.
She confirmed the address on her phone. This was the right place. Michael’s M3 was even parked in the driveway. Before she could drive herself crazy deciding what to do, the door opened.
Michael smiled at her. “Right on time.”
She tightened her grip on the stuff she’d brought, basically having an internal meltdown of uncertainty. “I don’t know if I got the right things.”
He unloaded the flowers and chocolate from her hands with an odd expression on his face. “You didn’t have to bring anything. Really.”
Panic surged. “Oh, I can take them back. Let me put them—”
He set the items on a side table and stroked a thumb over her cheek. “My mom will love them. Thank you.”
She released a long breath. “What happens now?”
The corner of his mouth kicked up. “I think the usual greeting is a hug.”
“Oh.” She held her hands out awkwardly and stepped toward him, certain she was doing everything wrong.
Until his arms wrapped around her, and he pulled her close. His scent, his warmth, and his solidness surrounded her. That was one hundred percent right.
He pulled away with a soft look in his eyes. “Ready?”
At her nod, he ushered her through a marble-tiled entryway, past a formal dining area, and into a kitchen that was open to an adjoining family room. The massive boxy TV in the room grabbed her attention. A man and a woman in traditional Chinese opera attire took turns warbling out similar series of notes. After a particularly impassioned iteration, Michael’s grandma clapped. Sitting next to her at the kitchen table, his mom paused in the process of peeling mangoes to voice her appreciation.
When she noticed Stella and Michael, his mom waved with her peeler. “Hello. We eat soon.”
Stella worked up a smile and a wave. Bracing herself for an evening of nerve-racking social performance, she approached them and asked, “Can I help?”
A wide smile stretched over Michael’s mom’s face, and she set her peeler and the plate she’d used to gather mango peels in front of the empty chair to her left. When Stella unbuttoned her cuffs, Michael flashed her a grin and turned on the gas range.
As she washed her hands in the kitchen sink, she watched him heat a large wok, pour oil in, and add ingredients in the careless, yet somehow intentional manner of someone who knew how to cook. By the time she sat down next to his mom, the air was heavy with the scents of barbecuing beef, garlic, lemongrass, and fish sauce. He’d rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and she couldn’t help admiring his sculpted forearms as he stirred the contents of the wok.
It took effort to redirect her attention to the mango, and she’d just begun to peel the large fruit his mom had handed her when the tinkling of a piano in another room caught her attention. The opening notes of “Für Elise” clashed with the vibrato trilling from the TV, and Stella blinked as the sounds tore her head in multiple directions, making it difficult to think.