Helen Hoang - The Kiss Quotient

He tilted his head as he frowned at her. “How do you know about my mom’s bills or the program?” After a moment’s hesitation, his eyes widened. “Was it you?”

She averted her eyes.

“It was you,” he said in a discovering voice. “How did you know about my mom’s lack of insurance?”

“That night at your apartment, I saw the bills, and I made the connection between the cost of her treatment and your escorting fees. I think . . . that’s when I fell all the way in love with you.”

A boyish grin spread over his lips. “I was going to get those words out of you in the most delicious way.” But then his smile vanished, replaced by a thoughtful line. “It must have cost a fortune. You started an entire medical program. Just how rich are you?”

She worried her bottom lip as she continued to hug the teddy bear. “I’m not that rich anymore. Well, I’m kind of rich. It depends on how you define it. You’re probably not going to like it. Are you sure you want to know?”

“Out with it, Stella.”

“I had a trust fund. There was about fifteen million dollars in it,” she said with a shrug. “I donated it to the Palo Alto Medical Foundation to start that medical program.”

“You gave away your entire trust fund? For me?”

“That’s kind of what you’re supposed to do with money like that, isn’t it? Give it away? I can support myself with my salary. It’s just money, Michael, and I couldn’t stand the idea that you were being forced into escorting. If you want to do it, that’s one thing. But if you don’t . . .” She shook her head. “I was determined to give you a choice. Besides, we’re helping lots of families now. It’s a good thing.”

“We?” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, the corner of her mouth. “That was all you. That money was not mine.” He pressed a series of kisses to her lips. “Thank you for giving me that choice so I could pick you. Thank you for being you. I love you.”

She couldn’t help smiling then. She didn’t think she’d ever get tired of hearing him say that. “Now I can say my boyfriend is a designer with complete confidence. That is, if you are my boyfriend. Are you?”

Instead of answering right away, he started the engine and drove out of the parking lot. Eyes on the road and voice casual, he said, “I better be your boyfriend. Since I’m asking you to marry me in three months.”

Stella’s jaw dropped as shock washed over her in waves that alternated between hot and cold. “Why are you telling me this?”

A small smile played on his lips as he darted a quick glance her way before focusing on the road once again. “Because you don’t like surprises, and I figured you’d need time to get used to the idea.”

He was right about that, but before she could dwell on it too much, he dropped one of his hands from the wheel and caught hers, interlacing their fingers the way he always did.

Saying nothing, she let the moment wash over her, the uncertainty, the breathless hope, the anxiousness, and the shimmering contentment. The sight of their intertwined hands pleased her. So different, but still five fingers and five knuckles, the same general blueprint.

She tightened her grip, and he squeezed her back. Palm to palm, two lonely halves found comfort together.

FOUR MONTHS LATER

Stella strolled down a quiet sidewalk in San Francisco’s warehouse district, a discreet corner of town inhabited by several West Coast–based fashion businesses. After opening an unmarked door, she entered an industrial space consisting of steel walls, cement floors, and exposed ceilings.

A photo shoot was in progress on the far side of the room, and Stella smiled as she took in the models showcasing Michael’s latest designs. It was barely autumn, but the models presented his winter line. Children ranging in age from preschool to tween posed in exquisitely tailored, miniature suits, vests with matching newsboy caps, sweater dresses, and fur-trimmed mantles.

Quan saw her first. “Hi, Stella.” He waved at her absently before continuing an animated discussion with the camerawoman.

Michael paused in the middle of tying the golden ribbon on a little girl’s white chiffon evening dress and glanced up at her, brightening. “You’re early.”

“I missed you.”

His smile widened, and he patted the little girl on the shoulder and directed her toward the set, where a coordinator was positioning the children and the props. As he walked to her, he tucked his hands into the pockets of his slacks and swept an appreciative gaze over her navy-blue skirt suit and the scarf loosely wrapped around her neck. She knew he was admiring his clothing selection for her today, and her lips thinned as she suppressed a smile. The things that made him happy . . .

When he reached her side, he leaned down and kissed her on the mouth before trailing his hands down her arms and capturing her hands. He brought her knuckles to his lips and brushed a thumb over the fingers on her left hand, drawing her attention to the respectable trio of diamonds sparkling on her ring finger.

“I still can’t believe you went into debt to buy me this,” she said.

Even so, she had to admit she loved everything it represented. She’d never been into jewelry, but she caught herself gazing at her ring more often than she’d expected and, invariably, thinking of Michael. When people at the office caught her grinning for no apparent reason, they rolled their eyes and muttered under their breaths.

“I needed to announce how ‘taken’ you are. Also, as of this morning, I’m officially out of debt. Quan got us the venture backing. We’re opening three new stores by Christmas.”

She mentally ran the numbers, and excitement bubbled inside of her. “That’s really fast. You’re doing even better than the high-growth trajectory I developed for you.”

“We are. Your analytics are part of what convinced the venture capitalists, actually.”

“I think it was your designs and aggressive marketing strategy.”

“Okay, that may have had something to do with it.” He laughed, but the look in his eyes was soft. “Having you with me this whole time has meant everything to me, though. I hope you know that.”

“I do.” The past few months had been busy for the both of them, but together, they’d made it work. “It’s the same for me.”

His expression went serious. “You said you were having the meeting with the partners at your firm today. How did it go?”

“They offered me a promotion again. Principal econometrician. Five direct reports in addition to my trusty intern.”

“And?”

She took a breath before saying, “I accepted it.”

His lips fell open, and in the next moment, he crushed her in a fierce embrace. He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Do you regret it?”

She burrowed closer to him and breathed in his scent. “No. I’m nervous about it, but mostly, I’m happy.”

“So proud of you.”

She smiled so big her cheeks ached. “The promotion comes with a large bonus. I’m warning you in advance I’m buying you a new car.”

When he pulled back, she worried he was upset. She couldn’t read the shuttered look on his face as he said, “I can buy myself a new car.”

She bit her lip to keep from frowning, but she understood if he had to earn his own way. She didn’t need to spoil him. She just wanted to.

“But I want the same model as yours,” he continued. “And I like black.”

She tilted her head to the side and drew in a slow breath. “Does that mean . . . ?”

“It means if you want to buy me a car, I want to drive it.” His lips curved with a suggestive grin, and his eyes danced. “If you want to buy me boxers, I want to wear them.”

Her chest filled with lightness, and she grabbed his hand so she wouldn’t accidentally float away. “It means you love me.”

He interlaced their fingers the way he always did and squeezed. “That’s right. It’s economics.”

THE END

The first time I heard of “high functioning” autism, previously known as Asperger’s Syndrome, was in a private discussion with my daughter’s preschool teacher. I was completely shocked by the teacher’s suggestion. While my girl was a handful, she didn’t fit my preconceptions of “autistic” at all. In my eyes, she’s always been just as she should be—a sweet little thing with a firecracker personality. I came home and did some quick research on the Internet, and my findings didn’t seem in line with my girl’s traits. Just to be sure, I asked my family members and her physician for their opinions, and results were unanimous: She was not autistic. They had to be right, and I let it go.

At least, I thought I did. Real Life Me let it go, but Writer Me was fascinated. You see, a gender-swapped Pretty Woman had been niggling at the back of my mind for quite some time, but I hadn’t been able to figure out why a successful beautiful woman would hire an escort. One autistic trait from my quick Internet research stuck with me: trouble with social skills. That was certainly something I could empathize with—and a compelling reason to hire an escort. What if my heroine was autistic like my daughter wasn’t? I needed to learn about this character.

I started to research in earnest, and I discovered the most interesting thing: There are books specifically for women on the spectrum. How come women need their own books? We’re all people. I figured men and women should be the same. I purchased Aspergirls by Rudy Simone.

The strangest feeling settled over me when I started reading her words, and it only got stronger as I delved deeper into the book. Apparently, there’s a major difference in the way autism is perceived between men and women. What I’d previously read described autistic men, but many autistic women, for a variety of reasons, mask their awkwardness and hide their autistic traits to be more socially acceptable. Even our obsessions and interests are generally tailored to be socially acceptable, like horses and music instead of license plate numbers that start with three. Because of this, women often go undiagnosed or are diagnosed later in life, frequently after their own children receive diagnoses. Women with Asperger’s exist in what people call the “invisible part of the spectrum.”