“I’m going to forget everyone’s names.” She looked so worried—Michael melted a little. Why did she care? These people couldn’t be special to her. They were just his family.
“That’s okay. I wish I could.”
“Very funny, Michael,” Evie said with a roll of her eyes. “You only have to remember me. I’m a PT, so if you get carpal tunnel or something, you know who to look for. Posture is everything.”
“Why couldn’t you be a doctor, then, E?” his mom asked as she peeled her tenth mango. “All I wanted was a doctor in the family, and not one of you could do that for me.”
“Stella’s a doctor,” Michael said with a grin.
Her eyes rounded into giant buttons. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. You have a PhD. That makes you a doctor. And you went to the University of Chicago, the best school for economics in the U.S., probably the world. You graduated magna cum laude.”
As he’d known would happen, his mom perked up with interest. “That’s fantastic.”
Stella blushed, bringing much needed color to her cheeks. “How did you . . .”
“Google stalking.”
Her eyes searched his, and a surprised smile hinted at the corners of her mouth. “You stalked me?”
He shrugged. It was his turn to feel awkward now.
“Okay, lovebirds, dinner’s ready. Come eat,” Sophie said. She set down a bowl filled with noodles that had been cut short with scissors and ultra-thin sliced meat in front of Ngoại and kissed her temple like she would a baby.
Once they’d seated themselves at the table, Michael watched as Stella carefully mimicked Sophie’s food preparation ritual, adding chili sauce, pickled daikon and carrots, bean sprouts, and fish sauce to her bowl of noodles, greens, and beef.
“Have you ever had this before?” he asked.
She shook her head absently as she mixed everything together and took a bite. Her eyes opened wide, and she grinned as she covered her mouth. “You’re a good cook.”
“Michael is very good with his hands,” his mom said with a proud nod.
Sophie rolled her eyes before she smirked suggestively and asked Stella, “Do you agree? Is he ‘good with his hands’?”
His mom scowled at Sophie, but Stella merely smiled and nodded. “I think so.”
Sophie arched her eyebrows and sent Michael an is she for real? look.
As dinner progressed, Michael watched Stella through a new lens provided by his recent discovery. He didn’t notice so much when it was just the two of them, but she had trouble with eye contact. She rarely spoke unless someone asked her a direct question, and then her answers were short and to the point. When she listened, however, her focus was the kind of stuff she probably used on complex economic problems. She frowned, hanging on every word like it was of utmost importance.
These people mattered to her because they mattered to him.
“Where did you grow up, Stella?” his mom asked after they’d moved from bún to mangoes.
“Atherton. My parents still live there,” Stella provided.
His mom’s eyebrows climbed at the mention of the wealthiest zip code in California. “Do you like babies?”
Michael almost dropped his fruit, and his voice was gruff with horror when he said, “Mẹ.”
She shrugged innocently.
“You don’t have to answer that,” he said to Stella.
She met his eyes like she hadn’t with everyone else. Her facial muscles relaxed, but the intensity of her concentration didn’t. Her beautiful mind focused on him. Michael admitted to himself he loved it.
Stella lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know if I like babies. I haven’t been around that many. My parents want grandchildren, though. My mother, mostly.”
“That has to be why she keeps setting up blind dates for you,” Michael said.
Stella nodded. “I think so.”
“Meddling mothers.”
At his comment, Stella’s lips curved into a smile, and her eyes shined. He forgot what they’d been talking about. If he couldn’t kiss her soon, he would go mad.
“When you get to my age,” his mom said, crossing her arms over her chest, “you want to play with babies. It’s natural.”
Sophie jumped to her feet. “Help me with the dishes, Stella?”
“Sure, I’d love to help,” Stella said. “Is there a particular way you do it?”
“Just whatever way gets them clean.”
Evie cleared the table as Sophie and Stella piled things into the sink. His mom and Ngoại stared at him with serious expressions. He braced himself for something bad.
“She won me at the shop today. It’s important to know how to admit when you’re wrong. You should keep her,” Mẹ said in Vietnamese.
He shook his head and thinned his lips. “It’s not that easy.”
“Why?”
“We’re too different. She’s really smart and makes loads of money.”
“You’re smart,” his mom insisted.
He rolled his eyes.
“You’re not like your dad wanted, but that doesn’t mean you’re not smart. And you don’t make as much because you’re busy helping me at the shop. I told you I don’t need you anymore. You let so many opportunities pass because of me. I don’t want that for you, Michael, and I don’t want you to lose this girl, either. She’s a good one. Keep her.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is. She likes you. You like her.”
If he had less control, he would have pointed out his mom’s relationship with his dad, but that was hitting below the belt. His dad loved his mom—in his own way. But he also loved cheating. Michael would never understand why his mom took his dad back every single time.
“Just promise to try, all right? I like this one,” his mom said.
Michael could have laughed. Of all the girls he’d ever brought home, she liked the one he couldn’t have. His client. His rich, highly educated, beautiful client, who was paying him to help her learn how to get someone better.
“You’re just saying that because she’s doing dishes.”
Michael knew the way to his mom’s heart, and it wasn’t food. It was cleaning, doing dishes. He didn’t have to do dishes because he cooked. For whatever reason, none of the women in this house cooked. He’d had to learn in order to survive.
“She doesn’t mind working,” his mom said. “That’s important.”
“Mmmmm,” Ngoại agreed.
For a moment, the three of them watched as Stella washed bowls, rinsed them, and handed them to Sophie to dry. She’d rolled her sleeves up and worked with great attention, listening and smiling distractedly as Sophie chatted with her.
“Take her home,” Ngoại said. “She looks tired.”
His mom nodded. “Take her home.”
He pushed away from the table and went to wrap his arms around Stella’s waist. Because he couldn’t resist, he ran his lips down her neck so she shivered. The soapy sponge paused in midscrub, and her expression was confused as she gazed at him over her shoulder. He slid a hand down her delicate forearm and hijacked the sponge from her. He finished washing the frying pan and the rest of the dishes with her in front of him, occasionally pausing to kiss her ear, her neck, or her jaw.
Sophie slanted him a go get a room look as he handed her the last colander—one of many that he’d made his mom promise never to stick in the microwave again—and he could tell she was dying to say something dry and caustic but was holding back because she didn’t want to embarrass Stella.
Stella’s eyelids had gone heavy, and her nails dug into the tile counter as she tried unsuccessfully not to respond to him.
“Ready to go home?” he whispered.
She nodded.
They said their good-byes and piled into Stella’s car, and he pressed the Tesla’s on button.
Before Stella could buckle her seat belt, he asked, “What are you seeing in terms of living arrangements and frequency of visits?”
“What do most couples do when they’re in committed relationships?”