Maybe.
Out of habit, she walked to her piano. She sat on the bench and lifted the fallboard, and the cool smoothness of the keys beneath her fingers calmed her. For years, music had been her main method of coping with emotions—good ones, bad ones, and those in between. Rich chords sang from the strings, called forth by muscle memory alone, and she gave herself up to the music, let everything she was feeling pour into her fingertips. When the song ended, she kept her hands on the keys, listening as the notes faded.
“I knew you played, but I didn’t know you could play like that,” Michael said from directly behind her.
She couldn’t help grinning as she looked at him over her shoulder. “You made it back.”
His smile was tired, but it reached his eyes. In a mere fraction of a second, everything was right again. The coldness vanished. Missing pieces settled back into place.
“What song was that? I feel like I’ve heard it before,” he said.
“‘Clair de Lune’ by Debussy. It’s my favorite song.”
He rested his hands on her shoulders and brushed a kiss over her nape. “It’s beautiful, but so sad. Do you know anything happier?”
Sad. Her lips wrinkled on something that didn’t feel like a smile. That was a common theme for the pieces in her repertoire. “Well . . . maybe this.”
She bit her lip and picked the familiar melody from the piano, wondering if this was what he meant by happy.
He surprised her by sitting down on the bench next to her and saying, “I thought ‘Heart and Soul’ was a duet.”
She shrugged. “I’ve only ever played it solo.”
He captured her right hand and put it in his lap. A smile curved over his lips as he nodded his head toward the keyboard.
“You play?” she asked.
“Only a little, but I know this one.”
Breathlessness overtook her. Her fingers stumbled on the first notes, but she got into the swing of it pretty quickly. The bass half of the song was a simple repetition, a pattern, and second nature for her. When Michael wove the melody seamlessly with her accompaniment, startling warmth cascaded up her spine, and her body flushed with pleasure. She’d never played a duet with someone other than her piano instructor, and those occasions had been technical exercises, nothing special.
“You’re good at this,” she commented, glancing up at him as she continued to play.
His smile widened, but he kept his attention on his fingers. “With six of us wanting the piano at once, we had to learn to share. Also, none of us could ever figure out how to play your half with only one hand. You’re really good.”
“It’s just practice.” And necessity.
The sight of their hands side by side on the keys mesmerized Stella. The contrast was stark and beautiful: large to small, tan to pale, masculine to feminine. So different, but in perfect rhythm. They were making music. Together.
The song ended, and she let her fingers slip away from the keyboard and averted her eyes. That naked feeling was back.
He kissed her neck and smoothed his fingers along her jaw before gently urging her to meet his gaze. She thought he would speak, but he didn’t. He only smiled.
She wanted to ask if he liked being with her, if he liked this, but she struggled to muster the courage. What if he said no?
“Are you hungry? Let’s eat,” he said, and the moment disappeared.
She’d ask him later. After she’d had the opportunity to appropriately seduce him.
Chapter 21
A week later, Stella still had no idea what she was doing in terms of seducing Michael. He seemed happy—she knew she was—but the end of their first month was coming up, and she had no confidence that he’d want to sign on for more.
That night, his mom was having her over for dinner again. Stella racked her brain for clever ways she might ask his family for advice regarding Michael. If anyone knew him, it would be them. But how could she ask without them suspecting something was strange about her relationship with Michael? They thought she and Michael were dating for real.
As he’d instructed her to do, Stella let herself into his mom’s house and set her shoes against the wall next to Michael’s. Her black heels looked tiny next to his leather loafers, but she liked seeing them sitting next to each other. It pleased her on a fundamental level.
She placed a box of pears on the front table next to the bronze Buddha, and grunts and heavy breathing drew her attention to the sitting room to the right. She padded over and stared at a pretzel formation of limbs on the carpet by the upright piano. It seemed to contain Michael and another girl. Stella would have been jealous, but the whole ordeal looked really uncomfortable.
“Just give up and say it,” Michael gritted out.
“No, I had that armbar. You only got out because of your steroid abuse.”
“I do not use steroids, and you only got the armbar because I didn’t want to crush your boobs.”
“Going for your balls next time.”
Looking closer, Stella saw they both had their arms locked around each other’s throats. Like anacondas in a death match, neither was willing to let go.
“Maybe call it a draw?” Stella suggested.
“Hi, Stella,” a voice chirped. His sister’s face was covered in a curtain of dark hair, and Stella had no idea which one it was. There were so many of them. “Your girlfriend is here, Michael. Give up.”
“Dinner is ready in ten minutes.” The red hue to Michael’s face was rather concerning but completely self-inflicted, as far as Stella could tell. “I’ll be with you in a second.”
“Only if you’re giving up. Who’s your daddy?” his sister said as she flexed the impressive arm wrapped around his neck.
“Not some little brat.”
The two rolled on the carpet, kicking and flailing their legs.
“I’m going to say hi to your mom and grandma, then,” Stella said. She would have preferred Michael’s company when she greeted them, but this thing between Michael and his sister looked like it was going to take a while.
Neither of them responded. They probably couldn’t spare the oxygen for talking.
She meandered through the house, which was actually quite enormous—you wouldn’t guess from the outside. His mom and grandma were seated in the family room, peeling grapefruit meat from their individual segments as they spoke in musical Vietnamese. Two men in a monkey suit and a pig suit flew across the screen of the muted TV.
“Hi . . . Wai?” She bowed her head awkwardly. She could not wrap her tongue around the pronunciation of the word for grandma, ngoại.
Michael’s grandma smiled and waved her to the empty space on the aged leather sofa. As usual, she had a scarf wrapped around her head and tied under her chin. Adorable grandma. Was she staying away from the lawn shears lately?
Nodding at his mom, she said, “Hi, Mẹ,” and sat in the indicated spot, feeling her stomach knot and her muscles tense. Even though she’d seen his mom a handful of times by now, she was still horribly nervous around the woman. Every word had to be measured before Stella could let it out of her mouth, every action considered. She didn’t want to mess up again. This was Michael’s mom—the most important woman in his life since he didn’t have a real girlfriend. All thoughts of asking for advice with Michael evaporated in the face of her anxiety.
His mom held out a bowl of perfect, skinless yellow-green grapefruit slices. Stella had never seen grapefruit peeled quite like this, and she took a slice out of a mixture of curiosity and fear of insulting her. Once she bit into the fruit, sweetness exploded on her tongue, untarnished by the usual bitterness of the skin.
She covered her mouth in surprise. “It’s really good.”
“Have more.” His mom smiled and set the bowl down in Stella’s lap. Today she was wearing a striped pink button-down and floral print jeans. Her glasses perched on the top of her head at a distracted angle. “Get salt if you want. E likes it with salt.”
“No, thank you.” Stella ate one more, two more before she made herself stop. It looked like a lot of work peeling them this way. In an effort to keep her hands busy, she picked up half of a grapefruit and tried to copy his mom’s technique, all too aware of the stilted silence in the room.