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She gives a cute shrug, a little coy, a little winsome. “I thought you might want some pie.”
I grin. “I was hoping you’d bring one with you.”
She swipes her hand across her cheek. Lifts her finger. Shows a smear of red. “Just . . . not on my face?”
“Generally, I prefer a plate. Or a jar.” I nod to the hallway by my private office. “The restroom is clean if you need a sink. I just put fresh towels in the dispenser.”
She gives me a flat expression. “So you don’t think I should leave it there all night?”
“Rehab’s been good for you. Sharpened that finely tuned wit.”
She laughs, but it fades quickly, and that far-away look returns for another moment, infecting her voice as she says, “Yeah. I’ve got that going for me.”
Hmmmm . . . she seems more off than usual.
All the more reason to invoke the One List to Rule Them All.
But first things first. “We can get pie-free going for you too. Come on.”
I take her to the bathroom in the back, dampen a few paper towels, and wipe off her cheek. Which is a gorgeous cheek, by all measures of cheeks.
But it’s also hers, which makes it precious.
What am I going to do with this woman? With her moody eyes and full lips and all the things she makes me feel? The off-limits things. The stupid things—because even if it was all right to lust over my little sister’s best friend, especially when my sister can’t ever give her permission for me to cross that line, our lives are headed in opposite directions.
I run the thick towel under the faucet once more then turn off the tap, sliding the damp paper along her jaw. Her very kissable jaw. Hmm. Why did I offer to do this? Oh, because it gives me the chance to get close to her.
Even though getting close to her isn’t smart.
Focusing on the task in front of me, I finish the pie cleanup and toss the paper towel in the trash. “Good as new.”
“Thanks.” Her breath rushes out with a soft laugh. “So that’s what it feels like to be one of your cars?”
“Probably. They don’t give a lot of feedback, though, so . . .”
“Right.” She bites her lip and turns toward the door. As she moves, I catch a glimpse of a few pie-oozed strands of hair.
“Wait.” I catch her arm and she shivers, a shiver that echoes across my skin as I add, “Not done yet.”
I tug her gently back in, wetting my fingers and smoothing them over the sugar-covered curl.
“Thanks again,” she whispers.
We’re quiet for a beat, and in that silence, I’m keenly aware that this is more intimate than I’ve been with her in . . . well, since the days right after Claire died. Not that we were intimate in a sexual way. More in a cry-on-each-other’s-shoulder-as-grief-rips-your-heart-apart kind of way. The I-can-comfort-you-with-a-hug-and-you-can-comfort-me-too-because-what-else-can-we-do-after-a-life-changing-loss kind of way.
In my life, there is before and there is after.
The line between is my sister’s death. Considering Ruby and Claire had been best friends since they were six, I know Ruby has the same before and after in her life.
Which is why I have to tell her.
About the list.
After I deal with one final rebel berry.
“And there’s a strawberry sliver on your ear.”
She winces and laughs. “Oh my God. I’m a disaster.”
“No, you’re not. Not even close.” I catch the berry slice on my finger. Our gazes hold. My pulse spikes.
That happens every now and then when I’m close to this woman. The first time, I’d been home from college and she’d stretched out on the hood of my car, colorfully cursing the douchebag who’d dumped her at prom.
I’d stretched out beside her. Her cheeks had flushed as she’d detailed all the reasons Hayden was an asshole—in between pointing out star formations she’d memorized—and for the first time, I’d seen Ruby as something more than my little sister’s best friend.
It wasn’t the last.
And lately . . .
Lately, I can’t seem to stop noticing her in ways I shouldn’t, which is going to complicate things. The last thing I need is the kind of prolonged Ruby exposure that dealing with The List is going to require.
But it doesn’t matter what I need. It’s what she needs that matters.
It’s time.
I tip my head toward the bathroom door. “Let’s go out to the garden. I want to talk to you about something.”
“Something serious, I’m guessing?” She arches a brow. “The garden is for serious conversations.”
I shrug and say, “Not always,” but I don’t deny that this conversation is going to be. “Come on. It’s about your surprise.”
“Okay.” She follows me down the hall, past the last massive piece of art I need to take down—the hood of a VW bug too damaged to be restored that now sports a shadowy New York skyline on it, courtesy of yours truly and a can of spray paint. I sell most of my art—or give it to good friends—but this one is special, the first piece that came out exactly the way I imagined it in my head. It’s a keeper.
