“I assume you’re going to buy them?”
“One of every color.”
“I have to put my foot down. Not the fluorescent orange with yellow spots. It hurts me,” he said with a wince.
“No fluorescent orange and yellow, got it. Oh, they have dresses.” Her eyes rounded at the possibilities.
When they stopped for lunch at a small French bakery in the Stanford Mall, three enormous bags of apparel took up the space on the pavement by their feet. He insisted they had the best non-Asian sandwiches in California, which Stella found interesting because she hadn’t even known Asian sandwiches were a thing.
She expected the sandwiches to be stacked high with deli goodness, but when he brought lunch to their outdoor table, it was plain baguettes with turkey, Swiss, and butter. At least he’d bought an almond croissant, too. To her surprise, her first bite of the baguette was delicious.
“The secret is really good bread and butter. All you need is strong basics,” he said with a wink, and she got the feeling he was talking about more than food.
As light afternoon shopper traffic passed by and the sun shone down through the trees, Stella decided she might want to do this again. Her regular Sunday schedule was shot, but she was open to developing a new weekend routine. She was adaptable, especially when things involved Michael.
Dressed in casual khakis and a white button-down open at the collar and rolled up to his elbows, he looked magazine delicious—as usual. It occurred to her they’d spent the entire morning shopping for her. How selfish and self-absorbed of her.
“Do you want to look at men’s attire?” She considered the shops around them, wondering if any of them appealed to him.
He shook his head with a funny smile. “No, thanks.”
“Are you sure? Would you let me get you something?” When his expression went uncomfortable, her heartbeat picked up, and she tried to make light of the situation by adding, “Since you won’t let me get you a Lamborghini.”
He sent her a searching look. “Would you really get me a Lamborghini if I wanted it?”
She stared down at the crumbs on her sandwich wrapper and nodded. “I can afford it, if that’s what you’re asking. I don’t really know how to talk about money matters, but I make a lot, and there aren’t many things I want to spend it on. I would love to get you a car. Especially if—” She cut herself off before she could say something that would make him angry.
“If what?”
“I’d rather not say. I’m pretty sure it’s not appropriate.”
He tilted his head to the side, and his expression grew shuttered. “I’d like to hear it.”
“I was going to say . . .” She took an uncomfortable breath. “Especially if another woman got you the one you have.”
He focused on folding his sandwich wrapper into a neat square. “Are you asking if the car was a gift?”
She was pretty sure it was, and it infuriated her. “Yes.”
“It was, actually.”
“From the blonde at the club.”
His brow wrinkled. “How do you know that?”
“She’s the client who won’t leave you alone.” The memory of the woman kissing him flashed in her mind, and Stella’s hackles rose. Not only that, but he’d had sex with her—probably multiple times. She dug her nails into the glass surface of the table as her breathing went fast and bitter.
He settled a hand on top of hers, and her heart rate eased. “I don’t like getting those kinds of gifts. Please don’t, okay?”
“Okay.” But she couldn’t help feeling he kept the gift because he liked the woman who’d given it to him. Wasn’t that what you did when someone meant something to you? You kept the things they gave you?
She wanted him to keep something from her. The fact that he wasn’t allowing her to give him anything made her feel almost desperate.
“You’ve got your work cut out for you if you’re going to start getting jealous of my past clients, Stella,” he said, his eyes level and his voice somber, like his escorting was a sad reality they had to accept.
Question after question piled on her tongue. If he didn’t like it, why did he do it? He was so talented with clothes. Why didn’t he make more of it instead of dry cleaning and altering it? What did he use his escorting money on? Did he have some secret addiction? Was he in danger?
Why couldn’t he be hers for real?
He was hers for now, though. He didn’t want the blonde. He hadn’t been with the blonde this morning.
As they finished up with lunch, the question from before persisted in the back of her mind.
Why couldn’t he be hers for real?
There was only one plausible reason she could think of: He didn’t want her back.
Things like that weren’t written in stone, though. At the beginning of all of this, she’d been prepared to learn skills that would aid her in seducing a man—possibly Philip James. But why should she settle for Philip when maybe she could have Michael? Could she use what he taught her . . . on him? Could she seduce her escort?
Chapter 17
She was supposed be working. The online underclothes project was interesting. Normally, she’d have finished by now. But she simply could not look at underwear, even the word underwear, and not think of Michael.
The desk drawer where she kept her phone beckoned to her. She wanted to text him. Was that . . . allowed? Aside from that night at her office, they’d only texted for logistical purposes.
She tapped her fingers on the surface of her desk before she fisted her hand. How was she supposed to seduce him if she couldn’t get up the nerve to send him a simple text message? She dug her phone out.
Hi.
She deleted the message before sending it.
I miss you.
Just the sight of those words made her palms sweat. Too direct. Delete.
I wanted to confirm our plans for tonight.
She hit send and placed the phone on her desk as she stared at her computer monitors without seeing a single thing. The screen on her phone went black from inactivity. He was probably busy.
Her phone vibrated, but instead of buzzing once to indicate she’d gotten a text message, it kept buzzing. A phone call.
She peeked at the screen, and her heart jumped when she saw it was Michael. She hugged the phone to her chest before answering it. “Hello?”
“Hi, Stella.” In the background, his mom gabbed in Vietnamese and a sewing machine whirred. “I need both hands so I decided to call you back instead of texting. We’re still on for tonight. That Thai place in Mountain View.”
“Okay, I’ll meet you there.”
“Perfect.”
The sewing machine paused, and silence hung in the virtual space between them. She willed him to speak. She wanted to hear his voice again.
“Remember clothes. For my place. Unless you don’t want to stay there. You don’t have to,” she said in a rush.
“No, I’m fine with that. I just forgot. Thanks for reminding me.” He chuckled, and Stella’s hands tightened on the phone. She really, really missed him, and it had only been a day since she’d seen him last.
His mom said something, and he sighed. “I have to go. Looking forward to tonight. Miss you. Bye.”
Her breath caught before she murmured, “Miss you, too.” The line had already disconnected, however, and she said the words to herself.
How did other people get through their day when they missed someone like this? She wanted to see him.
She tapped on her phone’s photo bank, and found it, as she’d known it would be, empty. Feeling impulsive, she texted Michael again.
I want a picture of you for my phone.
Please.
She waited.
When she lost hope that he’d respond and set her phone on her desk, it vibrated.
It was a quick selfie, a close-up of his face with his eyebrow raised. He looked goofy but still utterly delectable. She sighed and ran her thumb over his cheek.
Her phone buzzed again with text messages from him.
Where’s mine?
I want your hair down.
She released a disbelieving laugh. Are you serious?
Hair down. Selfie. Now.
Undo your top two buttons, too.