“That’s right. I forgot.” That boyish grin flashed again, looking almost shy, and she wanted to wrap herself around him and hold him forever.

“I’ve been expecting news from you,” she whispered.

His smile faded as his expression went serious. “I needed to think about it.”

“Are you accepting my proposal?” Please don’t say no.

“Are you sure you still want to issue it?”

“Of course.” She couldn’t think of a single reason why she would have changed her mind.

“No sex?”

She took a breath and nodded. “That’s right.”

Leaning forward, he asked in a low voice, “So you can be sure the next man to kiss you or touch you only does it because he wants to?”

“Y-yes.” She leaned toward him as she anticipated his answer, almost afraid to exhale.

“I accept.”

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She smiled in dizzying relief. “Thank—”

He tipped her face upward with a hand on her jaw and kissed her. Electric sensation crackled through her. If it weren’t for the counter, she would have fallen. At her murmur, he deepened the kiss, taking her mouth with his tongue in the same way she wanted him to—

The door behind the counter opened, and someone marched out.

They tore apart like guilty teenagers. Michael cleared his throat and busied himself with the clothes on the counter. Stella pursed her lips, tasted Michael on her skin, and wiped the moisture away with the back of her hand.

From the look on the older woman’s face, she’d seen everything . . . and was curious. Round-lensed glasses perched on the top of her head at a gravity-defying angle, and her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, though several strands stood out in busy disarray. She wore a hound’s-tooth sweater and green plaid pants. Like Michael, she wore a measuring tape around her neck.

The woman held out a deconstructed garment and pointed to a section of a seam. The two of them proceeded to speak in a rapid, tonal language that had to be Vietnamese.

As he bent over the garment with that sexy thinking look on his face, the woman aimed a distracted smile at Stella and patted Michael’s arm. “I taught him when he was little, and now he teaches me back.”

Stella eked out a smile. Had his mother just caught them kissing? She tried to find similarities between them, but nothing stuck out. Michael’s facial features were a striking balance of eastern edges and western angles. Broad shouldered, thick, and vital, he towered over the petite woman.

Stella pushed her glasses up and smoothed her hands over her skirt, wishing she had a white lab coat and a stethoscope.

On the other side of the open back door, racks of in-process clothes and various commercial sewing machines cluttered a large workspace. A mechanized circular rack carrying clothes in plastic wrap occupied the far left side of the room, and countless spools of thread in every shade imaginable lined the walls. The little old lady from earlier sat on a worn couch in the right corner, watching muted television on an ancient CRT. The lawn shears were nowhere in sight.

“What do you do for a living? Are you a doctor?” the woman asked with ill-disguised hope.

“No, I’m an econometrician.” Stella linked her fingers together and stared at the tips of her shoes, awaiting disappointment.

“Is that economics?”

Stella’s eyes darted back up in surprise. “Yes, it is, but with more math.”

“Has your girlfriend met Janie yet?” she asked Michael.

Michael looked up from his garment, his expression worried. “Mom, no, she hasn’t met Janie, and she isn’t my—” He stopped speaking, and his gaze jumped from his mom to Stella.

His dilemma was perfectly clear. What did they call one another in public situations now?

“She’s not what?” his mom asked in confusion.

He cleared his throat as he focused on the garment in his hands. “She hasn’t met Janie.”

Warmth splashed at Stella’s body in unexpected waves. He didn’t correct his mom. Did that mean they were going by boyfriend and girlfriend in public situations?

A desperate yearning gripped Stella, surprising her in its intensity.

“Who’s Janie?” Stella managed to ask. She remembered that name from before.

“Janie is his sister.” There was a thinking slant to his mom’s eyes before she brightened and said, “You should come to our house for dinner tonight. Talk to Janie about economics, ah? She’s studying that at Stanford and is trying to get a job. His other sisters will want to meet you, too. We didn’t know he had a new girlfriend.”

His mom’s words swamped whatever giddiness she’d experienced from being called Michael’s girlfriend. House. Dinner. Sisters. The words rattled around in her head, refusing to make sense.

“Just come, ah? Even if you two have plans, you still have to eat. Michael can make bún. His bún is very good . . . I forgot to ask. What is your name?”

Dazed, she said, “Stella, Stella Lane.”

“Call me Mẹ.” It sounded like meh, but with an unusual tonal dip in the middle.

“Mẹ?” Stella repeated.

His mother smiled her approval. “Don’t eat anything before you come, ah? We have lots of food.” With that, she brushed her hands together like business was settled, filled out the invoice slip for Stella’s clothes, and handed it to her. “This will be ready Tuesday morning.”

In a state of panic, Stella stuffed the slip into her purse, murmured a quiet thank-you, and walked out to her car, passing by his grandmother’s herb garden—at least, she assumed the old lady was his grandmother. As she sat down in the driver’s seat, his mom’s words repeated in her head.

House. Dinner. Sisters.

The front door swung open and Michael jogged to her side. She opened the window, and he propped his hands on the side of the car. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.” A notch formed between his eyebrows as he hesitated. “But maybe . . .”

“Maybe what?” she heard herself ask.

“Maybe it’s the kind of practice you wanted.”

“You’d let me practice with your family?” The fact that he trusted her with the important people in his life touched her in ways she didn’t understand, made her feel off-kilter. That yearning from earlier returned.

“Would you be good to them?” he asked with a searching gaze.

“Yes, of course.” She always strove to be good to people.

“And keep our arrangement between us? They don’t know about . . . what I do.”

She nodded. That went without saying.

“Then I’m okay with it. If you want to. Do you?”

“Yes, I do.” But not because she wanted practice.

“Let’s do it, then.” His eyes fell to her lips. “Come closer.”

She leaned toward him but glanced at the front of the shop. “She might be watch—”

He pressed a soft kiss to her mouth. Just one. And he pulled away. “See you tonight.”

Chapter 13

When Michael walked back into the shop, his mom was watching him with her arms crossed. Through the display window, she had a clear view of Stella’s white Tesla as it backed out of the parking lot. He was certain she’d watched the kiss. That was why he’d made it so short when what he’d really wanted to do was kiss Stella until her eyes glazed over.

She had his body tied up in so many knots, he could barely see straight, let alone think, and she’d caught him off guard here in the shop. That had to be why he’d accepted her proposal when he’d already convinced himself to do the right thing and turn her down. She hadn’t teased him, and she hadn’t laughed. Instead, she’d been impressed with his work and with him—the real him. No one wanted the real him. Only Stella. In that moment of weakness, he’d recklessly tossed his reservations aside. He’d said yes for no other reason than he wanted to be with her.

But now everything was spiraling out of control. Lines were blurring, and he couldn’t distinguish his professional life from his personal life. He might not even want to. His mom thought Stella was his for real, and he liked that way too much for his own comfort. Saying yes had been a giant mistake. He already regretted it and felt how wrong it was, even if he wasn’t entirely sure why. But it was too late now. It was just a month. He was a professional. He could handle a month.




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