The Kiss Quotient (The Kiss Quotient #1)(82)

He crammed his palms into his eyes and breathed away his gut-churning nausea. If she was going to fuck other people, he would, too. He’d go right now. He started to stand, but paused. It was Sunday morning. Not trolling time.

And he physically could not.

Touching another woman right now would make him vomit. Or worse, cry like a baby.

He was having a hard enough time keeping it together as it was. His eyes burned, and his throat ached, and he hurt everywhere. No women. Not unless they had soft brown eyes and a shy smile and loved economics and made the sweetest breathless sounds when they kissed him and—

Fuck. Enough already. He clawed his fingers through his hair and tried to squeeze thoughts of Stella out of his head.

Toughen up and soldier on.

But he was tired of being tough and soldiering on. He’d been doing it for three endless years. He was trapped here, trapped in his life, trapped in never-ending debt. Trapped by love.

That was his problem. He always loved too much. If he could just tear his heart out and stop feeling, he would be free. A frenzied kind of madness gripped him as he stared down at his sketchpad.

Whispering a silent apology in his head, he ripped out the picture of Stella and tore it straight down the middle before shredding it. The pieces floated to the ground like leaves from a dying tree. Then he flipped to the front of the book. Sun-saturated mornings with Stella had inspired the white and yellow dress on the page. It was his absolute favorite. He tore it out and destroyed it. And the next design. And the next. All of them. Then he went to the bureau in back, grabbed all his sketchpads, and threw them in the trash. After that, he opened the large bottom drawer where he kept the projects he’d been working on in secret. Gritting his teeth, he ripped the fabric apart, seam by seam, garment by garment, dream by dream.

When he’d finally destroyed everything that could be destroyed, he stared at the carnage on the floor and spilling from the garbage.

It had worked. He felt nothing now.

He walked to the sewing machine he usually used, sat down, and considered the pile of unfinished clothes next to it. A few pairs of pants needed hemming, dresses needed to be taken in, and a jacket had a torn inner lining. They were all clothes someone else had designed. Someone else’s vision.

Might as well finish all of it. Maybe he could give his mom more time off this week.

He started to sew.





{ CHAP+ER }





26



Later that week, Sophie manned the shop and watched Ngo?i while Michael took M? to the doctor for her monthly checkup and bloodwork. It was a short drive, but it felt like forever with his mom crossing her arms and boring holes into the side of his head with her eyes. He cranked the music volume up and focused on the road.

She turned the radio off. “I can’t take it anymore. You walk around all day like a cat who’s lost his mouse. You don’t talk. You scare the customers. And you’re working like you’re dying. Michael, tell M? what’s going on.”

He tightened his grip on the leather steering wheel. “Nothing’s going on.”

“How is Stella? Tell her to come on Saturday. Grapefruit was on sale, so we have a lot.”

He said nothing.

“M? is not stupid, you know. Did you break up with these people’s daughter?”

“Why are you so sure it wasn’t the other way around?” Stella would have done it eventually. When she decided she’d practiced enough.

“Clear as day, she’s passionate for you. She would never do that.”

He clenched his jaw against a fresh surge of unwelcome feeling. Stella had liked him well enough, but the only place she’d been “passionate” for him had been in bed.

“I met her parents, M?.”

“Oh? Were they nice people?”

“Her dad didn’t think I was good enough,” he said with a bitter twist of his lips.

“Of course, he didn’t.”

Michael snapped his attention from the road to his mom’s profile. “What do you mean ‘of course, he didn’t?’” He was her only son. She never talked about him like this.

“You’re too proud, just like your dad. You have to be understanding. He only wants what’s best for his daughter. She’s his only child, right? What do you think it was like when I married your dad?”

“Grandma and Grandpa love you.”

“They do. Now. They didn’t approve of me at first. Why would they want him marrying a Vietnamese girl with only an eighth-grade education who barely spoke English? They refused to come to the wedding until your dad threatened to cut ties with them. I had to work to convince them. It didn’t happen overnight. But it was worth it.”

“I didn’t know that . . .” It made him look at his grandparents in a new, rather unfavorable light.

“When you love someone, Michael, you fight for them in every way you know how. If you put your mind to it, her dad will come to like you. If you treat his daughter right, he’ll love you.”

“I think it would be very selfish of me to fight for her. There are men who are better suited to her. They’re richer, more educated, and more . . .” His words trailed off as she slowly turned to face him, her eyes narrowed in a ball-shriveling stare.

“You sound just like your dad. If you can’t stand being with a woman who’s more successful than you, then leave her alone. She’s better off without you. If you actually love her, then know the value of that love and make it a promise. That is the only thing she needs from you.”