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“I’m not humoring you,” he says in a husky voice. But there’s a hint of something uncertain in his eyes that makes me wonder if that’s the truth. “And Braxton is a selfish piece of shit. He tried to get my piece excluded from the Spring Open Studio show in Chelsea.”
A frown claws at my forehead. “What? But you’ve been doing that show for years. Since I was like . . . seventeen. And the owner loves you, right?”
“Yeah. She does. And Braxton failed, obviously. But you don’t need a ‘friend’ like that in your life, let alone your bed. I can’t imagine he supports his girlfriends any more than he does anyone else. That prick is only looking out for number one.”
I tip my head to the side, gazing up at him with a fond smile.
He scowls. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“It’s cute that you assume he’d want me to be his girlfriend. Not just the flavor of the month. Or the afternoon.”
He frowns harder. “He should. Any guy lucky enough to get in your bed should want to stay there, Ruby. You need to own that.”
Except for you. You don’t want to stay there, a voice whispers in my head.
But I ignore it too.
I need to be content with his decision, whether he slept on the idea of being friends with benefits and decided it would be a bad idea, or whether he woke up this morning thinking, Yes! A temporary sex fest with Ruby while we’re working through the list is the most brilliant plan ever!
Since he’s being more protective than pouncy, I’m guessing he chose the bad idea option.
But that’s okay. I will survive not kissing him again.
“Sir, yes, sir. Owning it.” I focus on the list and only the list. That’s why we’re here; any kissing is secondary. With that in mind, I point to the store’s entrance. “Now, can we go pick out paints, please? We’re burning sunlight, and the schoolhouse by the cemetery isn’t going to paint itself.”
His eyes widen, but they also catch fire, flickering with that curiosity that makes him one of my favorite people. I love that he’s always up for considering new things—even things that are a bit crazy. “The one by my gym in Brooklyn?”
I nod, and his breath rushes out.
“That place is a little creepy, Ruby,” he says, raking a hand through his hair. “And you know half the homeless men in the borough sneak in there to sleep when it rains.”
“I know. That’s where Norman goes.” Norman is one of Flatbush’s indigent population, a sweet old man who reads poetry and replicates impressionist paintings in chalk on the sidewalks in the park on sunny days, and who absolutely refuses to go to a homeless shelter. “He said it’s pretty depressing in there, so I thought maybe we could make it . . . less depressing. I mean we can’t restore any of the broken historical fixtures or install central heat in an afternoon. But I have a few ideas of what we can do,” I say, then I tell him my twin plans.
“Love both of those ideas. And I suppose we can brighten up the place.” Jesse rubs a considering hand across his jaw. “If we don’t get caught.”
I wave breezily. “We won’t get caught.”
He arches a brow. “Two people breaking into the old school in broad daylight with cans of spray paint might attract attention.”
I motion to my empty pack. “That’s why I brought my backpack. They’ll just think we’re two homeless people looking for a nap.”
He grunts. “Because you look homeless with your fresh-scrubbed face and those cute little overalls with the cherry patches on the butt.”
“You noticed those, huh?” I ask, my pulse beating faster in my throat as he leans down, bringing his lips closer to mine.
He whispers, “I noticed. And I want to bite them.”
Maybe he isn’t on Team Bad Idea.
My breath shudders out as I nod. “Yes, please.”
“Art first. Cherry biting after?”
I nod, my head swimming pleasantly as he takes my hand.
A shiver rushes through me at the possibility of a night with Jesse. Of tonight with Jesse.
“Good. Then, let’s get started,” he says, leading the way to the door. “What do you want to paint, rebel?”
“Something beautiful,” I murmur, following him inside, visions of the paintings I made of him last night dancing through my head.
Unfortunately, I doubt most of the homeless population of Flatbush would find nudes of Jesse Hendrix as compelling as I do.
13
RUBY
Pink, peach, and tiger-lily-orange rays filter through a cracked window in the old schoolhouse. The sun is showing off tonight, flamboyant as it sets.
It’s a little past eight. A fine sheen of sweat coats my neck, and my forearms ache from holding a spray-paint can for hours. My shoulder muscles are as tightly wound as clock parts.
