Good With His Hands

by Lauren Blakely

  But my fuzzy tongue doesn’t feel anything except wrong.

  “I’m going to go brush my teeth so I’ll be ready for round three or four.” I bounce to my feet and head for his bathroom and the new toothbrush he opened for me last night, but a sound low in his throat makes me turn to face him. “Yes?”

  “You look really good walking around my room naked.”

  I brace one hand against the doorframe, letting it slide up as I shift my hip out, striking a pose for him. His eyes sweep up and down my body with a look of appreciation, but also . . . concentration. Instantly, I know. “You’re going to draw me like this, aren’t you?”

  An almost shy smile flickers across his full mouth. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”

  “I’m going to draw you too,” I say, also a little shy, but in a good way. In an excited way. I’ve never felt shy and excited at the same time, but I’ve never felt a lot of the things Jesse makes me feel. “We should have a gallery show for two before you leave.”

  “Done,” he says, his smile fading, though the intensity in his eyes remains.

  I disappear into the bathroom, wishing I hadn’t mentioned the leaving part. But his departure is a reality, and if I’m going to graduate from List Academy with my degree in Seizing the Day, I have to live in the real world. I have to meet life where it’s at and do my best to squeeze all the love and hope and joy I can from it, no matter who’s leaving or for how long.

  “Thank you, Claire,” I whisper to the cool bathroom air as I load up my toothbrush, feeling her close.

  I’m so grateful for this gift she left for me, and I always will be—even when it’s time to say goodbye.

  16

  Jesse

  For some reason, I’m in a mood, but I do my best not to show it.

  Even though I’ve got a sneaking suspicion it has something to do with the dangerous thoughts that were racing through my head last night.

  But Ruby doesn’t deserve my cranky side—not after our incredible co-ed naked time and the mind-blowing things she did with her mouth this morning.

  I don’t know if it’s the fact that she’s Ruby and we have so much history between us, or if she’s in possession of some sort of tongue voodoo, but I’ve never felt anything like that. She brought me to my knees.

  Almost literally. If the edge of the bed hadn’t been there, I’m not sure where I would have landed. Maybe on the floor at her feet.

  Which is . . . not all that troubling to think about, honestly.

  If I fell at her feet, she would pick me up. Because she’s the sweetest, funniest, sexiest, best person I know.

  The woman I think I’m falling for.

  Dammit.

  Fucking hell.

  I was hoping it was my sex-brain tricking me last night.

  But I feel it again now, in the light of day, and it’s pissing me off a little.

  Yep . . . there it is, the source of my grouchiness, even though a hot woman wearing nothing but my T-shirt has made me French toast and is perched beside me at my kitchen table, looking unreasonably cute with powdered sugar on her nose as she praises the cherry-heavy fruit and jam selection in my fridge.

  She really is the best. I’m going to miss her, more than I ever imagined I would when we started the list a few days ago.

  But my gut tells me that was simply a failure of my imagination. My gut insists that Ruby has been one of my favorite people for a long time and that my feelings for her are more complicated than I’ve been willing to let on.

  Even to myself.

  Even if it took friends with benefits to start to see it.

  Like now, for example. I want to pull her into my lap, kiss the sugar from her nose, and hold her, feel her curvy little body close to mine and know she’s not going anywhere for a long while.

  That isn’t something I feel when it’s “just sex” with a woman.

  That’s something I feel when I’m . . .

  That damn word. I can hear it taunting me.

  Falling.

  Ruby puts her hand over mine, pulling me from my thoughts as she peers up into my eyes. “Did you hear me? You must not have, or you would be freaking the hell out right now.”

  I blink and focus my attention on her face. “Why?”

  “The ocean, Jesse,” she whispers, before swallowing hard. “I’m ready to go to it. To go into it.”

  My eyes widen. “Fuck.” She hasn’t dipped a toe in the ocean since a school trip in junior high when a wave crashed over her, tugged her under, tossed her around, and thankfully spat her out before it was too late.

  I can still remember the look on Claire’s pale face as she relayed the story after, of trying to get to Ruby while the waves slammed her back toward the beach and the stupid Jersey Shore lifeguard took his sweet time getting off his stand.

  My sister wasn’t the strongest swimmer, either, but she’d still been willing to risk her life for her best friend at only thirteen.

  Even as my mom had lectured Claire that she should always leave lifesaving to the professionals, I’d been so proud of my little sis and her big, brave heart.

  The memory tightens my throat and makes me feel even more soft inside.

  Even more protective of this woman I don’t ever want to lose.

  Especially not before her time.

  “Yeah.” She nods seriously, her breath rushing out. “But let me make sure my will is up to date before we go. Also, I’ll need to borrow a swimsuit from Gigi. The only one I have is from eighth grade and probably doesn’t fit anymore. My boobs, though still small, have gotten bigger since then.”

  “Your boobs are perfect,” I say, reaching out to cup one through the thin cotton shirt she’s wearing. Damn. Yep, still perfect. “And if memory serves, we had a lot of fun last night with these beauties.”

  “Stop,” she says, her lashes fluttering. “If we’re going to get to the water before noon, I have to get dressed.”

  But she doesn’t shove my hand away, and when I catch her nipple between my fingers, she makes a happy, sexy sound that convinces me the water can wait. “I could do a lot with these tits.”

  “Like?”

  “Fuck them,” I say, all low and smoky, because maybe, just maybe, if I focus on sex, I won’t think about all the things I feel for her.

  “Jesse,” she says, like she’s shy but also turned on by the idea.

  Me too.

  Me fucking too.

  “Sound like a good time?”

  She wiggles her brows. “Yes, but I also like you inside me.”

  I hum beneath my breath. “What do you know? I like being inside you too. And the sun doesn’t set until after eight,” I murmur. I rise, grabbing a condom from my wallet before returning quickly to my chair and urging her out of hers. “We have plenty of time.”

  “You’re a bad influence,” she says, but she lets me draw her into my lap once more and tug her T-shirt over her head. A few minutes later she’s riding me, making the wooden chair squeak beneath us as we take each other there—right there, fuck yes, to that place I’ve never been with anyone else.

  The thought zips through my head, then falls away as the second orgasm of the morning rips through my body. All I can think about is her.

  The feel of her gripping me tight as she loses control.

  The way she’s gasping sexy things about how she loves my cock.

  The flirty, dirty words falling from her lips, about how she’s going to learn to sculpt so she can capture it in 3D for women everywhere to enjoy.

  And briefly, I try to ignore a new thought, a realization—it’s never been like this with anyone else.

  I don’t want to connect the dots.

  I could stick my head back in the sand and keep playing the friends-with-benefits game, but what would be the point?

  Love is like zombies.

  You can bury them, but they’ll keep coming back.

  And I don’t want to bury what I feel for Ruby.

  Doesn’t matter what you
want, asshole. You’re leaving, and if you make that any harder for her than it’s going to be already, you’ll never forgive yourself. I can fucking promise you that.

  If I do anything to damage Ruby’s new lease on life, I’ll hate myself for it. Doing that would make me the bad guy.

  Even more than I am already . . .

  “I’ll do the papier-mâché model tonight,” Ruby whispers after, her lips moving against the sweat-damp skin of my neck.

  “Papier-mâché model?”

  She pulls back, gazing down at me with a dreamy, sated smile that makes me proud to have been the man to put it here. “Of your cock. I told you, I’m going to learn to sculpt eventually, but why not start with a medium I understand? Something easily accessible and transportable from your place to mine? Papier-mâché is great.”

  I arch a wry brow. “Cold, wet, flour-covered newspaper strips drying on my cock. Yeah, sounds perfect.”

  Perfect because it’s taking my mind off the crazy thoughts I can’t entertain.

  “Right?” She grins and kisses my cheek. “Glad we’re so simpatico this morning.”

  But are we?

  I don’t think so, but I also know that I’m too far gone on her kiss, her touch, the way she smiles at me as she waves goodbye from my door, promising to meet me at the Church Street subway station in forty-five minutes—no more, no less—to turn back now.

  Wherever she wants to go, whatever she wants to cover in wet newspaper, I’m along for the ride.

  At least until I get on that plane to L.A.

  17

  Ruby

  I dance down the street.

  Literally dance, waltzing and twirling and jumping up to click my heels as I swing around one of the not-gum-covered lampposts.

  A few people turn to shoot me a bemused look or a raised eyebrow as I pass, but this is New York City, and we’re all so accustomed to weirdness that a girl doing the dance of shame down the street in yesterday’s paint-splattered overalls isn’t a big deal.

  I’m part of the chaos.

  But a happy part, like when everyone bursts into song on the subway together after a ball game. Sometimes, this jaded old city is so full of magic it makes my heart ache.

  Oh, my heart . . .

  My poor heart. It won’t know what to do with itself when Jesse’s gone, but I promise it right now that I’ll find other reasons for us to dance. After two stalled years—twenty-four long months where I was stuck in rehab, in therapy, in learning to live in my body again, in going through the motions—I am moving, shimmying, dancing.

  Being alive like this feels too good to let anything take it away, even losing easy access to the best cock—and one of the best friends—I’ve ever had.

  I’m still smiling when I knock on the door to Gigi’s apartment. A nanosecond later, Gigi wrenches it open. Her pink retro robe with feathers around the cuffs swishes as she squeals, a giddy sound that perfectly echoes my vibe. “Oh my God, tell me everything! You’re glowing. I want a beat-by-beat recount of every kiss, every orgasm, every new sex trick you’ve learned. But wait!” She holds up both hands, her fingers spread wide. “Let me get my notebook. I want to write this down so I won’t forget.”

  I laugh as I step inside, closing the door behind me and heading for her bathroom. “I can’t. I only have thirty minutes. I have to grab the world’s fastest shower, wiggle into your cutest bathing suit and cover up, and meet Jesse to head to the beach.”

  Gigi frowns. “But I need details. If I don’t live vicariously through you, I’ll have to go hunt down my own sexy boyfriend, and that’d be so exhausting.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I remind her, before adding with a bob of my brows, “But he is sexy. And exhausting in the best way.”

  I close the door to the bathroom, ignoring Gigi’s plea to be allowed in to sit on the toilet seat while I shower so she can keep pestering me for details while I’m naked and vulnerable.

  Gigi has zero issues with her body or stripping down to nothing in front of her girlfriends. I’ve always been more of a private person, and that’s one thing the list doesn’t seem to be changing, proving it isn’t altering who I am. It’s bringing out who I’ve always been, pulling the suppressed and depressed part of my soul to the surface.

  Then showing that part the light of day.

  The vibrancy of fresh choices.

  It’s turning me inside out, lifting me up.

  And that doesn’t only feel good. It’s the complete opposite of those two stalled years.

  Jesse was right. I needed this list. I needed a push.

  The world feels new again, bright again.

  So much so that I feel ready to tackle one of my biggest demons.

  Or at least, I think I’m ready.

  But by the time I dress in a polka-dot Ethel Merman bathing suit so darling I vow to buy one of my own if this whole swimming thing works out, and then make the hour-long journey down to Manhattan Beach with Jesse, my stomach twists.

  Then contorts as I step out onto the warm sand. Gone is the good. Here to stay is the queasy.

  I stop in the middle of the sand, a statue, the sun pelting rays at me.

  I wince, shield my eyes.

  The memory of that day in the water smacks me hard. That terrible day when I thought I was going to die. Hell, I nearly died in an accident. Why do I need to relive yet another day when I almost passed away?

  What the hell was I thinking, agreeing to number six?

  Screw swimming.

  We can go for a stroll.

  A gentle, pleasant stroll.

  Claire probably didn’t mean it anyway when she wrote get your feet wet and learn to swim.

  More likely she meant swim through life.

  Swim through choices.

  Don’t drown in the stupid.

  That sounds like Claire.

  I dig my heels into the sand.

  “I’ve got you,” Jesse says, resting a hand lightly on the small of my back.

  I turn back to him, forcing what I hope is a breezy smile even though my heart is pounding so hard my ribs feel like they’re vibrating. “You know what? I don’t think this is the best way to spend our day, after all.” I loop my arms around his neck and lean into him. “I mean, we don’t have much time left before you leave. Wouldn’t you rather spend it naked and happy than splashing around in disgusting water?”

  He stands tall and firm, refusing to bend close enough for me to press my lips to his or take my persuading to the next level. “The water is fine. This is the cleanest beach in the city.”

  “But there’s still fish pee in there,” I say, casting about for any reason to backpedal, and run far away. “And fish poo. And sharks. The sharks are getting way more aggressive these days. Didn’t they bite a bunch of people in Massachusetts last summer?” I shudder and widen my eyes as the fear clutches my ankles, climbs up my legs like vines. “And who needs a shark bite? I mean, I have cards to paint, and you have to pack for L.A. I really don’t have time to lose a limb right now.”

  Or to drown.

  I slip away from his solid body, starting toward the boardwalk leading away from the sand, but he catches my elbow, swinging me back around in a circle with a gentle tug of his fingers.

  “No one’s losing a limb today.” He nods toward the water’s edge, where at least a dozen bigger kids are riding boogie boards while a flock of mothers in wide-brim straw hats stand in the water, chatting as their little ones splash in waves by their feet. “Sharks don’t like crowds. We’ll be perfectly safe.”

  I swallow.

  Or try to swallow, but it suddenly feels like Gigi’s ruffle-necked, gauzy black cover-up is trying to strangle me.

  I tug at the bow with clammy fingers. “I think a pool would be better, though, right? I should have thought of that before we left.” Yes, a pool. A nice shallow pool. Duh. “Easier to teach in a pool. Fewer waves and seagulls and—”

  “The waves aren’t that big, and the seagulls won’
t bother us. We didn’t bring any food.”

  My skin prickles. My voice pitches higher. “But we probably should have.” I point back toward the subway station, desperate to go. “There was a sandwich shop up there. Should we grab sandwiches? Maybe have a beer and consider our options? I’m on vacation; I should totally have a beer at eleven a.m., right? I mean, when’s the last time I did that? Have I ever done that?” I laugh nervously. “I don’t think I have. Have you?”

  “We’ll have a beer after,” he says, his fingers curling farther around my upper arm. “To celebrate.”

  “Celebrate.” I huff. “I hear that’s hard to do when you’re sleeping with the fishes.”

  “Ruby.”

  “What? I just . . .” My tongue slips out to dampen my lips as I meet his unflinching gaze.

  I told him I wanted him. Surely, I can tell him this truth too. That I am so scared.

  I am terrified.

  I am petrified of almost dying . . . again.

  Finally, I whisper, “You said we would stop if I wanted to stop. If the list got too hard.”

  He strokes my hair, gentle and tender. “We can, but this isn’t too hard, sweetheart. You’ve got this. And like I said, I’ve got you. I won’t let you drown. I won’t let you die. I won’t let anything bad happen to you. I promise.”

  Can he keep that promise?

  I’m not sure, but the fact that he makes it unknots the ball of fear in me.

  So do his hands.

  He cups my face, making me feel small in a good way. In a this man could absolutely throw me over his shoulder and carry me out of a burning building kind of way.

  And yes, I like his promise.

  Maybe I need to swim through my fear.

  "Do you trust me?” he asks with my face still in his grasp.

  A grasp that feels like an embrace.

  And like he’s giving me some of his courage.

  I take it, letting his strength fill me. “I do,” I say, meaning it.

  “Good. I’ve got your back. I swear.”

  A part of me tries to grab ahold of the fear one last time, to cling to my phobia. To stay . . . stalled.