Free The Bride Test by Helen Hoang Page A

having soup for breakfast, though. When he glanced at her, she pursed her lips and pointedly eyed one of the slices of mango.
    Fucking hell. He wasn’t a two-year-old. Why was this happening to him? Heaving a beleaguered breath, he picked up the mango and took a large bite.
    Extreme sourness exploded in his mouth, and he cringed as a hard shudder worked through his body.
Bla-uggity-bleh-gahhh.
    She burst out laughing, and he stared at her in horror.
    How was this funny? He couldn’t stop shuddering as he struggled to swallow the mouthful of pure citric acid. Shit, his eyes were watering.
    She schooled her features and said, “Sorry. It’s a little sour.”
    Fuck yeah, it was sour.
    Without saying a word, he gulped from his coffee mug, shuddered again, and had another gulp of coffee.
Ugh.
    This was his life now. His life was hell.
    “Sorry, I like sour,” she said with an apologetic wince. “It’s good with salt and chili pepper.”
    He held out his half-eaten mango slice. “You
like
this?”
    She plucked it from his fingers and bit into it with complete disregard for germ transference. Didn’t she care about bacteria or getting sick? She might as well have kissed him— a thoroughly disturbing thought. Smiling with the green mango caught between her white teeth, she said, “Too delicious.”
    He blinked and finished his noodles and soup. With that level of acid tolerance, her insides were probably corrosive enough to digest an entire seal pup. Nature was terrifying sometimes.
    She helped him eat the rest of his fruit. No way he was touching any more of it. After they cleaned up, she raced to her room and came back thirty seconds later in a white T-shirt and black pants, hair up in a ponytail.
    After he drove past the adult school and pulled into the parking space in front of his mom’s restaurant, he refrained from drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as Esme gathered up her things, unbuckled her seat belt, and slowly climbed out of the car. As soon as she shut the door, he put the gear in reverse. Finally, he could
go
.
    But she walked around to his side and motioned for him to open the window, which he did, even though he didn’t want to.
What now, what now, what now?
    Meeting his eyes, she said, “Thank you for driving me. And about the looking ...” Her lips curved into a smile that was almost shy. “You can look at me however long you like. I don’t mind it. Good-bye, Anh Khải.”
    She turned around and strode toward the restaurant’s front door, ponytail bobbing with each step. He was free, but he let the car idle there. He was still sleep deprived, still completely off routine and irritated as hell, his head still hurt, and his balls were still blue.
    But something inside of him loosened, and he didn’t mind so much the way she said his name now. He waited until the restaurant door shut behind her before driving away.
    H ere, here,” Cô Nga said the second Esme walked in the door, waving her over to the booth where she was filling pepper shakers. “Come sit and tell me everything.”
    Esme slid into the red leather booth and cast a quick glance around the restaurant, taking in the orange walls, the red booths, the black tables, the large fish tank in back, and the familiar scents of cooking food. Surprisingly, aside from the booths, the restaurant wasn’t that different from one you’d find back in Việt Nam. She felt like she’d come home.
    Here, the smell of fish sauce was welcome. She brought a handful of her hair to her nose and inhaled, but she detected nothing. She’d washed last night. She was clean. But an uncomfortable embarrassment lingered as she remembered the way he’d opened all the windows and the door to air out a smell she didn’t notice.
    Cô Nga looked up from her pepper shaker. “How are things going?”
    Esme shrugged and smiled. “It’s too early to say.”
    “He’s being difficult?” Cô Nga asked. “Do I need to talk to him? He promised he’d treat you