Good With His Hands Read online

  She narrows her eyes and grumbles for show. “Fine. I acquiesce. Also, you look cute, mushroom man,” she says, eyeing me up and down. “Nice jeans.”

  “I know how to follow directions.” I jerk my gaze behind me as if I’m checking out my own rear, which is not easy to do. “These are the ones you wanted, right? The ones that show off my ass?”

  She spins a finger in the universal sign for turn around and show me the goods, and I give her a full 360. She taps her chin like a judge on a reality show, before saying in a hushed announcer’s voice, “David, I’d have to say that’s quite a yummy can. What do you think, Genevieve? Oh yes, a lovely tush by all measures of tushiness.”

  “Tush? Can? Are we living in the sixties?” I ask with a laugh.

  “If we were, I would say you have a very nice hiney.”

  I wince. “Oof. Total mood killer.”

  “Agreed. Hiney is the worst.” She wrinkles her nose as her big brown gaze drifts toward the café’s red-and-white-striped awning. “Aside from mushrooms.”

  The café’s only a year old and still finding its legs, but it’s a cool spot. Cozy and relaxed, but with an artsy, romantic vibe.

  A hand-printed sign hangs beneath the café’s awning, and she tilts her head to study it with a wary frown.

  “What, exactly, is foraged food?”

  “It’s like. . . scavenged food. You scour the fields and forests for tasty treats. Or really, Abe does, and he cooks his bounty in interesting ways, and it’s awesome.”

  She looks doubtful. “How is this a thing? In New York?”

  “He does the scavenging in New Jersey, I think. And everything is a thing. Especially in New York.”

  “But should it be?”

  “It should. Why not?”

  “Because I feel like mushrooms should not be a thing. Mushrooms live in the dirt.”

  “All vegetables live in the dirt. What do you have against the earth?”

  “Oh, stop. I’m a tree-hugger just like you,” she says as we make our way toward the restaurant’s front door. “I’m assuming you’re still going to make all your old cars more fuel-efficient and stuff once you’re in L.A.?”

  I shrug, not wanting to think about the move. “Mother Earth is cool. I’d like to keep her around for a while. Which reminds me—we should go camping before I leave.”

  “At the Four Seasons?” There’s that deadpan Ruby.

  I answer just as matter-of-factly. “In the woods. That’s where people camp—in the out of doors.”

  “Maybe you camp out of doors. But I believe in camping at the Four Seasons.” Her eyes light up like a slot machine. “In fact, that sounds like a really cool ‘new’ thing to do. I know the list says try something, like a new food, but maybe this is what Claire meant. She knew me well, after all, and I’ve never been to the Four Seasons.”

  My shoulders tense for a few seconds at the mention of my sister’s name, but I roll them out and let it go.

  I pause with my hand on the door. “You ready?”

  Inside, a mix of Art Nouveau and 1950s decorations fill the walls above the mismatched tables, but Ruby looks like she’s marching to the guillotine.

  She closes her eyes and draws a deep breath, centering herself. “Fine. Let’s do it.”

  “You’re going to love this place,” I say, pulling open the door and ushering her ahead of me. I set a hand on her back as we head to the counter.

  Her sexy back.

  Because backs are sexy. They’re an unsung part of woman’s anatomy and I’d be willing to sing the praises of Ruby’s all night long.

  We reach the counter and she studies the chalkboard menu while I do my best not to think about brushing kisses down her spine.

  “All right. I’ve got my big girl . . .” She flicks her gaze at me, and I expect her to say panties, but she says, “bra on. Which platter do I want to try?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Mushrooms are all good,” I say, then lay it on thick, doing my best to tantalize her with a phone-sex-voice ode to fungi. “Cremini. Oyster. Chanterelle. Shiitake. Porcini. They’re heavenly.”

  She bites her lip and hums low in her throat. “Wow. Next you’ll be whispering sweet nothings about hummus, peppers, and carrots too,” she says in a husky, teasing voice.

  Trouble is, it sounds too fucking good. Too sexy, even though we’re both clearly joking.

  Thankfully, Abe chooses that moment to saunter from the stove to the counter. A Brooklyn foodie to the core with his burlap apron, ginger hair, and matching goatee, I’m pretty sure Abe is prohibited from living in any other borough.

  “Hey, Jesse, good to see you. Glad you brought a friend this time,” he says. I make the introductions, explaining it’s Ruby’s first time trying mushrooms, and Abe’s lips stretch in an excited grin. “You’re going to love them. At first sight. First taste.” He laughs. “Why don’t I whip up a sautéed sampler for you guys, with some couscous and pickled veggies on the side for a palate cleanser in between varietals?”

  “Sounds great.” Ruby grins, and I’m sure only I can tell it’s forced.

  On our way to the table, she points to an antique muffler hanging on the wall, a Gotham-esque image painted on the car part.

  “He has one of your pieces,” she whispers, like it’s a secret.

  It’s a good whisper, a proud one, and I like it.

  “Fucker bought it clandestinely at a gallery. Even though I told him I’d give him something for free,” I grumble without real complaint.

  “I love that he’s supporting your side hustle,” she says.

  We settle at a table in the corner while Abe gets to work whipping up the mushrooms. Ruby slides into her seat without a hint of stiffness, reminding me how far she’s come.

  “So, how does it feel to go a day without PT?” I ask her.

  She smiles and sighs, her shoulders easing away from her ears in a vision of pure relief. Pure happiness. It’s wonderful to see.

  “Amazing. I actually had time to shop and have lunch with Gigi. And to clean and catch up on work without worrying about fitting in a grueling workout on top of my morning jog. I feel so . . . normal. Like I can just be a person again.”

  I beam. “Nice.”

  She leans in closer, as if she’s sharing a confession. “It feels so good not to have an appointment to dread, you know? Good like chocolate melting on your tongue, like sun warming your face, like a new Taylor Swift album dropping a month early.”

  “Those are all very good things,” I agree, doing my best to ignore how sexy she made those descriptions sound. “I know it was a long road.”

  “It was. But I’m lucky, right?”

  That’s one way to put it. Or maybe it’s the only way to put it. “You are.”

  That’s why we’re here, working through the list—so she understands it’s okay to feel lucky. To feel alive. To reach out and grab all the things she wants from life even though Claire can’t do the same.

  She drums her fingers against the table then gestures to the red and white awning. “So why mushrooms instead of . . . anything else? I’ve never been to the top of the Empire State Building, either, you know. And I really should get around to that, considering I’ve lived here my entire life.”

  There are so many ways to answer that question. There are so many “new” things Ruby and I could have tried together—like kissing or finding out if we enjoy each other’s company as much with our clothes off as we do with them on.

  But that’s exactly why I suggested mushrooms.

  Food is safe.

  I’m not.

  I’m pretty sure a fling with her dead best friend’s older brother is the last thing Ruby needs right now. Or ever.

  But she does need to push herself, so I keep my answer as truthful as I can. “Because I think you’re going to love them once you get past that sweet tooth of yours.” I stop, take a beat. “And because I know Claire would want you to try different things that are hard, not ones that are easy.”


  Ruby nods slowly, thoughtfully. “True. That would be very her.”

  A few minutes later, Abe arrives with an artfully arranged platter of sautéed mushrooms and couscous, with several tiny bowls full of brightly colored pickled vegetables to the side.

  “Voila,” he says, clearly proud of his creation.

  Ruby thanks him, but dread creeps into her eyes. Before he can leave, she thrusts a hand into the air like she’s answering a question in grade school. “Wait. I know what will make these taste even better going down.”

  I fight a laugh. “Wine?”

  She gives me a you know me so well look. “Always. Everything’s better with wine.”

  We order drinks—white wine for her and a craft lager for me—and start dishing food onto our plates. As Abe delivers our beverages then moves back behind the counter, an older couple, maybe in their sixties, ambles by our table. He’s a little gray, and she is too, but they look happy.

  They also look like they’re from out of town—they’re far too bright-eyed and white-tennis-shoed to be local.

  I bet they’re on some kind of anniversary trip, checking out the hip Brooklyn neighborhoods and having a blast. The woman glances at our platter as she passes and says quietly to the man with her, “Those mushrooms look incredible.”

  Ruby clears her throat and calls out sweetly to the woman, “You can have mine if you’d like.”

  I kick her playfully under the table. “You devil.”

  The man eyes our food with a grin. “What are all of those? I’ve only ever had the button mushrooms.”

  I chime in, “You’ve got porcini. Cremini. Chanterelle. You should grab the sampler too. Sadly, I can’t let her share. We’re on a bucket-list mission. We’re trying something new tonight, and this fantastic woman here is about to explore a new food.”

  The older lady clasps her hands at her chest. “Oh, I love bucket lists! We started one a few years ago. So far, we’ve gone whitewater rafting and run a 5K. And we didn’t even come in last. I’d never jogged a step until I was in my early sixties.”

  “That’s fantastic. All of it. Good for you,” I say.

  The woman shifts her gaze to Ruby. “But you don’t want to try the mushrooms?”

  “Actually,” Ruby says, lifting her fork, “you’ve inspired me. If you can do a 5K as a brand-new runner, I can eat a mushroom without washing it down with wine.”

  “Lovely,” the woman says. “You’ll have to let us know how you like them.”

  Ruby gives her a thumbs-up and digs in with panache as the couple heads to the counter. As she chews, she pulls a face that says mushrooms are weird, but I’m choking them down anyway. She grimaces, swallows, then pastes on an I did it smile as she nods. “Not that bad.”

  I lift my beer glass in a toast. “To trying new things.”

  “Yes, I definitely need a drink now,” she says, clinking her glass to mine before indulging in a long, hearty swallow of her Chardonnay.

  As she stabs another ’shroom, she tips her forehead to the older couple, who have just finished ordering. “The porcini are good,” she calls to them. “I bet if you already like mushrooms, you’re going to love these.”

  The man and woman smile and, making soft, excited conversation, claim a table near the window.

  Ruby’s putting herself out there, so maybe I should try something new too.

  Not food.

  But . . . forthrightness.

  I should come clean with her about my move. She’s been playing it cool, but I could tell by the way she reacted yesterday that she wasn’t happy to have something so big sprung on her without warning. “So, the L.A. thing,” I say as I spear some mushrooms, which are incredible, as always. “I confess, I’m excited, but a little nervous too.”

  “But why? You’re so good at your job.”

  “Thanks, but that’s not the reason. It’s that I’ve lived here my whole life. Los Angeles is all new. Yeah, I have professional connections, and I already have a few friends over there, so I won’t be completely out on a limb, but . . . it’s new. Different.”

  “Still, you’re going to try it,” she says, with a cheery grin. “Like the list says. Something new.”

  I swallow roughly, then repeat, “Yeah. Like the list says.”

  “I know I freaked out earlier about the moving news, but now that I’ve had time to absorb it, I’m excited for you.” She nods encouragingly. “I think it’s incredible that you’re branching out, growing, going big and . . . not going home. And if I don’t die of mushroom consumption, I’ll come visit you.”

  “Sounds like a fair deal.”

  Turns out Ruby doesn’t hate the mushrooms, but she doesn’t love them, either. When we finish, she declares them a solid three and a half, with the wine clocking in at a strong eight.

  “We’ll split the difference and call it a win,” I say as we push away from the table.

  “No, we’ll call it a wine win.”

  “If you insist.”

  As we go, the woman waves, and the man says, “Thank you for suggesting the sampler. Best thing I’ve eaten in years.”

  “Amazing!” Ruby enthuses, grinning as she ducks under my arm and out the door.

  Once we’re back on the sidewalk, she nudges me with her elbow. “You’re right, you know . . . the whole trying-new-things stuff is good.”

  “Even though you didn’t care for the new thing in question?”

  “Yes. I still proved to myself that I can be brave, and something even better than enjoying it happened.”

  “What’s that?” I ask, curious.

  She nods back toward the restaurant. “Our list seems to be making people happy.”

  “Claire would like that,” I say, my throat tight. “You know what she always said. If you—”

  “Can only do one thing today, make someone happy,” Ruby finishes. “I remember. I think she was right. Don’t you?”

  One look at her, already seeming so much happier than she has in far too long, makes it easy to answer. “I do.”

  She’s the one I want to make happy now, while I have the chance.

  Since in two weeks, I’ll be gone.

  9

  Jesse

  We wander down the street and around the corner toward the park, the Brooklyn oasis that always seems to call my name.

  But instead of turning right to catch the subway to our neighborhood, I glance toward the brightly lit façade of the Brooklyn Art Museum on the other side of the roundabout.

  This is another spot in the city that speaks to me.

  Ruby too, I’m sure.

  “Know what else would make me happy right now?” she asks.

  “Tell me.”

  She slows her pace, gesturing to the museum. “If the night didn’t have to end just yet.”

  I smile. “I’m in no rush to get home.”

  She draws a deep breath as if she’s hunting for courage. “And even though tonight is about new things, maybe we can keep doing old things too?”

  I arch a questioning brow. “You mean hanging out?”

  She nods quickly, seeming relieved. “Yes. That. Exactly.”

  “Of course, weirdo.” I put an arm around her shoulders, hugging her to my side. “I’m a friend for life, Valentine. No bucket list or cross-country move is going to change that.”

  A smile curves her lips, but she still seems anxious for some reason.

  “Want to grab a seat by the YO?” I motion toward the giant yellow sculpture of the letters Y and O. It sits in front of the museum, a welcoming invite. Ruby insists on taking a selfie in front of it each time we catch a new exhibit. “Maybe get some ice cream if a cart rolls by?”

  She beams up at me. “You’re a genius. Race you there.” Before I can respond, she’s off, jogging through the crosswalk to the grassy median and then into the second one on the other side.

  She’s fast in her boots, and her legs look amazing in those sheer stockings—strong and sleek—but it’s her s
kirt that makes my mouth go dry. It’s short and . . . bouncy.

  Bouncy skirts are the best clothing design ever.

  They’re just so damn tantalizing.

  With each step, I’m wishing for a peek at whatever she’s wearing underneath, but each time, I’m disappointed.

  The skirt is short, but apparently not short enough to fulfill my fantasies.

  But that doesn’t stop my pulse from picking up or my jeans from getting snug in places they shouldn’t. This Ruby-inspired hard-on thing has to stop. We’re barely through two items on the list, and I’m not sure how I’ll survive all seven without draping a sandwich board over me that says I’m hot for you.

  I take my time following her, needing every single step to talk my dick down. I’ve barely regained control when I circle to the front of the oversized letters, and I’m vanquished in a whole new way.

  Fuck me and my control.

  Ruby’s perched in the center of the O, high up so we’re at eye level. Her legs are crossed, dangling, and that beautiful, terrible, torturous little skirt rides so high on her thighs.

  I can’t not look.

  I’m not Ulysses resisting the sirens.

  “Beat you,” she says, husky and a little out of breath. My gutter brain wonders if that’s what she sounds like when she’s naked and even happier than she—

  Nope.

  Not going there.

  “You cheated. I don’t race cheaters,” I say, trying that excuse on for size as I attempt to rip my gaze away from her thighs.

  But fail miserably.

  Jesse–0. Libido–1.

  Ruby hums beneath her breath. “Since when? You’ve always raced me before. And always won.” She sighs, pauses, then follows my gaze down to her legs then back up. “Wait. Hold on. Are you checking me out, Hendrix?”

  “No,” I lie, still unable to look away. Or maybe I don’t want to look away, don’t want to play by the “just friends” rules that have always governed my relationship with Ruby.

  “I think you are,” she says, her voice still breathy, but now also . . . teasing. Flirtatious. “And I think maybe I like it.”

  My eyes jerk up, meeting hers with a sizzle I swear I can hear through the traffic noise from across the museum plaza.