His lips twisted with something between a smile and a grimace. “It’s prom season. Not my favorite time of year.”
“Lots of alterations?”
“And squealing teenaged girls.”
“They must all crush on you instantly.” That had to get pretty exhausting.
“I have my mom do most of those fittings, so it’s not so bad. But I am going cross-eyed from all the spaghetti-strapped gowns. Your picture was the highlight of my day.”
That sounded terrible. Her picture hadn’t even been that good. “Do you wish you could work with more menswear, then?”
The thought that he wasn’t doing what he loved felt like a sharp bur in her side. She would need therapy if she had to do work she detested all day, every day, every week.
He shrugged, but his expression was thoughtful. “I prefer the creative side of the work, making something new. I don’t mind the actual constructing and altering, but it’s not very challenging.”
“Have you thought of starting your own line?” She covered her mouth as the idea occurred to her. “You could go on one of those reality TV fashion contests. You would win.”
He smiled down at their joined hands, but it wasn’t a happy smile. “Three years ago, I got selected for a spot on one of those. I think they liked my face better than my portfolio, but whatever. An opportunity is an opportunity. Stuff happened, though, and my mom got sick. I had to turn it down.”
The blood drained from Stella’s face as her chest broke open. Of course, he would do that for his mom.
He glanced up at her, and his expression went tender. “Don’t look so sad. She’s doing really well lately.”
“It’s . . . cancer?” She vaguely recalled hearing his sisters mention chemo while they were fighting, but she’d been so overwhelmed she hadn’t fully absorbed the information. How had that gotten past her? What kind of person was she?
“Stage four, incurable, inoperable, lung cancer. No, she’s never smoked. She just has bad luck. The latest treatments are working for her, though. Things have been good,” he said with an encouraging smile.
She squeezed his hand tight as she gazed at him. Did he have any idea how indescribably wonderful he was?
The waiter arrived, and Michael asked her, “Want me to order?” When she nodded, he rattled off the names of a few dishes without looking at the menu.
“How was your day?” he asked.
“Fine.”
He grinned and pinched her chin. “Details, Stella.”
“Oh. Well . . . I’ve encountered an interesting puzzle with my work. There is this fascinating phenomenon I can’t expl—why are you looking at me like that?”
His head was tilted to the side, his smile particularly fond. “You are adorably sexy when you talk about your work.”
“Those things don’t go together.”
He laughed. “They do with you. Continue, puzzle fascinating phenomenon.”
“I’ll tell you when I figure it out. Which I will. Let’s see here. What else happened? Oh, my boss is pressuring me to hire an intern. And I took my first selfie today.” She left out everything relating to Philip. There was no need to mention that uncomfortable encounter.
“Does your boss think you’re working too much?”
She shrugged. “Who doesn’t think that?”
“It’s not too much if you love it. Like you do.”
“Precisely. Please tell my mother that.”
“If I see her, I will,” he said. But judging from the tone of his voice, he thought the likelihood of his seeing her mother was low.
“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.”
Chapter 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.