“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.”
“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!