“That would be in about a month at the benefit dinner she’s throwing. If you want to come with me, that is. You don’t have to,” she added quickly.

The muscles in his jaw worked as he considered her. “Do you want me to come?”

She nodded. “She’s threatened to matchmake if I don’t have a date.” And she only wanted to be with Michael. No one else.

“Very dire, indeed. When is it?”

“A Saturday evening. Formal attire. That shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

The corner of his mouth kicked up, but the tension around his eyes remained. “All right, I’ll mark it on my calendar. I’d be happy to go.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

She bit her lip, hesitated, but decided to go ahead and say it. “Will you make my dress?”

He searched her eyes for a long moment. “Okay.”

“I’ll pay for it, of course—”

“Wait until you see it first,” he said, bringing her hand up to his mouth so he could kiss her knuckles.

“I’m going to love it.”

He shook with another laugh. “I think you will.”

Dinner arrived, and conversation—real conversation—continued at a steady pace as they ate food spiced with lemongrass, makrut lime leaves, basil, and red chili peppers that burned her lips. She asked Michael about his favorite designers—Jean Paul Gaultier, Issey Miyake, and Yves Saint Laurent—and learned he’d gone to fashion school in San Francisco. He asked when she’d discovered her love of economics—high school—and when she’d had her first boyfriend—never. He’d gone steady with a girl in fourth grade, spending time with her primarily on the school bus. Stella ate more than she normally would have. She wanted to drag this out.

When the bill came, she grabbed for it, but Michael handed the waiter his credit card with adept smoothness. She narrowed her eyes.

This wasn’t the first time he’d insisted on paying for things with her, and it made her intensely uncomfortable. Living expenses like these were inconsequential to her, and he clearly had money troubles. Why wouldn’t he let her pay? How could they work around this? She had no idea how to discuss monetary things without insulting him.

On their way out of the restaurant, Michael said, “I need to stop at my place to pick up my clothes. I forgot about it until you reminded me.”

“Does that mean I can see it?” Or was she making assumptions by thinking they were spending the night together?

“If you really want to. It’s nothing special.” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking charmingly ill at ease.

“It can’t be worse than my place.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“My place is empty and . . . sterile.” People called her that when they thought she wasn’t listening.

He ran his fingers across her cheek and down her hair. “It just needs furniture. Come on, then. It’s really close to here.”

By really close, he might have said he lived in the apartment complex right next door. It would have saved her from trying to find a place to park. After circling the packed parking lot unsuccessfully, he told her to take his assigned spot, and he parked a ways out on the street as she waited for him by the complex’s water garden.

Taking her hand, he led her up a set of outdoor stairs to his third-floor apartment. “I didn’t clean before I left, so expect the worst. Don’t have a heart attack, okay?”

She braced herself. “I promise.”

18

Michael held his breath as Stella walked into his one-bedroom apartment. It wasn’t dirty—he was actually a super neat person—but it wasn’t very nice, either.

He tried looking at the space through her eyes. A small brown Ikea sofa sat against one wall of the living room across from a modest-sized flat-screen TV. At the back of the room were his workout bench and an arrangement of organized free weights. His punching bag hung near the corner in flagrant violation of his rental agreement.

The kitchen was a cramped area with laminate countertops, an electric range, and a small wooden table with four matching chairs. He kept a plant in the center of the table for color because, yeah, he liked that sort of thing. A metal filing cabinet was pushed against the back wall with bills and things on top he hadn’t gotten around to yet.

Stella removed her high heels and set them next to his other shoes. Her purse she placed absently on his couch as she inspected the DVDs lined up inside the TV console.

Leaning over for a closer look, she gave him a gratuitous view of her luscious ass. “You alphabetize them.”

He couldn’t help laughing. She never acted the way he expected. “Am I rocking your world, Stella?”

“What is this? Laughing in the Wind?” She opened the glass door and pulled out the one-inch-thick DVD case.

“Only the best wuxia television series ever.”

She glanced up from the box with her lips parted, looking like she’d found the Holy Grail, and it took effort not to grin like hell. None of his previous girlfriends had known what wuxia was, let alone shared his secret dorky obsession.

Trying to stay cool, he kicked his shoes off and placed them next to hers. “You can borrow it if you want.”

She hugged her treasure to her chest. “Okay, thanks.”

“Be careful, though. It’s really addicting, and there are eighty episodes or something.” He rubbed the smile off his mouth and ran his fingers through his hair. “Feel free to look around while I pack my stuff.”

But instead of staying behind when he went to his bedroom, she followed him and perched on the edge of the bed, smiling at him before checking out the plain space with curious sweeps of her eyes. Dressed in her expensive business clothes, she looked so out of place inside his cheap apartment that he wondered why the fuck he’d brought her here.

To torment himself, probably.

This was a no-client, no-woman zone, a place where he went to get normal in his head. How was he going to set his mind straight when things ended if he had memories of her sitting on his bed, waiting for him, smiling in the way that was just for him?

He escaped to his walk-in closet and stared at his suits and shirts, letting the sight remind him of a time when he hadn’t lived with a noose around his neck. He mentally picked out which garments to bring to Stella’s and retrieved a black sports bag from the top shelf. On his way out of the closet, he deliberated over the number of socks and boxers to pack. A week’s worth should—

Stella was curled up in his blankets, burrowing into his pillow with an expression of pure ecstasy on her face. It was strange as hell. It shouldn’t have aroused him.

But it did.

He dropped his bag to the ground and leaned over her. “Now that you’ve found my pillow and sheets, you don’t need me anymore. Is that it?” he whispered.

Her eyes popped open, and she blushed. “They smell so good.”

“Aren’t you concerned they’re dirty?”

She widened her eyes and tossed the blankets away from her chest. She looked like she might be sick, looked almost betrayed.

Before she could start hyperventilating, he lay down on the bed and gathered her against himself. “I’m the only one who sleeps here, Stella. I was kidding. And I shower at night.” He had to wash his clients away before he slept. No way would he bring them into his bed.

Well, except for this client. None of his rules had ever applied to Stella.

She pounded her fists against his chest without force. “That’s not funny, Michael.”

“I’m sorry.” He smoothed the hair away from her face and straightened her glasses for her. “I was only teasing you, and I didn’t think about . . . the others . . . until you reacted that way.”

“You really haven’t brought any of them here?”

Was she jealous? Did he want her to be jealous? Fuck yes, he did. “Never.”

She pursed her lips like she was biting the inside. “I should leave. I barged my way in here, didn’t I? Thank you for showing it to me. I like it. I should get a plant.”

She prepared to get up, and he told himself to let her go. This space was not for clients, and he didn’t need more memories of her in his bed.

Let her go.

His arms refused to listen. They pulled her close so their bodies lined up in that perfect, custom-made way.

“In my mind, I don’t group you with them, Stella.”

“You don’t?”

She looked so hopeful, Michael couldn’t stop himself from saying, “No. You’re not just another client to me.”

“In a good way, right?” she asked with a wobbly smile.

“In the best way.” He stroked her loose hair, and she shut her eyes as she leaned into his caress, trusting him in a way that humbled him.

When he slipped her glasses off and set them on the nightstand, she opened her eyes and swallowed, drawing his attention to the wildly beating pulse point beneath her jaw. Her cheeks bloomed with color. She wanted him. He’d never loved being wanted this much.

“So pretty, Stella.”

He brushed his thumb across her bottom lip, and she sighed and kissed it before she surprised him by sucking it into her mouth. She stroked her tongue over him before she bit him, sending a sudden fire burst of sensation directly to his cock.

“Where the hell did you learn that?”

She released his finger. “I just wanted to do it. But I plan to research erotic finger biting tomorrow.”

“You could ask me, you know.” He lifted her small hand to his mouth and bit the base of her palm.

Her fingers twitched, and her breath came out in a long, ragged exhalation. “I want to know all the things you love most.” She captured his hand and brought it to her mouth. White teeth nipped at his skin, and the hairs on his body stood up.