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Corey, on the other hand, is a dead end.
With a possible side of chlamydia.
But do I Chad him and give him an unexpected tell-off? Hardly seems worth it.
Instead, I choose a simple and direct shutdown. With a smile, I bob a shoulder. “Thanks, but I’m meeting—”
“Me,” a deep voice rumbles from over my shoulder. “She’s meeting me.”
I turn to see Jesse looking delicious in khaki cargo shorts and a paint-splattered white T-shirt. His hair is damp, and my stomach does a disco dance behind the bib of my equally paint-splattered overalls. God, he’s hot, fresh from the shower. I want to be there the next time he gets out from under the spray and dry him off with my tongue.
Or maybe just hop under the stream with him and get dirty together while we’re getting clean.
I’ve never had sex in the shower, but I suddenly want to.
A lot.
Starting now.
“Hey, babe, sorry I’m late,” Jesse says, bending down to press a quick kiss to my cheek, letting his lips linger long enough to stake a claim.
I can’t help but grin.
I have zero game, but I guess the universe occasionally smiles on the game-challenged.
If I’d planned for Jesse to discover me flirting with dip-his-wick Corey, it would have blown up in my face.
I would have gotten pooped on by a pigeon on my way out of the subway. And Corey would have absolutely forgotten my name or that he’d met me, let alone that I took his spray-paint workshop a few years ago.
But the goddess of all good things likes me today. It’s the list effect, lighting my path with sunshine wherever I go. Which works, since Jesse’s lips on my skin fill my chest with warm, sparkly feelings, like champagne bubbles fizzing behind my ribs.
“It’s fine. I know how the trains are on Sundays,” I say in a breathy voice as he pulls away. I motion toward Corey. “Jesse, this is Corey Braxton. He’s the artist who taught the graffiti art class I—”
“I know who he is,” Jesse cuts me off, showing a few too many teeth as he grins at the other man and thrusts out a hand. “How you been, man?”
“Good, Hendrix, good,” Corey says, seeming a little flustered. “How about you?”
“Amazing. Looking forward to your next show. When’s that happening?”
“November.” Corey shoves his hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans as he shrugs. “Probably. Waiting to see how things shake out with the zoning board. Not sure which building I’m getting for the mural yet. How about you? I saw you had some pieces at Maxine’s place last time I was in there.”
Maxine’s is a SoHo art world institution that carries some of Jesse’s pieces. He could easily sell his work to his contacts in Hollywood, who have decided Jesse Hendrix originals are a must-have for any serious modern collector, but he loves the NYC art scene and is happy to help them attract the business his fanbase brings in.
“Nothing coming up,” Jesse says, still smiling that big, vaguely predatory smile. “I’m headed to L.A. in a couple weeks, so I’m focused on that transition for now. But good luck with your stuff. I’ll check it out when I’m back for Thanksgiving.”
The men shake hands, and I accept Corey’s hug goodbye and well wishes for my project, but inside I’m spiraling a little.
Back for Thanksgiving . . .
Is that the next time I’m going to see Jesse? In four months? It’s not that far away—we’ve gone weeks without seeing each other before, when our lives were busy, but it suddenly seems like a long time.
But as Corey heads off, I force the thoughts from my head.
Jesse’s moving; that’s a fact of life.
And it’s a good fact. If he weren’t moving, the best kiss of my life wouldn’t have happened. List or no list, I would never have had the guts to flirt with him the way I did last night if he were sticking around.
When I turn back to him, he’s glaring at me.
“What?” I ask, laughing.
He points a finger after Corey. “No. That’s not going to happen. You and Braxton.”
I snort. “Of course, it’s not. He’s a walking STD.”
“You were flirting with him,” he accuses.
“I was not,” I say. But Jesse’s narrowed eyes make me confess something else. “But I like that you thought I was.”
"You want me to be jealous?”
“No, but . . .” I peer up at him through my lashes, emboldened by our kiss and the way he’s looking at me like he wants to slap a Property of Jesse Hendrix sticker on my forehead. “I liked flirting with you last night. I’d like more . . . practice at that.”
“Then practice more on me,” he says, stepping closer, making my heart thud hard against my ribs.
“But I don’t know if I can trust you to give reliable feedback,” I whisper, his leather and clove scent teasing my nose, making me think of hot kisses and the way his hands felt on my hips. “You could be humoring me. Telling me what I want to hear.”
